#what if you love the taste of ash more than you hate the bile of guilt? what then - jon?

[teeforhee]

absolutely obsessed with Jon projecting all his fears about being an avatar and doing or not doing as beholding wants him to onto daisy and her relationship with the hunt.

it's the hunt, isn't it? even so, what if it kills you? daisy! you can't think like that. that wasn't you, that was the hunt! you'd never known anything different!

he's so fucking scared of being a monster, but he's so fucking desperate to feed the monstrous part of him, so all that's left is to make it seem like he doesn't have a choice. like it's just his nature, now. or like it's for the best. cane says it's all him. helen says it's all him. and daisy is standing there, a living breathing example of how it is all his choice, even if it's a shitty, weighted one, and he has to try – even though he's been told so many times that his reasons are bullshit – to justify it again. he has a choice to make, that he can't make by throwing himself into danger, and he's just. putting it off. saying it's fine, to do it this way. feel guilty so he can feel human in the face of avatars who are past caring, but keep doing it because he loves it and say the world needs him with his powers in the face of people who have chosen to do better.

oh ho ho!! can't fucking WAIT to see how this unravels!!!!!!

[sukirichi]

fall from grace

“If you were in love,” he began, voice barely above a whisper, “What would be the most beautiful thing those lips of yours would utter?”

“Your name.”

REQUEST/WARNINGS. (royal au, mutual pining, praise kink ) fake dating au, mirror sex, slight manhandling, fingering, body marking, prejudice, mentions of abuse, injustice, and inequality + unedited (I’m so lazy to edit tbh, I’m so sorry, just bear with me if there are typos or grammatical errors)

NOTES. I LOVE AND HATE THIS STORY

WC. 7k+

SONG INSPO. Ashes (Celine Dion)

The prince himself lifted his chin up higher; long, slender fingers deftly grazing against the pad of your knuckles that were pressed on his chest. 

The tips of your ears burned at the sight of people pausing from their conversations all to witness the scene – one that was so rare to have come from the infamous Crown Prince known to have bedded more women than he could count.

“Your Highness,” you pinched your brows together, leaning closer into him to bring you the least bit of comfort. The dress you had to wear today had nothing but itchy lace; albeit elegant, you preferred the loose materials of your dance clothes, painted red lips fighting back a grimace. “Must we really do this in public?”

The Crown Prince laughs, his white hair fluttering against the soft kisses of the wind. Beautiful, you think, beautiful, you are reminded, prompting you to dig your free hand deeper into the flesh of your thighs.

“What would be the point of our ruse if we are not a little flashy, My Lady?”

You frowned at his words, head ducked down as you avoided everyone’s prying eyes. You supposed you should be used to this – you are a performer, after all – but the attention was terribly unwelcomed yet expected from your previous agreements.

The said agreement, however, did not affect your standing as a person, something you had to remind the happy-go-lucky Prince. “I am not of that title.”

“People regard you of it,” he commented at an off-beat, his crystalline eyes sweeping over the crowd with a chilling command, a slight bite of a challenge that asked his people to dare him. When they shifted away, scurrying behind fluffed up skirts and pressed down suits, the Crown Prince snickered, smiling down at you with a flash of his pearly whites. “You are, after all, hanging prettily off my arm.”

“Because you asked me to, Your Highness.”

“Ah, are you forgetting already?” he paused, his long and elegant stature towering over yours. “I’m doing this for the both of us. The agreement was clear – you steered me away from my arranged marriage, redeem my nettling reputation, and in turn, I shall pick you up from where you’ve fallen,” your lips parted in protest, finger raised to correct that no, you had not fallen, that was not the situation at all, but he silenced you when he leaned down close enough that his eyes twinkled before you, lips turned at the side arrogantly. “In fact, I am more than capable of providing you more than that.”

“I am well aware of that, Your Highness. I truly am indebted to you.”

Should you be humiliated? Forming an agreement with the Crown Prince would be the last thing that would ever arrive even in your craziest dreams, yet there you were, in the middle of the town square, leisurely strolling with the Kingdom’s heir as if it was but a daily occurrence.

Thoughts running back to your latest predicament – which he just had to bear witness to – you winced, swallowing the resigned sigh that threatened to spill.

You did not have enough shame in you to be humiliated, not when he was right. It was a mutually beneficial agreement.

“You do not have to be,” Prince Satoru blinked at you, gray lashes fluttered against the pads of his cheeks. “I take extreme pleasure in saving a damsel in distress,” Your lips puckered out, tireless with the need to tell him it wasn’t like that, and the Prince easily read through you, tugging you back into his arm as he laughed. “Even when I know you are not. Still, it does feel nice to take a walk in this fine day, don’t you think?”

You snorted at the heavy sarcasm under his sweet tone, “It feels a little embarrassing.”

“You feel embarrassed that you’re with me?”

“Yes,” you gritted at your teeth, the lace of your gloves digging into your flesh. You wanted nothing more than to rip it off, the material a silent reminder of the requirement that must be met to fool the crowd. “You’re a prince and I am—”

“I thought we already established titles mean nothing when we both mutually benefit from one another,” he cut you off, hands coming up to caress at your cheeks. You immediately froze at his touch, the iciness behind those eyes doing nothing to soothe you until he spoke, the Prince’s words oddly gentle and warm like the sun that shone down on you that fine day. “Worry not about that. I do not care what people think of you. All I care is that you do well and I shall do my part gracefully in return,” he declared for what seemed like the hundredth time that night.

Back then, you never believed that people had power just because they were born with it. Power had to be manifested, trained, earned – yet Prince Satoru wielded it with his lips so effortlessly that in that moment, you believed magic really wasn’t a myth.

“Kiss me.”

“Wh-what?”

“Everyone is looking,” his eyes darted over the on looking crowd, his bare hand still caressing your warm cheeks, hot enough that it put the sun to shame. “Lest you want this plan to fail, I suggest you kiss me, darling. Passionately.”

The Crown Prince was right. Everyone was looking.

Your body’s response was instantaneous. A hiss of a breath, muscles tensed and fingers curled into a fist at your side; you could feel bile rising from your throat out of panic.

Then Prince Satoru leaned forwards, eyes snapped shut and his lips colliding with yours. The single touch had all the tension flooding away as you kissed the Prince, his lips tasting of cinnamon and sugar, vanilla and spice wafting off of him delicately that you had to fist at the collar of his shirt to prevent yourself from gobbling him up whole.

He would find that rather displeasing, claiming that you had little to no table manners, so you forced yourself to relax as he breathed air into your mouth, large hands cradled around your neck.

“I’ve got you,” he mumbled between kisses, the mere scent of royalty and forbidden elegance dripping off of him making you fearful to open your eyes. It felt illegal to touch the most wanted bachelor in your Kingdom this way, felt wrong to have his hands roaming down the slopes of your body while everyone looked at your shameless public display of faux romance. But if it was wrong, then why did he hold you so tenderly, not moving to push you away even as you nipped at his lips once more?

“You’re alright – I’ve got you.”

It was not easy being a no-name ballerina. You’ve crafted your skill for what seemed like your whole life, yet getting even a step closer to your dreams proved to be a daunting task. Even as your toes bruised and your muscles ached, pants heaved from your chest while you bended your body at will, you couldn’t stop thinking about how no one told you it was never easy to reach your dreams.

The fairytales had lied to you. They made it seem to easy to grab a star, never really explaining on how to be a star.

It felt so far away – the galaxy and universe you’d longer your entire life to be a part of – yet the Crown Prince stood at the corner of your studio, eyes dark as he watched you sway to the music.

A few weeks prior to your spontaneous arrangement, you were foolish enough to believe you could become that star easily. You were the lowest of ranks when it came to other girls; orphaned, no-named, broke, and loveless. 

Unlike your peers that were bred of the finest titles and fed with silver spoons, nannies and courts running after them in their growing years, you had to survive on scraps, taking three jobs at the young age of thirteen just to get into dance school and afford the fees.

You believed title or ranking shouldn’t have had to do anything with talent and worth, but then again, you were foolish beyond your years.

The moment you heard you were chosen to be the Black Swan of this season, allowing you to debut, you squealed behind your skirt, training day and night to the point you’ve skipped your meals just to perfect your routine.

That was until your classmates’ parents had come inside the school, twirling their moustaches behind soft fingers that had never known a day’s worth of work, belly round with cupcakes and all the delicacies only they were privileged enough to eat, the nervous laughter of your ballet master enough to let you know what it all meant.

Your classmate – the prettiest and the richest one – came rushing past you as she giggled over the announcement that she would be the Black Swan.

She was far many years younger than you, spoiled and with an attitude that tasted as bad as your leftovers, and definitely not skilled enough to debut – but of course, nothing was ever impossible enough with money, right? Before you could even defend yourself, your ballet master had cleaned out your quarters, your skirts and shoes thrown onto the muddy dirt while you cried under the rain, begging for another chance.

Second chances? You wanted to laugh.

Only people who did wrong should ask for it, and yet you sat there on your knees, hands clasped in a prayer that should only be reserved for wish bearers, desperate pleads of please don’t do this to me echoing into the empty night.

Was it fate then that the Crown Prince was half drunk inside his vehicle, shades slipping off his nose as he turned your way, your cries rudely interrupting the music blaring inside his car?

Perhaps it was – a cruel or a wonderful fate; no one could tell – the only thing that mattered now was that the Crown Prince had yet again found interest in a woman.

Only this time he didn’t lust after their body, wished nothing to do with their hands on his, completely sober around your presence as he watched you train endlessly in your studio, your sweat making your clothes stick like a second skin.

Prince Satoru leaned back against the walls then.

He should’ve brought a drink with him. Had he known that watching you dance sensually with such a blissed out expression he was mostly familiar with when he had his legs wrapped around another warm body would set his body alight, sober, then he would’ve left long ago.

Still, the Prince is rendered frozen at the edge, eyes trailing over your graceful form as you bended, legs flying out into the air while you arms dipped and curved into the most graceful of arcs and bows that put his combat figures into shame.

You weren’t even trying to seduce him and yet he was wholly captivated.

He wants to say that the woman he saw that rainy night and the woman stood before him now, figure bathed in the small slivers of sunlight that peeked through the blinds and stockings hugging each and every curve and dip of your body were entirely two different people, but the longer he looked, there was no mistaking it was still the same person. The passion burned through your eyes, the soft melodious tunes of the music guiding you – or rather you guiding the beat before you fluttered to another.

Prince Satoru smiled.

It first came off as a joke that he wanted to know more about you – his pretend lover – because everyone knew the Crown Prince was too frivolous to ever settle down and find interest in a woman beyond her looks. The confused pout you gave him as he followed you inside your studio burned at the back of his brain, a silent warning that you were different; that you were not someone he could touch lest he wished to burn and break you, though that would be a lie, it seemed.

For every strong ripple of your muscles and flowy movement of your body as you completely delved into the space of your own home and comfort, the Prince knew – you were not someone he could crush into the palm of his hands.

He came here out of boredom.

He left the studio with a confused heart, cheeks resting on his palm as he asked his chauffer, when is the next show?

The birds chirped above you, your fingers stretched out as you peeked from under it, lips pressed into a flat line. You were in the royal garden after persistent invitation from the Crown Prince himself. Speaking of, said Crown Prince had his limbs sprawled out beneath you, the edges of his hands slightly playing with the frills of your dress as he took his afternoon nap, a youthful smile on his face.

“Your Highness,” you huffed out, “What are we doing here? No one is looking. There is no need for us to continue our act.”

“I know,” he cheered a little too brightly for someone that looked to be deep in dreamland, “I just wanted to hang out with you without worrying about others. Not that I ever did, but it’s nice to be alone with you every once in a while. The prying eyes can get a bit too much.”

You hummed at the thought; he did have a point. This arrangement turned out to be a lot smoother than expected. The Crown Prince wasn’t lying about his intentions and not once had he laid a hand on you – without your permission, anyway – and he turned out to be…a lot more docile and easy going than what you originally thought of him. Not that you had much thoughts to begin with anyway, the Prince was a celebrity and therefore not someone that concerned you.

In your mind, he was merely your leader, more often than a not a name spoken between hushed whispers and dreamy moans.

This side of him was different, and all the time you’d spent him with was filled with nothing but ridiculed stares and taunts. The Crown Prince was a hilarious man who never feared trying out new things, always happy and eager to try exotic foods with you in the night markets or joining you in your spontaneous dancing during midnight ‘dates.’

He was the closest you could consider as a friend, and you relaxed against him, laying down on the flowery fields right next to him as you sighed in content. “I will miss this, Your Highness.”

“Miss what?”

“You and I – hanging out,” you mumbled a little dreamily, “I have a strong feeling things will finally get better for me. When I get scouted by a better company, I won’t be able to hang out with you anymore,” Silence befell the both upon you, the rustling of the wind against the flowers sounding like a far off memory. Soon, it would be. “I will miss this.”

“You could always call me. Or who knows, maybe I’d even drop by to watch your performances sometime.”

You snapped your eyes open, chuckling when the Prince had now sat up halfway, his regal face cradled in his hands while his elbow laid flat under him. He blinked innocently at you, and that’s when you realized – he was serious. That had you bursting into laughter, hands clutched at your stomach. “Please, you? You do not even enjoy ballerina!”

“I enjoy watching you,” he confessed in a heartbeat, his gaze falling from your crinkled eyes and all the way down to the silhouette of your body. “There’s something about the way you move that’s just so graceful and...phenomenal.”

Your heart skipped a beat at his heated gaze, the mere trails of his sight enough to warm your entire skin despite the cool wind. This was the Prince concerned though, and you had to guard your heart, eyes narrowed playfully at him while you desperately ignored the need to rub your thighs together.

“Are you flirting with me, Your Highness?”

The Prince snorted, “Flirt with you? My pretend girlfriend?” he clutched a hand at his chest as if the assumption offended him, “What makes you come to that conclusion?”

You chucked your handkerchief at him, still a little in disbelief that you were greeted by his laughter when it hit him right in the face.

You would miss this indeed.

Your gaze softened as you sat up, thighs pressed to your chest as you directed your gaze up in the sky. Prince Satoru may not always be around when the time came, but at least you still had the sky to remind you of this brazen and unexpected friendship that helped you grow.

“Thank you, though,” you squished your cheeks onto your knees, a lilted smile plastered on your face. “Dancing has always been a passion of mine. I can’t ever imagine a time of my life where I wasn’t moving with music. It almost feels as if I was destined with it; it speaks to me and deeper than the recesses of my bones, guides me until I’m one and entangled with it,” you ended with a dreamy sigh, turning your head to the side to look His Highness in the eye, stilling for a moment when you’re met with his solemn gaze.

Your throat parched dry. “Have you ever fallen in love with something like that before?”

“I don’t think so,” one of his shoulders lifted up in a lame shrug, voice turning deep and husky as he asked, “How do you know when you lack something or not?”

“If it comes to love...” you tapped your chin with a finger, “I think a life lived without one would feel quite empty. Hollow, I would say, and the skies would just be a plain blue instead of a calming yet mesmerizing one,” the courage that soared within you was an unexpected one, but it was enough to let you look him in the eye, form vulnerable and words slipping past your lips before you could control them. “If I were incapable of love, I’d say your eyes are nothing but gleams of sapphire.”

“And if you were capable of it? What would my eyes be?”

“Like cerulean galaxies crashing against one another,” you whispered, “Stardust sprinkled and heavens birthed out of passion and the desire to be something more. You’d be azure and brazen instead of crestfallen; the magnificence of the universe’s creation attesting to itself that it is wholly capable of designing divine beings.”

“Hmm,” he tipped his head to the side as he mulled over your words. His jacket was discarded somewhere along the grass, top three buttons of his shirt left opened and hair rustling with the wind. Beautiful, the image etched into your skin. “Are you sure you are a dancer and not a poet?”

“People say all sorts of beautiful things when they’re in love.”

The Prince straightened up, lips pursed. For a moment, you grew fearful, your heart frantically thumping in your chest as you thought, this is it – this is when he pushes you away. He does nothing of this as he scoots closer to you, using his rough thumb to tilt your chin until you were looking up at him, wide eyes sparkling – the sight of you vulnerable like this making the Crown Prince lick his lips.

“If you were in love,” he began, voice barely above a whisper, “What would be the most beautiful thing those lips of yours would utter?” You shivered as his thumb moved up to graze at your bottom lip, almost prompting it to jut out, to which you happily complied with a shaky breath. “What would you say then?”

“Your name.”

The Prince smiled to himself at your hearty answer. To hide both of your nervous chuckles, the Prince took it upon himself to ease both your worries as he kissed you, nothing but the warmth and fluttering of butterflies rampaging in your stomach mixing at his sweet taste.

Beautiful, you hummed into his mouth. You could fall for as long as you wanted, but would the Prince ever fall from grace as he moaned into your mouth, tugging you until you were situated in his lap, arms wrapped tight enough around you in refusal to let you go? Maybe, your mind sighed, hands tugging at his hair when the Prince kissed you fervently, murmuring one word that made you melt right then and there.

Beautiful, he finds you.

Both your loud laughter echoed in his training grounds, the horses’ hooves padding against the firm earth. “Not fast enough, my Lady,” he taunts, his smile bright and wide as he sat perched atop his white stallion. “How would you catch my heart if you cannot ride faster?”

“I will catch up to you, just wait and see! Not everyone grew up riding horses, you know?”

“I bet a fine coin you do ride well, though, my Lady,” he remarked with a wink, his statement enough to tap the sides of your feet harder against your horse to catch after him.

“Your Highness!”

As you two chased around each other the wide field, carefree laughter and clothes swaying against the wind, skin warm from the flush of the sun, the Crown Prince’s servants stood at the side.

A particular woman – the servant that had been loyal long before the Prince was born – remained under a parasol, her wrinkled face tight with a frown.

“How nauseating,” she scrunched her nose, arms crossed on her chest. “To think I dedicated my life into raising the little prince to be a fine king someday, and his future would be tainted by a lowly performer who cannot even make a name for herself,” turning to one of the young boy servants, she narrowed her eyes at you. “Where does she work again? Is she of name?”

“She is an orphan, Madam, taken in at a young age in a dance school before she had to pay the fees herself, if the rumors are correct. I heard that she and His Highness met when she was kicked out by her own ballet master due to her stealing the original Black Swan spot for this season’s show.”

His old nanny’s face grew more gruesome. “Wasn’t the Black Swan supposed to be one of the Earl’s daughters?”

“Yes. Rumours had it that His Highness’ new plaything seized the spot to prove herself. Look at how that plan backfired.”

“How repulsive,” she spat out, venom laced in her tongue.

The roles had reversed, the Crown Prince insistent in catching you this time around, and you rode after him with panicked laughter, hands clutched tight on the reins. Although you’d only swished past the small group of servants that always seemed to be around, you’d heard enough.

“We must protect His Highness at all costs before this wretched woman rips his future away from him. The fate of the kingdom lies on his shoulders; we cannot afford him making mistakes.”

“Indeed, Madam.”

You stopped in your tracks until the horse slowed down with confused huffs, your Prince following behind you not long afterwards. Looking back at him again, you were no longer able to smile at him genuinely, not when discomfort, and most of all shame, had to be forced down deep into your system. Beautiful, you resigned, he was too beautiful.

His servants were right. Maybe you really were ruining everything for him. His reputation was frowned upon to begin with for his less than infamous sexual endeavors, that he was more often sighted in casinos and bars instead of his study room.

The barrack guards had grown tired and weary of trying to stop the Crown Prince from leaving the royal grounds. No matter what they did, he always found a way to escape.

The only difference this time around was that their Prince no longer frequented such sinful places and met with women of all titles and backgrounds. No, this time, the Prince leapt from the tall walls that had never been much of a challenge considering his tall frame, not bothering to get a car or even a horse as he dashed straight to your studio.

Sweat dripped down from your face as you slammed a fist on the floor, tears about to erupt. You couldn’t complete this routine that you were so close into perfecting.

Your mind was simply just in a mess.

There was a conflicting war inside you – one with your heart that yearned to stay longer in His Highness’ presence out of mere selfishness, and one with your mind that told you it was dishnoroubale to taint his name like this. The last thing you wanted was to destroy and push both of you even further into falling from grace; both reputations and name already tarnished.

You’d truly be heartless if you kept going on.

But that didn’t change the fact that you were feeling comfortable with him, having found home in the Crown Prince’s warm arms and spontaneous kisses of all places.

Was it absurd? Undoubtedly so.

Could it be helped? You certainly could try.

And you’d been doing a great job so far; quite a daunting task you patted yourself in the back for. Avoiding the Prince when he’d made it clear he also enjoyed your company proved a lot harder than reaching your dreams, but you pushed through, locking yourself in the unused studio and training day and night.

It wasn’t working well – not on your part, anyway. You’d been here for hours, your clothes uncomfortably sticking to your skin and your water bottles were all emptied.

You’d never felt this tired.

You fell on your knees, palms flat on the floor and sweat salty as it trailed down to your lips. With a groan, you untied your shoes off and stared at the bruised and blued toes, a witness to the countless years of hard work. Your lip quivered as you massaged the sore muscles, tears about to spill as you remembered the Prince.

Beautiful, he was, flawless and porcelain in each movement and breath.

But you? You were battered, scarred, broken and bruised – why would he want you of all people? It was clear he’s had multiple lovers before you. No, scratch that, you were never a lover to begin with. It was all a sham, an agreement formed out of lame survival. There was no beauty in a lie.

The music playing from your stereo kept repeating on loop, this time the tune no longer unrecognizable as your soft cries echoed around the studio. You weren’t beautiful – not enough for him, at least – everyone made that very clear to you.

Just as you wiped your tears away at the back of your hand, standing up to continue another set as you refused to come back home without completing one perfect routine, the doors slammed open. Heavy breathing entered afterwards and you scowled – you worked tooth and bone to claim this place as yours, who dared enter? “This studio is private—” your words fell dry on your skin when a tuft of white hair trudged over to you, his usual placid face replaced with a firm sneer. “Y-Your Highness?”

“Why have you been avoiding me?”

His voice was nothing but demanding, the authority behind them only natural and befitting for someone like him. Each step he took forwards equated to a step backward until your back hit the mirrors, eyes wide as you gazed up at him.

Your voice came out weak. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t act like I’m stupid,” he pointed a finger at you, then scoffed, hands running through the soft locks of his air while he shook his head. You stood there grasping at your tights; having never seen the Prince lose his composure before. “I know you’ve been avoiding me. Every time I try to contact you, you never respond. When I ask your friends where you’ve been, they all tell me you’re busy practicing.”

Somehow, you managed to find your voice again, tone heavy and biting. “I am busy practicing, do you not see that?”

“It’s not the only thing you’re occupied with. Clearly, you are quite determined to stay away from me too,” he bellowed, his loud voice bouncing back from the emptiness of the room. The booming sound must’ve snapped him back to consciousness because Prince Satoru sighed, stepping closer until his warm hand cupped your cheek, starry blue eyes filled with worry and anguish. Had you caused this?

Beautiful, you frowned, that even in his demise he managed to look like fine art. “Why are you avoiding me? Did I do something wrong?” he softened, breath warm on your lips. “If yes, then tell me and I’ll do everything it takes to make up for it.”

You fisted his shirt; cheek faced his way because you couldn’t look him in the eye right now. There was no way you’d let him see you cry.

“I don’t understand you, Your Highness,” you murmured, “You’re about to be King – why do you bother yourself with someone like me? I’m nothing compared to you, and I detest being compared to you for I am more than worthy despite not being born of a high ranking like yours.”

Prince Satoru froze. “Is this what this is about? My title bothers you?”

“We should stop whatever we’re doing,” was all you said, pushing him away as gently as you could, ignoring the gnawing pain that grew inside of you when your palms landed on his chest. “It is lowly of me to take advantage of the Crown Prince’s kindness anyway. My success should be paved out of my own hard work and not because of my lame connections to the Crown Prince.”

“Lame connections? Is that all I am to you?”

“You are my Crown Prince, Your Highness,” you reminded him of the stark difference firmly, “You mean a lot to your people, but I do not mean anything to you. I am just another nameless performer lost in the crowd of a thousand other girls who wish to reach their dreams, even if such a star is far beyond our reach,” Tears had now fallen until they formed into crystals on your cheeks, and he blinked back, unsure of what to do. “Could you ever understand what that feels like? To yearn for something you know you could never have but hope for anyway?”

“It would be a lie if I said I did,” he admitted quietly, “But I think I’m beginning to understand. It would make sense to me now – if you keep pushing me away, that is.”

You shook your head begrudgingly. “Your Highness...we shouldn’t.”

“And why not? Who said we couldn’t?”

You don’t stop him this time when he stepped closer once more, trapping you between his arms until you clutched desperately at his shirt, his erratic heartbeat pulsing under your touch. “It’s just you and I – neither a prince nor a performer – simply man and woman who crave each other’s touch. What could be so wrong into giving into one’s desires?” you gasped when his lips fell at the juncture of your neck, your head immediately tilting to the side as you allowed him to ravage you. “You still haven’t given me the chance to let you know what I feel,” he cradled your jaw, caressing your skin as he breathed you’re your ear, voice low and sultry, begging even, “Would you really deny me the pleasure of showing you how beautiful you are to me right now?”

“Satoru,” you keened at his teeth tugging at your skin, fists clenched on shirt. “Touch me.”

“That’s all I ever wanted to do, darling.”

Satoru swept down to capture your lips in his, his grip firm on the swell of your ass he kept you close to him, pressed hip to hip and his hardened front grazing your core through the tights. He pulled a moan from you as he flipped your body over, lips finding home in your neck while his large hand cupped your breast, the other trailing down to finger at your clothed, damp pussy.

In this angle, you could see the despondent way you easily spread your legs for him, your pants like music to ears.

“Do you still not believe me when I say you are worth more than a pound of gold? Look at you – your dripping cunt shines harder than the diamonds I keep in my room,” the both of you groaned when he pushed a finger through your hole, your tights stretching and sucked in by your walls enough to outline the arousal that seeped through. “Maybe I should keep you instead, hmm, don’t you think? You’d be a far grander treasure than all those riches.”

“I am a woman,” you tugged at his hair, panting heavily as he kept fingering into you, his thumb grazing at the sensitive bundle of nerves that swelled under your tight clothes. “I am not to be reduced to a possession you acquire.”

“No, of course not. Nothing could ever replace you in this world,” he growled, harsh in his movements as he tore your clothes with minimal effort.

You yelped when your precious tights had been ripped to the sides, a hole revealing your core and your breasts barely covered with the flimsy fabric. Satoru shuffled his pants down before placing you right on his cock, swallowing your moans with each inch of his length that slid inside you.

Hands dug painfully into his hair, Satoru hissed at the pain, grinning to himself at how wet you were through just light touches and a sloppy kiss. You’ve been good for him, though, you were always good for him that he had to reward you, show you how beautiful you were, and he spread his legs apart, relishing in the sight of you being fucked onto his cock.

“Nothing feels better than your tight pussy, huh? Take a good look at yourself, you’re so fucking precious, taking me so well,” you could only moan in response, unable to take your eyes off the way his length disappeared inside you, a shiver chilling your spine when he grasped at your breasts, nipples tweaked between his fingers. “Nothing, nothing, nothing could compare to this. You feel like heaven, taste like bliss and forgiveness,” he licked at the salty sweat that drowned your body, one of his hands now rolling your clit between his fingers. You screamed, bouncing yourself harder on him with your nails dug deep into his thighs. “You will be the redemption of my darkened soul, are you not?”

“Maybe I will be,” you cried out, head lolled onto his shoulder.

Satoru hummed, his eyes dark and coated with lust when your breasts bounced in front of the mirror. Thanks to years of dancing, you barely felt a stretch when Satoru suddenly lifted your legs up until your thighs were embarrassingly squished against your chest. You knew why he did this; it wasn’t that hard to understand why when he narrowed his focus on the way your juices slipped down his cock, the sounds of your pussy squelching drowning out the operatic music.

Satoru kissed your cheeks to wipe your previous tears away, his hands nothing but grabby and possessive as he gripped the flesh of your thigh. “You already are, sweet thing.”

Pleasure had completely taken over you at this point, that familiar heat building up in your stomach until it snapped into two. Pupils blown wide open, you gasped as you came all over him, your cum creaming down onto his cock until it lined with a thick ring of cum.

It was filthy to say the least, and your body burned at the thought that you were disrespecting him, defiling him with the mess you’ve made. But the Prince only fucked into you harder, his teeth grazing at your already abused skin with relentless and merciless thrusts. He wasn’t lying when he said he’d show you how beautiful he found you, going hell and beyond because you felt nothing but worshipped when he kissed you feverishly, his moans romantic as he came. “S-Satoru!”

“That’s right,” he slipped a finger, the stretch adding a slight tinge of pain that had your hips rutting out in sensitivity, your hole clenching around his everything. “Cum for me. Come on, I know you can do it for me. You’re so good, sweetheart, come for me.”

You were mindlessly babbling his name as both of you came down from your highs. Satoru doesn’t stop once from running hands everywhere, gripping your hips, flicking your nipples, rubbing your clit, and running a finger down your slit to wipe your juices everywhere. It had become too much that you had to push his hand away, legs locking around his arms that refused to stop cupping your pussy.

“Do you see how beautiful you are?” he cooed, shameless and teasing when he brought his hands up to your face, fingers stretched to show the webbing of your arousal between them. “We made such a mess,” he chuckled, his kisses a lot softer now on your neck.

Beautiful, you whimpered internally as you fluttered around nothing.

Satoru must’ve grown an addiction to kissing your lips for he dived in one last time, murmuring the word you always tied him with until they felt printed, tattooed, on your skin. You closed your eyes and allowed yourself to bask in this, your kisses slow and sensual as you both enjoyed this serene moment.

He came to this studio to prove you something.

He left the studio with a swelling heart, cheeks resting on your breast as he wrapped his arms around you in the comfort of your worn-out mattress as he asked, can I stay here longer with you?

The cheers and applause directed your way were deafening, the spotlight blinding as you bowed. You gasped for air, every muscle in your body screaming both with delight and exhaustion.

You could barely fathom the crowd hidden in darkness before you, the sight like a black sea, but instead of feeling like you were drowning, you don’t think you’d ever been able to breathe this well before. The smile on your face was bright – brighter than the star you’ve become and bigger than the galaxy and universe you’ve made for yourself – and you waved your arm gracefully, toes pointed outwards while the roses and flowers thrown your way came flooding like a waterfall.

You’d made it.

And through the crowd, at the back where someone the likes of him wasn’t supposed to be, His Majesty’s white hair stuck out like a sore thumb. His draperies were replaced with finer ornaments of gold embroidery, those large hands that had grown accustomed to holding yours and marking handprints on your delicate skin covered with gloves as he applauded, following the crowd from where they all stood.

Your smile directed him was nothing less of a beam, the stars he’d hung for you reflecting back in your eyes. Tears blurred the vision of him for a moment until you saw him again – crystal clear – his expression both proud and longing.

The memory of you and him had been a beautiful one, but it was distant and with each passing day, it blurred until it became nothing like swirls of I love you’s and good luck’s whispered onto one another’s skin. Your heart still soared and broke each time at the sight of him, the majestic Queen hanging off the arm that was locked with yours just years ago a painful reminder that there would always be an invisible divide between you and the Prince you’d fallen in love with.

There was no regret, however, in where things had led. You knew he loved his kind wife as much as he loved you, and he knew you loved him as much as you loved your career, and things were simply just…meant to be this way, you concluded.

It was never supposed to be a great love story that told of breaking traditions. Not all stories were meant to go against the odds; some were told to show that people could be capable of change without having to change anything. You were thankful, still so extremely grateful you met your beloved Prince even as he left the theatre before people crowded around him, leaving you to your devices until you retired back into the changing room, a set of rare flowers only a certain person could afford.

Beautiful, you cried as you picked up the card, his once messy scrawls improved into a neater cursive befitting for the new King.

And so it was that you parted ways, with him leading his country into further prosperity while you moved away and stole people’s hearts with each phenomenal show, one after the other.

Your summer rendezvous with the Prince was not meant to be a love story that went against all odds; you were there to save each other from reaching damnation, loving one another as passionately as your souls were able to until you picked each other back up.

Once the other stood firm, tall, and ready to take on the world with their bare hands, you pushed one another in your respective directions.

Beautiful, you smiled as you clutched at his present close to your heart where he’d built a garden out of itself, that we’d saved each other from falling from grace.

[feelin-woozy]

Title: With Teeth

Word Count: 1,808

Pairing: Bo Sinclair / Reader

Warnings: Gender-neutral reader

[ Ao3 Link | Next ]

1977

You were a stubborn child. If there was trouble to be found, it was probable that you had a hand in either creating it or seeking it out. Bo Sinclair wasn’t an exception to this. Bo was the kind of child that parents ushered their young away from, voices dropping to a quiet hush as they told them, ‘no, you can’t play with him.’ The warnings never stopped you.

You never really knew why, only ever hearing fragments of conversations of adults around you. They spoke with contempt dripping from each word as they detailed how he was trouble, how he would be a bad influence, and why couldn’t he be more like his brother? But you didn’t mind. You liked trouble, and besides, you weren’t afraid of Bo like all the other kids were. Even with all his jagged edges and mean looks, you didn’t know any better because to you, he was just Bo.

Even when he pushed you to the ground, blue eyes shining with that mean look and something you think was amusement as your own eyes welled with tears and your freshly scraped knees stung. You weren’t afraid. You didn’t stop playing with him even when he stuck gum in your hair, and your mother had to cut it out. But you remember her scolding you, speaking in that same voice you heard other adults speak in, telling you that ‘There’s something wicked about that boy.’

For every time he pushed you down, there would be a time that you stuck your foot out as he ran by. While those mean blue eyes never glistened with tears, the shock was apparent as he dusted the dirt off himself and pulled himself together. And then there was the time you put glue on his seat during class. No one knew it was you, but Bo never put gum in your hair again after that.

1986

Things didn’t change all that much as you got older. Bo was still a boy with jagged edges that, if you weren’t careful with, they’d cut you to the bone. But he didn’t push you to the ground anymore or try to stick gum in your hair like when you were kids. It didn’t mean that he was any less aggressive than when you were kids; if anything, it has crossed the threshold from aggressive to violent. It wasn’t directed at you anymore though, it had shifted to those around you. After all, you were the only one not afraid to clean the drying blood that caked his freshly split lip or to tend to purples and greens that would bloom over knuckles. Save for his brothers, but even then, sometimes they didn’t fare so well either.

A warm breeze rustles the trees as rays of sunshine peek through the thick canopy of leaves overhead. The July heat was unrelenting. It didn’t matter where you were in Ambrose; you always felt like you were melting. Still, Bo didn’t forgo his long sleeve button down. You didn’t blame him, nor did you comment on it. Some things were just better left unsaid. At least away from the town and deep in the forest, the two of you could forget about what happened within the sleepy town, even for half a day.

Bo winces as you dab gently at the wound on his lip, but he doesn’t draw back or pitch a fit. He sits there in silence, watching you carefully as if expecting you to salt the wound. You don’t. You know better than to make a scene of this. This, whatever this was, was a part of Bo, and you had come to accept that. Though you’d be lying if you hadn’t thought about leaning in and pressing your lips to his, trying to chase the thoughts of what he might taste like. You quickly shake the thought away, it was unwise to linger on such a thought.

You drawback and toss the rust-stained napkin to the ground before getting to your feet. Bo watches as you move away, moving towards your beat up school bag where you grab two beers. Beads of icy sweat drip down from the bottle and onto your hands; it’s the only reprieve you have in the hot Louisiana heat.

When you turn to face Bo again, he’s leaning back against the thick tree trunk, shadows dancing over his face. You move towards him, twigs snapping below your step as you hand him the bottles without a word, and he works quickly, using his lighter to open each bottle. The cap flies off with a hiss, joining the other caps that decorate the forest floor. Some from you two and some from other teens who took sanctuary within the forest as well.

“Your pa’s gunna notice one day.” He points out, handing you the bottle before opening his own.

“If he hasn’t noticed already, he deserves to have his beer stolen.” You flash him a lopsided smile as you take a seat next to him before you raise the bottle to your lips and take a sip.

For a moment, things feel okay. As if you hadn’t just been patching him back together, as if the cruel words people threw his way didn’t hang over his head like a dark storm cloud. He pretended they didn’t sting, but you knew that they did. Because even if he wasn’t violent towards you, that didn’t mean you didn’t still fall victim to the darkness that festered within him. Sometimes it was as small as throwing the keys to dad's beat-up truck into the tall grass, leaving you to comb the fields for hours before you’d find them. He spat cruel words at you other times, leaving tears to prickle at your waterline, but you never dared cry like when you were kids.

You still didn’t mind. Your penchant for trouble hadn’t changed, and God, if Bo wasn’t the exact brand of trouble that you craved. He made you feel alive within this sleepy little town; he brought excitement to your days even when it made your mother cry. Perhaps it was naive. You knew now why parents warned their kids of Bo growing up. You could see what they saw; you were stupid, not blind. Still, Bo was just Bo, and sure he had those mean blue eyes and sharp edges, but in the time you had grown, you too had accumulated your own edges. You don’t think it was possible to be friends with Bo without being damaged yourself in some form or another.

“Bo?” The name feels heavy in your mouth, as though it was a knife sliding through a priceless piece of art. The dread you felt building in your stomach felt similar.

“Hm?” He doesn’t look at you, just lights a cigarette and passes it over before he lights his own. The action makes guilt bloom alongside the dread, the emotions weaving together to create something ugly that makes bile rise in your throat.

“I have to leave Ambrose.” You take a drag off your cigarette, letting the smoke burn your lungs as the taste of nicotine mixed with bile. You don’t look at him to see his reaction. You can’t bring yourself to. But you feel the way his body stiffens, and you hear the soft sound of the cigarette burning as he takes a drag that burns the cigarette half way.

“Oh.” Is all he says, exhaling the word along with a thick cloud of smoke that billows up and disperses amongst the branches and leaves.

“Dads got a new job in the city.” You explain though you’re not sure why. You don’t know if Bo wants to hear what you have to say or if he’d rather blow his lid over something that was beyond your control. You wouldn’t blame him if he did. If it was him leaving, you’re sure a part of you would wither away. You dare a glance over at him, watching the way his jaw clenches and how he stares off through a break in the trees. “I don’t want to go.”

“Yeah? Then don’t.” A part of him sounds serious, almost hopeful, but it sounds too distant and bitter for you to put any stock into it.

“You know it’s not that easy.” Your hands feel clammy against the chilled bottle in your hand. You take a drink, emptying half the bottle in a few swallows just to distract yourself. To try and fight whatever ugly feelings were clawing at your insides.

“Sure it is, stay with me.” Bo flicks ash off the end of his cigarette before he turns his head just enough to look at you from the corner of his eye. “Ma fuckin’ loves you.”

You can’t help but snort at that, rolling your eyes. “Bo, your mom hates me.”

“Yeah, she does.” Bo chuckles softly, but the mirth is gone as quick as it came, and that distant look rolls over his face again. He gets to his feet, turning to look down at you with an unreadable expression. “But when has that ever stopped you from sneakin’ into my room?”

“I’ll come back, I promise.”

“I wouldn’t bother.” The way he looks at you as those words leave his lips, it makes you feel like a kid again. You stare up at him, and something inside you aches. It hurts worse than the times he caused you to scrape your knees against the dirt roads or the times he kicked you out of his truck and made you walk ten miles back into Ambrose in the pouring rain.

He doesn’t sneer at you, and he doesn’t even yell, just stares at you with that mean look before turning on his heels. You watch him go, watch the way he drains the rest of his beer, and you listen to the sound of twigs breaking beneath his heavy step. When he’s a fair distance away, you watch the way he tosses the bottle hard against a tree. The sound of glass shattering fills the air alongside the sound of birds taking startled flight.

_____

Bo doesn’t see you off when you’re leaving Ambrose. You hadn’t expected him to though, he had been avoiding you since you broke the news to him. It wasn’t as if you could really blame him. It was probably better this way. It was less volatile to cut out the catalyst than to continue to expose yourself to it. Still, you knew that he was around. The boy down the block with shaggy blonde hair was sporting a fresh black eye, and you had heard your mother's hushed whispers as she gabbed with the neighbors about him. But even if you hadn’t been expecting him, it still hurts you never got to say goodbye.

[ Next ]

[chaoticpuff17]

Something Wicked

part 9

masterlist 

Alright my darlings! It’s a little shorter than I would have liked, but it’s here!--- chaotic puff. 

Every day with Jin was lived in fear, but there was something especially disconcerting about him now. Jin was terrifying enough as it was, but seeing him truly angry with her was another story all together. The fact that Jinnie was there with her now was a small consolation though. The dog had a distaste for Jin though not as great a one as she would have preferred, and it didn’t stop the way that Jin was absolutely seething. They both knew that he was angry, but Jin had decided to treat her indiscretion as a onetime mishap along with the warning that if she defied him again she wouldn’t like the consequences.

The evening had been tense. She couldn’t stop the way she trembled ever so slightly, and Jin kept a hawk like gaze on her. Y/N never thought that she would miss the days of being his step and fetch, but she would have given anything to go back to that. There was something so inexplicably wrong about Kim Seokjin. She had always found him annoying, trying, but she had never thought that he could do anything like this.

“You’ve barely touched your dinner, darling.” Jin mused setting aside his own utensils, quirking a brow at her from where he sat on the other side of the dining room table. He preferred meals to be served in the dining room. The breakfast in the kitchen her first day had been a special occurrence. Everything in Jin’s home was done by the book, the perfect home for the perfect family.

“Is everything alright?” He asked his gaze dark and unsettling.

She froze, straightening up in her seat at the question. “I’m fine.” She smiled weakly pushing her food around her plate.

“Was my gift not pleasing?” His tone was sharp and accusing causing the tremor in her hands to increase to a more noticeable shaking. “Really, darling. I try so hard to please you.” He sighed placing his napkin on the table, leaning back in his seat to stare her down. “I’d hate to think you were being an ungrateful little brat.”

He loved the way she trembled so delicately in her seat. She looked so small and fragile, so perfect. If only she would obey, he sighed to himself. She was supposed to be settling in, but she was more stubborn than Jin had given her credit for, his poor stupid darling.

“I’m sorry, Jin.” She whimpered trying her best to keep a stiff upper lip and quell the trembling in her hands. He found too much pleasure in her weakness, and she hated showing it to him. She hated him.

Every whispered apology tasted like ash on her tongue. Every touch sent a shiver of disgust running down her spine, but none of that mattered. She had to survive. She had to survive long enough to get out and tell the police just how crazy the supposed golden boy was.

“Come here, darling.” He beckoned watching closely as she hesitated to follow his order, but the still fresh and aching wounds across her body prompted obedience. She didn’t want to risk further injury.

She got up a little stiffly partly due to the fear of Jin and partly because of the welts. Jin was in charge of medication. She’d found one of the bathroom cabinets completely locked to her, presumably that was where the medication was so she’d been denied any Tylenol without his presence, and much like he had always been, Jin was a petty bitch. He was upset with her so he continued to withhold any sort of pain relief.

Once she was by his side, Jin pulled her down into his lap nuzzling into her neck as he trapped her in his arms. “Did you like your gift?” He asked again his tone clearly telling her what her answer should be.

“It was perfect.” She murmured doing her best not to shy away from him.

“Mumbling, mumbling, mumbling.” He sighed pulling back and turning her chin in his direction so that she was looking at him. “I don’t like mumbling, darling. Speak up.” He ordered squeezing her head a little more roughly than was comfortable.

“It was perfect.” She repeated her voice louder and clearer now.

He hummed in approval, smiling softly as he placed a quick peck on her lips. “Then how will you thank me, my love?”

“What?” She asked the dread unfurling in her belly.

“I think I deserve some thanks for such a thoughtful gift.” He murmured placing an open mouthed kiss just below her ear. “Why don’t you show me what a good girl you are?” He asked his arms tightening around her.

“Jin.” She whimpered squirming uncomfortably in his arms as she tried to loosen his hold.

“Shhhh, darling.” He hushed trailing his nose up the line of her neck. “Don’t you want to be a good girl for me?”

“Jin, please.”

“I’ll make you feel so good, darling.” He promised nipping at her ear and chuckling at the way she shivered. He pushed her up delivering a swift smack to her ass as a prompt for her to start moving, but she stood still staring at him like a deer caught in the headlights as he stood up as well.

He watched her for a moment waiting to see if she would move on her own before sweeping her up in his arms like a new bride, relishing the way she yelped and wrapped her arms around his neck to keep herself from falling.

“Up we go, darling.” He laughed jostling her slightly as she clung to him in fear as he started to take them to the bedroom.

“Please, Jin.” She whimpered. “Please don’t.” She begged bile rising in her throat as they reached the top of the stairs.

“Hush, darling.” He grinned down at her the expression anything but comforting. “Be a good girl for, daddy.”

Daddy? When had that happened? Granted the most Jin had done to her was some kisses and some very uncomfortable forced nudity on her part. She had no idea what he expected of her when it came to any of that.

“I don’t want this!” She squirmed trying desperately to get out of his arms as they reached the door to the bedroom.

He let her tumble down from her arms watching with sick satisfaction as she thumped against the floor with a shriek of pain.

“My poor clumsy darling.” He sighed grabbing her arm to pull her back up from the floor. “What would you do without me?”

“Please!” She sobbed as Jin pulled the zipper down on her dress pushing it off her shoulders and letting it pool on the floor as she tried to squirm away from him.

“Hush, darling. Be a good girl for daddy.” He purred yanking her arms away from her torso where she tried to keep herself covered. “Beautiful.”

His gaze swept over her figure taking in the dark blue bralette she sported and the matching lacy underwear. She had chosen it because the underwires on the normal bras hurt her still fresh welts, but Jin could only focus on how the lace molded to her body like a present just for him. He loved seeing her in the clothing he bought. He especially loved seeing her in the array of lingerie that he had provided. Every piece was picked out by him for him, and he did so love her in blue.

“Jin!” She shrieked pushing him away and packing away shaking like a leaf.

Jin didn’t care though. She was his. Why shouldn’t he have her in every way? And hadn’t he been patient? Hadn’t he waited, let her adjust to life with him? Was that not kind of him?

He backed up against the bed watching in delight as she stumbled back sprawled out against the mattress looking so enticing with her wide eyes and trembling limbs. “You look so pretty for daddy. You always look so pretty.” He murmured shrugging off his shirt and crawling on top of her trailing hot kisses up her chest up towards her neck as she struggled beneath him.

“Stop!” She screamed scratching at his chest in an effort to make him get off of her.

“You always looked so good in those tight fucking skirts.” He growled nipping at her neck. “You don’t know how many times I wanted to bend you over my desk and ruin you.”

“Stop!” She sobbed pushing back against him desperately.

“Hush, darling. Be good for daddy.”

“No!” She shrieked as Jin pinned her legs down followed quickly by her arms.

“Don’t fight it, darling.” He purred keeping her still beneath him as he began to tug at the straps of her bralette.

“Stop! Stop! Stop!”

Jin paused looking down at her in annoyance. “Why must you always fight me?” He growled.

“I’m not… I’ve never!” She was sobbing her words coming out in a jumbled mess, but it caused Jin to stop, to pause and consider.

“You’re not what, my darling?” He purred nipping at her throat seductively. “You know daddy doesn’t like it when you mumble.”

“I haven’t! Please!” She gasped squirming underneath him.

“Always mumbling.” He sighed trailing his free hand down her body towards the lace of her waist band. “Don’t worry, darling. I’ll have you screaming for me soon.” He promised placing a kiss between her breasts before dipping his hand into her panties slipping one long finger into her woefully dry heat.

They were both surprised as Jin reeled back in shock staring down at her still covered pussy as though it was going to bite him before a pleased smirk settled over his features.

“My poor sweet darling. Why didn’t you tell daddy you were still a virgin?” He purred leaning down to nuzzle into the space between her neck and shoulder. “You kept yourself nice and pure for daddy.” He purred pleased as punch by the discovery.

“Please don’t!” She sobbed pushing against his chest again now that he had released her wrists.

“Hush, darling.” He cooed gently rubbing his thumb back and forth against her cheek. “I’m not mad at you. How could I ever be mad about this?”

“I don’t… I don’t!” She sobbed still desperately pushing against him. “Please!” She shrieked pushing him back, and for once, Jin actually backed away, sitting up. Even though he was still on top of her, but not hovering directly on top of her anymore.

“Shhhh, darling.” He cooed brushing a piece of hair away from her face. “Tell daddy what’s wrong.” He pulled her up turning them around so that he was leaned back against the headboard with her leaned back against his chest wrapped up in his arms.

Her mind was whirring as she tried to come up with an excuse as to why he needed stop, why she needed him very very far away from her. The hardness pressed against the small of her back wasn’t helping anything.

“I was… I was waiting for… I…”  Jin hummed nuzzling into her neck again as he waited for her to collect her thoughts. “I was waiting for… for marriage. I haven’t… I’ve never…”

Jin shushed her fully understanding and pride welling up in his chest. Of course she was waiting. She was his pure little darling. How could she ever let herself be soiled by anyone else? If she wanted to wait for marriage, he’d indulge her. He’d simply have to move up his time table, not that that would be an issue. He was thrilled by the prospect of making her Mrs. Kim Seokjin sooner than anticipated. He wanted nothing more than to bind her to him legally and forever.

“Of course, darling.” He cooed. “Of course we can wait.” He would agree to anything after having been pleased by the knowledge she hadn’t been touched by any other man, especially by that worm Kim Minseok. She was perfect, perfect and unspoiled just for him.

He scooped her up in his arms taking her towards the bathroom. “Let’s take a bath, hm?” He suggested as he set her down on the counter. “Just relax, darling.” He cooed placing a sweet kiss on her lips. “I’ll take care of everything.” He promised smiling happily.

But his happiness was anything but reassuring for Y/N. She had put him off for now, but how much longer could she fend him off? What plans did he have forming in that twisted mind of his? She didn’t know if she could survive much more of him, but did she have a choice?

part 10

[rugbypolycule]

what more could you do

pairing: arisu ryouhei x karube daikichi

characters: karube daikichi, arisu ryouhei

rating: general audiences, no warnings apply

words: 1788

summary: freshly dropped out of university and knee-deep in depression, arisu ryouhei breaks up with karube daikichi with no explanation. months later, unable to deal with the fallout, arisu goes to his apartment. wounds that have yet to fully scab over reopen.

ao3 link

Karube didn’t need Arisu. In spite of his poignant absence, the sun still rose every empty morning and set at frigid night. The cold still crept through the cramped apartment, through the creaking floorboards and in-between cracks in not quite sealed windows. The earth turned, it turned, and it turned without Arisu. In this, there was no argument.

So, Karube didn’t need Arisu. If the suffocating world outside his slowly encroaching walls continued its screaming persistence, then Karube too would refuse to bow out. He would grit his teeth, hunch his shoulders in his too-thin jacket, desperately not recalling an exasperatedly fond voice that would nag him to dress warmer. He would curse as he woke up to flecks of snow on his window pane and wrestle with his useless heater. He would not ache for the childlike wonder of someone who was no longer there.

Eventually, the snow would melt. The man who had left would take the rent money with him, and Karube would have to figure out where else he could take up space. Karube would go to work in a run-down bar in the sticky heat of the coming summer, cicadas filling the silence in his mind where a plan for the rest of his life should sit. Karube Daikichi would be, in all senses of the word, alive.

Even so, his chest was empty – so he filled it with tar. Karube was never particularly interested in smoking before the hole in his life abruptly dug itself. Now, the nicotine numbed the disquiet in his head, and his throat burned, and for a brilliant moment nothing felt real. For mere seconds, he could shed the sense of loss that hung around him like a bad smell. He tried his best to heave his heavy hurt out with every exhale, to no avail. He kept smoking, kept treading the smouldering ashes into the concrete beneath his boots outside his apartment building. Kept telling himself this was the last one, that this would be the last time he allowed himself to feel like this.

Eventually, the pack emptied. His hands trembled with it, fingers clenched around cool air. Pressure blossomed in the centres of his upturned palms, stomach knotted, the spaces between his ribs drawn tight.

He shoved his frostbitten fists in his pockets, steeled himself to face a space that was not his home. But as his eyes followed his cloud of exhale, they caught on a figure on the other side of the empty street.

Karube Daikichi realised he did not need a heart.

What was the point of a muscle which tore so easily? Which couldn’t regulate its sole function when it was confronted with such devastating eyes? His heart, this useless lead pump in his chest, that supplied blood to his forsaken limbs. To the legs that would halt for nothing tangible on this earth as they made their way towards Arisu. Like a pitiful asteroid in its hapless orbit around a star, Karube fell into place in front of the man who had left him.

‘Daikichi,’ was all it took to break him. To snap the thin wire that ran from head to heart, built to forbear embarrassment in times like these.

‘Don’t call me that. You don’t get to call me that anymore.’ His voice was abrasion in the quiet evening air. Arisu, tensed and taught, raised his hands in cautious surrender.

‘Sorry. Karube, then. Karube.’

There was always something wounding in the way Arisu said either of his names. As if it was something precious. As if he hadn’t swirled the taste of it in his mouth and resolutely spat it out at Karube’s feet. It made him feel untethered, strings cut all at once and without warning.

‘You kept paying the rent. You left, without telling why, and you never stopped paying the rent. Do you think I need your pity, Arisu? Do you think I need your father’s money?’

Part of Karube wanted to spit more poison at Arisu. To ask if living as a constant disappointment to his father was really so much better than living with Karube. To ask if he really did hate him that much, that he would run to someone who had never tried to understand him, who never tried to love him. Karube had given him so much love. Why did he throw it away?

‘It’s not pity. I would never pity you.’ Arisu’s speech was often soft and hesitant, but in this statement there was an unmistakable firmness.

‘So then fucking explain! You left, Arisu.’

‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’

‘Why do you keep apologising? If you’re really that sorry then just…’

‘Just what?’ And his eyes. Glassy with unshed tears and rimmed with red from many previous. Arisu was a man exhausted. That his spine was curled forward, that his shoulders almost grazed his ears made him seem smaller and more fragile than Karube had ever known him to be.

The useless muscle in his chest constricted itself again. Karube’s veins throbbed with it. Had he ever really known Arisu? Had he ever meant anything to him? He bit his tongue to stifle the pathetic question he so miserably needed to ask. But brittle eyeteeth could only do so much against a brain on fire.

‘It’s not fair. None of this is… is fucking fair, Arisu,’ and he makes a fist around the urge to reach out, to touch his frost-reddened cheek, to gentle a thumb at the thin skin of his eyelids. He buried such bile once again in the pockets of his worn jeans, glared at the pavement like it would fix any of this. And he had to clench his diaphragm, swallow once, twice, to kill the sob that clawed its way up his throat. He could feel Arisu’s stare itching at his scalp.

‘I’m sorry. I’m- fuck I’m so sorry, Karube. Please,’ and the waver in his words stuck like needles in his skin, ‘you have to know that I’m sorry. It’s all my fault.’

And all too suddenly, a hand cupped his cheek. It was the cruellest thing in the world, the warmth of it. How Karube’s neck arched towards its softness, how Arisu’s palm was moulded to fit his jaw like they were fired in the same kiln, forged in the same fire. Who was Karube to stop it, when the seam of his lips smoothed ever so slowly against the length of Arisu’s thumb? How could he have halted the splintered shudder that parted his lips against the tendon of an unfurled fist?

Small, like the first patter of rain on a cloudy day, Arisu begged.

‘Won’t you look at me?’

Could he have? Was it possible stare bare-faced and guileless into the sun without burning? Karube was willing to go blind with it, if it was Arisu asking.

Some of Arisu’s tears had spilt, shimmering rivulets grazing his cold-stung features. Karube’s treacherous thumb carved its home in the hollow of Arisu’s cheekbone. Ridiculous. Both men, all fragile lungs and wounded eyes, stood holding onto one another as if he couldn’t quite believe he was real. As if the other would stay for as long as he was held.

Like breathing, like the most natural thing in the world, Arisu closed what little distance remained between them.

He kissed him, a whimper leaking from between the searing heat of their mouths. It was torturous, and roiling up the arched column of Karube’s throat came a smouldering ire. Arisu always did this, always dealt the blow while looking like the most injured person in the room. It made Karube want to hurt. Thus the kiss became more teeth than lips, a grab for purchase on whatever chilled skin was exposed to him. Karube kissed to mark, kissed to plea, kissed to hollow out a space for himself that had long since closed.

The inside of Arisu’s mouth was hot, and Karube was a man starved for warmth. His other hand settled, curling against Arisu’s jaw, and all at once Karube was cradling Arisu’s face. He crushed their mouths together again and again, lips stinging and teeth too blunt to cut deep enough to make it right. Karube’s rage rose like steam out of him in the slick kiss, leaving a gentle simmer deep down in his belly.

Arisu cradled Karube’s jaw like one would hold a baby bird. His fingers gentled against his jugular, feeling the searing jackrabbit pulse of his blood under the goose-fleshed skin of his throat. His chapped fingers ran feather-light up and down, ever-so-slightly grazing the beginnings of karube’s hairline. In days gone by, Karube’s favourite thing to do was let Arisu run his fingers over his scalp, working through the tangles in his long hair until he was satisfied. This caress now was more of an echo, ringing hollow in Karube’s chest. His lungs burned with it as he gasped for air into Arisu’s mouth, gasped for what he no longer had.

It was like being crushed.

Pulling away was like pulling glass shards out of Karube’s tongue. His lips stung and his eyes burned and his heart hurt.

‘Why are you punishing me for loving you,’ he choked out, mouth filled with sawdust, ‘why can’t I have you?’

The moment shattered, red string of fate slashed to pieces. Arisu recoiled and almost snapped back, spine ramrod, eyes red-rimmed and wild. The spell broke as Arisu remembered what he came here for.

‘I’m just here to drop off my key,’ he said, voice broken but tone flat as he could muster. Arisu was a different man with the same face, a crude impression of the object of Karube’s tragic affection. Nothing felt right in the cold street, not in Karube’s palm where the cruel metal of Arisu’s key was pressed, fingers moulded over it into a fist by Arisu’s pitiless hand.

‘Just like that.’ It wasn’t a question anymore. The air that had so violently filled Karube’s chest as they kissed had seeped out and then some, leaving him deflated and exhausted. What little hope he had left had been dying a slow death since Arisu turned the corner onto his street.

‘I’m sorry, Karube,’ and Karube didn’t doubt that he was in the slightest, no matter how much it made his ears burn and his pulse ache.

He replied, ‘thanks,’ as devoid of emotion as he could muster. Karube didn’t need Arisu. Not his hands nor his kiss nor his apology. Crossing the street and unlocking the door to the apartment he resolved to move out of as quickly as possible was as easy as breathing glass without choking. Karube didn’t need Arisu.

He didn’t look back.

[ruewrites]

Hi, i hope you are doing good. So i had a request, i really like angst and i was reading We're Blooming Togheter (its very good btw) And i was wondering if maybe you could write like an one-shot about Asmo and more about his last partners? Or maybe more about Lucifer taking care of the brothers at such a young age after being abandoned...i just really like angst.

Revisiting Past Ghosts

AO3

WBT

Ship: Solomon/Asmo, Lucifer/Diavolo (more near the end?)

Word Count: 3113

Warnings: Some violence (skip the third snippit)

A/N: Hi Anon! I’m happy that you enjoyed WBT! I really loved writing it! I’m also always willing to write more about it (I want to write more about it too). This ask actually inspired two one-shots? I’m not going to post the second one yet (I want to finish some other requests first) but I hope you like this first one. I was actually playing with some ideas about writing some more for the au and your comment pushed me to do it, so thank you! I hope you enjoy this!

Asmo remembered his first girlfriend finding out about him. Part of him had always known about his own affections,  but it still made him nervous to tell her. She’d seemed so accepting, so supportive. But Asmo quickly regretted the decision. She’d already had a jealous streak. He knew this, and this just seemed to make her lash out at anyone that even dared to look at Asmo in the halls, including his best friend.  It started out as little things that could be excused as accidents, but then Solomon’s number had been blocked on his phone.  

The only reason that they’d started dating in the first place was because they were in similar social circles. She was cute, Asmo was cute, it made sense. He’d been interested at first, but the more he learned about her personality, the less interested he became. Despite how perfect they may have looked to their peers, they clashed on more subjects than they agreed on. 

Their breakup had been ugly, Asmo wouldn’t deny that.They’d gone back and forth fighting about little things that didn’t matter in the long run. 

He’d thought it was over, until he’d seen Solomon’s vandalized locker.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmured, a sickness stirring in his stomach. The two of them stayed after school to try to fix whatever damage they could.  There had been horrible notes, drinks thrown onto his text books, lipstick smeared over his notes. Asmo would have thought he would’ve been the target of her anger, but unfortunately this didn’t surprise him. 

“You aren’t responsible for her actions.”

“But she’s obviously still hostile because of me.”

“Stop blaming yourself, you didn’t ruin my locker.” Solomon let out a huff and pushed more sludge into a trash can, “You can’t fix her attitude.”

True but Asmo still felt bad. Things were quiet for a moment as Asmo tried to escape his guilt as he slipped paper towels in between the pages of Solomon’s notes. She’d been flooding his comments, but he didn’t think she’d ever do something like this once they broke up…

He felt Solomon nudge him with his foot, bringing his attention back up. “If you still really feel bad, you could invite me for dinner. You said Lucifer was cooking right?” he smiled. 

Was it simple? Yes. Did it make Asmo feel a little better and maybe even steal a laugh from him? Also yes.

His ex had gotten a new boyfriend eventually. Not that Asmo cared.

Every now and again they would still hiss at each other in the hallway. They’d gotten into a few more fights, mainly over Solomon, and each time Solomon had been the one to pull Asmo away. He hadn’t handled it the best he could have, but it was in the past now. It happened. He didn’t really remember when it all stopped. Eventually they had just sizzled out, going from a raging fire to nothing but smoke and ash.

********

Solomon had just gone home from dropping his assignments off. He promised he’d come back tomorrow, but only if Asmo wanted him too. Asmo had nodded, eyes still red and pillow stained with tears. He genuinely didn’t know what he’d do without Solomon. 

As soon as he was gone, Asmo was left alone with his thoughts again. He knew Solomon had to go home, but he wished he didn’t have to. He didn’t want to be alone. He should go back to school, he really should, but he wasn’t sure if he could bring himself to see his ex. He sobbed into his pillow, gripping it tightly, feeling the fabric become cold beneath his cheeks. It didn’t make sense. He didn’t understand. There wasn’t a reason. 

He did everything he could. He made himself pretty, he got him  the sweetest gifts he could think of, listened to him, cleared his schedule for him… Maybe it still hadn’t been enough. Maybe he could have done more, tried harder. He could have made himself prettier in the mornings or been a little more adoring. Now that it was over, Asmo was making a list of things he could have done better, but it was too late.

He could still remember the last conversation they had and how the bile rose in his throat.

“We need to break up.”

The words had caught Asmo off guard. Everything had seemed to be going fine. They’d never talked about any problems. As far as Asmo had known, they’d been a perfectly happy couple. They did everything happy couples were supposed to do. Asmo did everything a perfect boyfriend was supposed to do.

“But why?” he’d asked, voice already catching in his throat.

“Just ‘cuz Asmo.”

“But-”

“Just. ‘Cuz. Don’t make me spell it out for you.”

Asmo had been snapped at. Asmo hated being yelled at. It made his throat tighten and his body freeze. This wasn’t how this was supposed to be.

“You’re not dumb. You know why.”

But Asmo didn’t know why!

“Wait-”

“I need to go.”

Asmo could feel the mascara running down his face and taste it on his tongue, “Please don’t.”

“Lose my number Asmo.

Then Asmo had been alone. No reason. No explanation. He was just alone sobbing on the sidewalk, looking for an answer he would never get.

He’d been humiliated and broken and he wasn’t sure how to feel. Honestly, he probably would have stayed crying on the sidewalk if Solomon hadn’t found him.

He didn’t want to be alone. He wished Solomon didn’t have to head home.

His door cracked open ever so slightly, and footsteps crossed his room.

“There was ice cream left over in the freezer,” Lucifer seemed a bit awkward, as if he wasn’t sure what to say. He knew Asmo had been broken up with, but he wasn’t exactly sure what to say. It seemed like calling his ex some… choice words had been the wrong decision as Asmo had only cried even harder, defended his ex, and started to blubber about it being all his fault. From there Solomon had taken over and ushered Asmo upstairs.

He’d caught bits and pieces.

I wasn’t good enough. 

I wasn’t pretty enough.

I didn’t love enough.

I wasn’t perfect enough.

Lucifer heard a few other things, but all of these little untruths did nothing but make him angry. He knew his brother, and he knew none of those things were true. He’d seen Asmo interact with his partners, and he did nothing but love them. Perhaps he was a little biased, but he didn’t care.

Asmo sniffled and lifted his head. Ice cream didn’t sound too bad… He wasn’t sure how much of it he could eat, but it was a good breakup food. He sat up a bit and moved closer to his brother. The container was partially full and had brownie chunks mixed in. He leaned against Lucifer’s shoulder and sniffled.  

They sat there in silence,  Asmo wondering why he wasn’t good enough and Lucifer knowing he deserved better.

********

Lucifer was already tense. He could hear the rising voices from the living room. The couple clearly thought they were home alone. Voices rising in the heat of the moment, growing until they reached their inevitable crescendo.

Lucifer saw the slap before he heard it.

A hand brought down onto Asmo’s face. Eyes wide and full of hurt, shock, and embarrassment as tears welled and slowly overflowed onto the floor. He didn’t see Lucifer. It didn’t matter if Lucifer had met the man in his house before this moment. Now he was a stranger, and intruder. He was violating their space, and would be treated as such. 

Before he could disgrace Asmo furthur, Lucifer’s hands were dug into his collar and slamming him harshly against the wall. His vision was clouded with red, lips pulled back in a snarl. Bloodlust clouded his mind.

“How dare you lay a hand on him,” he snarled, grip tightening around his collar, “You have no right to hurt him in any way.”

“Wh-” 

“None.” 

Lucifer vaguely felt the tugging on the back of his clothes, Asmo’s voice no more than a bug flying in his ear. He dropped the man, making sure he stayed between him and his brother.  The fear that Lucifer saw would have been satisfying if not for the situation.

“Leave. If I ever catch you in my home again I will be the last thing you see.”

The man bolted out of the house, Cerberus barking as the door slammed behind him. Lucifer couldn’t relax even with his brother’s soon to be ex gone. His blood was boiling, and Asmo was squirming under his gaze. 

Asmo didn’t think Lucifer was home, he hadn’t thought anyone was home. It was the only reason his boyfriend had wanted to come over in the first place, he wasn’t a big fan of Lucifer or any of Asmo’s brothers really. It was a red flag, one Asmo had seen in the distance. He thought that would resolve over time. Apparently he was wrong.

“He’s not welcome in this family,” Lucifer growled, “No one is to treat you like that.”

Understood?

Lucifer’s tone made Asmo’s skin crawl. He was still trying to process what had happened. His cheek stung, and his eyes were watering. What had they been fighting over? He couldn’t remember. Were they even fighting or had they just started yelling?

Asmo couldn’t help but shrink into himself.

 “Yes.”

His words were soft and barely audible. His mind couldn’t even think about texting Solomon. Where would he even begin?

Lucifer paced around the living room for a moment, muttering to himself. He sounded almost animalistic, so unlike Lucifer. It scared him, the entire situation sent Asmo into a spiral and he wasn’t sure where to go from here. He flinched when Lucifer touched him, and seeing that seemed to make his anger flare again.

Lucifer stared at the mark that started to mar Asmo’s skin before shaking his head and heading off into the kitchen. He returned shortly after and pressed a cold ice pack to Asmo’s face. Hours of silence ticked by. 

Lucifer wanted to press charges.

Lucifer wanted to go after him himself.

Lucifer wanted to bury him deep in the ground with the rest of the spineless worms. 

Asmo told him not to. 

They’d fought about it for a few days, and the relationship had continued for a little longer after that. But eventually, both the argument and the relationship ended.

*********

Lucifer had been looking over one of his cases when Barbatos paged him down. Something about someone wanting to talk with him. While he’d never admit it, his mind hadn’t been focused on his work lately. Something was going on with his brothers, specifically Asmodeus. He’d seemed unusually twitchy and eager up until recently. Now he wouldn’t come out of his room, and he could hear him sniffling. 

 Diavolo’s booming laugh bounced off the walls and was the first thing Lucifer heard before he saw anyone.  Perhaps Diavolo wanted to take the three of them out to lunch again, where Lucifer would then continuously have to check the time and remind Diavolo about PDA as well as Barbatos’ presence.

However, when Lucifer came to Barbato’s desk, he saw a third person that he wasn’t expecting. 

Solomon looked a little frazzled underneath his normally cool composure. He stood stiffly next to Barbatos as Diavolo chattered away. Luciferer spied something pink clasped between fidgeting fingers. 

Barbatos was the first to notice Lucifer’s presence. He made his way over to his side and glanced over towards Solomon and Diavolo. 

“He seems nervous.”

“I noticed.”

“What do you think it’s about?”

 Lucifer hesitated, thinking over his options. Well, he had one idea. If he was correct, it would certainly make everything else fall into place much easier.

“I guess we’ll have to find out won’t we?”

Solomon smiled as he saw Lucifer approaching, causing Diavolo to turn around with a wide grin on his face. 

“Lucifer!” Diavolo chirped, moving closer. He went in for a kiss, but Lucifer stopped him. 

“Later. We have company,” he smiled, patting his boyfriend’s pouting cheek before turning to Solomon. “It’s good to see you Solomon, it’s been a while since we’ve had you at our dinner table.”

“Ah, well, Asmodeus and I have both been busy. We’ve been spending a lot of study time over at my apartment,” he said. Then a small silence stretched on. Solomon looked down at the pink envelope in his hands for a moment and sucked in his breath, “I was actually wondering if you could give something to him.”

Lucifer raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms. He could feel Diavolo and Barbatos behind him, their intrigue was palpable. Lucifer would be lying if he said he also wasn’t curious about what Solomon had to say. “And why can’t you just give it to him yourself?” he asked.

Solomon stopped for a moment, eyes glancing down at the envelope before smiling.

“Well, I’ve been hiding them in secret and leaving them anonymous, so what fun would it be to just give it to him?”

Lucifer raised an eyebrow and Solomon’s face fell. 

“He also hasn’t been answering my texts,” he admitted, “I just need him to meet me in the park tonight. I-”

Diavolo’s eyes lit up, “Oh Lucifer! I didn’t realize your brother had a boyfriend, and one with such romantic ideas at that.”

Solomon’s face lit up red and his eyes shifted to the side. So, there was something going on between his brother and his brother’s childhood best friend. His memories flashed to Asmo’s exes, the things they’d put him through, the pain they’d caused him. He didn’t want Asmo to live through any of that again, he didn’t want things to go wrong and he certainly didn’t want his brother to go through more heartbreak.

“What if I just told him? You’ve been sending him letters for a while, why not just get it over with?” Lucifer asked. 

Diavolo cut in before Solomon could even give his argument. “Lucifer, why don’t you indulge him?” he asked, “You mentioned that Asmodeus loved romantic things like this. Plus it’s adorable. He’s made this elaborate little plan just for Asmodeus.”

Lucifer hesitated for a moment, thinking his decision over, eyes glued to the envelope. It did seem very… Asmodeus, but could he trust this little romance to not leave Asmodeus crushed? It was a gamble with his brother’s happiness, and the stakes were high.

“It does seem like something Asmodeus would enjoy,” Barbatos cut in, nodding towards the letter, “Plus, you can trust him with his own heart.”

But could he really?

A few more minutes ticked by, Lucifer played with his thoughts. Perhaps he had still been soured by his brother’s last boyfriend. The man hadn’t really left a good impression, and Lucifer didn’t want to see Asmo in that situation again. Asmodeus deserved to thrive and to be loved and cherished. He just wanted what was best for him.

“Alright, I’ll give it to him,” he decided. Solomon’s grin returned as he handed the envelope over. “But,” Lucifer continued, “You’d better treat him well, regardless of what happens. I won’t tolerate anyone disrespecting him.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Solomon smiled, “I promise I’ll take care of him.”

***********

It was late, but Lucifer couldn’t fall back asleep. He  picked up his phone to look at the time.

Three am. 

How was Asmodeus doing? Surely he and Solomon had gotten to their suite a while ago. Maybe he should give him a call. 

Turning onto his side, Lucifer propped himself up and stared at his husband for a moment. Diavolo was curled up on his side, softly snoring away. He wasn’t the most graceful sleeper, but it was still endearing in a way. It was still wonderfully Diavolo.

Kissing Diavolo’s cheek, Lucifer grabbed his phone before heading downstairs. It rang once. Then twice. He wondered for a moment if his brother would even pick up when a tired voice answered.

“Lucifer?”

“Hello Asmodeus,” Lucifer smiled, “Did you arrive alright?”

“Mmm, give me a second, we just… got to sleep.”

There was shifting on the other side of the line, followed by a second voice. It was slightly muddled, but Lucifer knew who it was.

“I’ll be right back Darling… It’s my brother… No no, not Mammon…. Yes Lucifer.... Go back to sleep, I’ll be back soon.”

There were a few other noises. Kisses perhaps? Then more shuffling and a door shutting.

“Sorry brother dearest, Solomon’s rather clingy when it comes to curling up,  I’m lucky I was able to escape to the porch.”

He sounded happy. It made Lucifer’s body relax and a soft smile spread across his face. Asmodeus was in good hands, he was safe, he was going to be cared for. He still remembered how happy Asmo had been showing off his ring, and how much happier he looked at his wedding. It made him feel at peace, knowing he was loved. 

“I assume you’re having a good time then?”

“Oh yes, all the unpacking is done, and we’re planning  on going out and exploring tomorrow,” he chirped.

“You mean you haven’t explored yet?”

“We were unpacking!”

“Unpacking doesn’t take that long Asmodeus.”

“Buuuuuuusssssyyyyyy,” Asmo sang, “Anyways, I’ll make sure to take lots of pictures tomorrow!”

“Good.”

I’m happy you found him.

Silence stretched between them for a moment. Lucifer could hear the ocean in the background.

“I should be getting back to bed, I have a wonderful husband waiting for me and a long day tomorrow.”

“Mmh, now that you mention it, I suppose I should be getting back to someone as well.”

I’m happy he makes you happy.

“Goodnight Lucifer, I love you!”

“Goodnight Asmodeus.”

Lucifer stared at the phone for a few moments more before going back to his bedroom where a warm bed and an adoring husband awaited him. Kissing Diavolo’s cheek once more, Lucifer settled back into bed, feeling his partner shift behind him.

Asmo looked up at the stars and took in the night air before wandering back inside. He barely had time to plug in his phone before Solomon was sucking him back into the bed and covering his skin with kisses. Honestly sometimes Asmo wasn’t sure what to do with all the love Solomon gave him, he doubted that he even deserved it at times. But as they laid together, Asmo knew that this was where he truly belonged. He’d finally found the one. Asmo had had good and bad partners come and go, but Solomon was the one who stayed.

[starrywhump]

Submissive nico!

Hazel and ash not understanding! asking him to stop taking it for them

SUBMISSIVE NICOO!!!!

Ok, I love the ask, I couldn't exactly fit it in at this point of the story but don't worry there will be more opportunities for Hazel and Ash to react to this later! I hope you all enjoy!

Oh also quick content warning for emetophobia, nothing actually happens but it is thought of and like it gets close.

First | Previous |

Nico retched quietly, wishing he could just throw up and get it over with.  He wanted to clear his body of this feeling.  Nausea was so disgusting set in his body, if he could just throw up, get it out, he’d feel better.  Blank concrete stared back at Nico.

giving up on expelling the sick feeling inside of him, Nico lowered himself to his side, the world around him spun as he did. With a groan, Nico rolled onto his back.  Sweat caused his hair to stick to his skin, adding to the general feeling of disgust inside him. 

Nico drew in a deep breath, trying not to focus on the suffocating heat radiating from his left side. He had yet to look at what his brand looked like today, looking at it would mean sitting up, and sitting up would move the skin around it which would fucking hurt.

Nico was not planning on looking at the wound. 

It was easier to ignore if he didn’t look at it. Yes, it was painful but if he didn't look at it he could pretend it was just some other injury, that also happened to hurt, something that would heal leaving a generic scar.  He could ignore that he was now marked like cattle as property.

Not only stuck with her name seared into his body for the rest of time, Nico had agreed to be Rhea’s plaything.  Not even just agreed he offered to. 

Nico covered his face with his hands, taking deep breaths to try and push back tears. 

The impending doom of everything Rhea would force him to do was too much to think about. Things he agreed to do, asked for.

No no you didn't ask for it, you're doing it so they can be safe.

Nico logically knew that, he did.

You begged her, isn't that asking?

"Only so Hazel and Ash can be safe," Nico responded to his own thoughts, justifying his actions.

Hazel.

Nico hadn’t seen Hazel since Rhea had forced him to hurt her, he didn’t even know if she was alive.  

If she is she hates you.  And if she’s dead it’s your fault.

Nico squeezed his eyes closed, sliding his hands down to the sides of his head he pushed in on his skull, trying to quiet his brain. 

“Stop it,” Nico muttered into the silent room. 

He took in a stuttering breath, wiping a stray tear off his face he let his head fall to the side, looking at Ash’s form across the room.  He should check on his friend, he knew that. Moving right now would be excruciating, but he should at least call out to him. 

Nico opened his mouth, pausing before making uttering a word.  Fear settled over him, what if Rhea heard him?  He didn’t want to do anything that might make her come back to torment him any sooner. 

No that’s stupid, you’re being a coward. 

Nico shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts.

“Ash?” He called out softly.

There was no response. 

“Ash!” Nico pitched up, hoping he could wake him. 

No response. 

Fuck.

With a groan Nico pushed himself up onto his elbows, his breath became heavy as he ignored the burning pain in his side and rolled over onto his hands and knees.

“Fuck... ow,” Nico grunted.

Slowly, painfully, Nico crawled over to where Ash lay.  He put his hand under Ash’s nose.

Nico let out a sigh of relief.

Ash was breathing. 

“I’ll let you sleep I guess, thanks for making me get up,” Nico grumbled as he lay down himself.  

“What a sweet boy checking on his friend.”

Nico, flinched the sudden voice scaring him.  He pushed himself up to his elbows with a wince. 

When had Rhea walked in?  

She quickly crossed the cell to Nico’s side, closing the door behind her. 

Nico tried to sit up fully, but Rhea stopped him with a boot on his chest,  “No, no, don’t get up on my account!  You need your rest.”

The heel of Rhea’s boot dug into his skin, as she pushed Nico down to lay flat on his back. 

Nico forced himself not to fight her, clenching his jaw and screaming curses in his brain. He didn’t speak, too unsure of his ability not to anger her. He kept his eyes down, avoiding her gaze for the same reason. 

Rhea hummed contently, “good boy.”

The words felt slimy, disgusting, covering Nico’s skin.

Rhea smirked down at him, "I gave you a compliment, what do you say darling?" She pressed down on his chest, drawing a wheeze from the boy below her.

"Thank you," Nico bit out, trying to ignore the meaning behind his words.

"Good boy," Rhea repeated.

The words felt just as gross as the first time.

"Let's take a look at your pretty new mark, shall we?" Rhea stepped off Nico, settling over his hips to straddle him.

Nico's breath hitched as Rhea made such close contact with him. He felt so vulnerable laid out on the floor beneath her. He clenched his fists, resisting the urge to buck her off.

Rhea chuckled, “hmmm try not to look so upset pretty boy.”

Nico grit his teeth, “sorry.”

“Sorry.....?” Rhea held up a hand to her ear as one might prompt a child to read the next word in their picture book.

Forcing down bile, Nico responded as she wanted “sorry ma’am.”

Cold fingers ran along the neckline of his shirt, Nico couldn’t stop a small grimace at her touch. He clenched his jaw tighter, schooling his expression to remain neutral.

Rhea ran her hands down his chest, she went to pull at his shirt, “active participation,” Rhea reminded.

Nico turned his head to the side looking away from her. Humiliation swept over him as he lifted his torso off the ground to let Rhea pull his shirt up to reveal his stomach and chest.

“Hmmm that looks like it hurts,” Rhea grinned, placing a finger on the inflamed skin next to the brand. She glanced up at Nico’s face, “active participation means looking at me.”

"Sorry," Nico muttered, turning his head and meeting her eyes.

Rhea raised her eyebrows

"Sorry ma'am," Nico corrected quickly. His heart dropped as he realized how quickly he was falling into the exact behaviors Rhea wanted.

That's what you agreed to.

Rhea smiled, "You know, I had my own plans, the work we were doing with Hazel and such. But this," her grin grew wider, "this is much better than all that. I was so surprised when you told me how bad you wanted this. I'm so glad you did."

A copper taste filled his mouth as Nico bit down on his cheek.

"Nothing to say? You used to be so chatty."

Nico stared blankly back at her, it was easier just not to interact. If he said anything he wasn't sure he could keep it from being something that would break his deal with Rhea.

Rhea leaned down over Nico, whispering in her ear, "Ignore me one more time and I will kill your friend here."

"Sorry, ma'am," he replied, his voice held an undeniable shake.

Rhea smiled, she rested her elbows on either side of Nico's head.

Nico took in a stuttering breath, trying to ignore the growing dread in his stomach. His chest felt tight, each breath was harder than the next. Rhea's body was flush with his, her knee was pushing against the brand bringing a fresh wave of pain at even her smallest movements.

Stop, stop, stop.

This was worse than the knife, worse than the shock collar, worse than anything else she had put him through. All that had hurt, it had hurt like a motherfucker, but it was simple and understandable. It was pain, and he just had to get through it.

This, it didn't hurt. There was no physical pain. That was worse.

Rhea hadn't done anything yet to hurt him, just invaded his space. Invaded space meant for comfort, and trust.

Nico swallowed against the lump in his throat.

Rhea traced a finger down the side of Nico's face.

He squeezed his eyes shut without thinking.

"Open," commanded.

"Sor-sorry... ma'am," he opened his eyes.

nonononononono

"Are you going to cry, Nico? it's alright if you do. In fact, I'd rather enjoy it if you did," Rhea spoke softly, to her captive below her.

"N-no, ma'am."

"Why are you struggling so much with your words then? Are you afraid of me? After all I've done for you?"

"I..." Nico couldn't think of what to say, the only thing running through his mind was pure disgust at Rhea's proximity, "I-"

"Come on spit it out now," Rhea continued her idle touches over Nico's face and neck.

"I'm not," Nico said firmly, ignoring the panic growing inside him, "I'm not afraid of you ma'am."

Rhea raised an eyebrow. She seemed upset that Nico was still holding on to some semblance of control.

"I don't believe you," Rhea ran her hand up the side of Nico's head, tangling her fingers in his hair.

She leaned down, speaking softly into Nico’s ear, “I can see you flinching, see how your breath stops, just for a moment, as you try to see what I have planned for you next,” she tightened her grip Nico’s hair, twisted his neck painfully, “all that yelling, cursing, it was all just a shield for how truly scared you are. Now you can’t even do that, you feel vulnerable, humiliated I’m sure, and you’re terrified.”

“I...” Nico’s voice was choked, barely hiding his growing emotions. Coherent thought other than get off me was getting harder and harder to make.

"Be honest now, full cooperation includes not lying to me."

She's too close, it's too much, its-

"I-" Nico swallowed hard, wanting desperately to be anywhere else than where he currently was in this moment.

"Come on, you can do it, tell me how you really feel."

You have to.

You have to you asked for this so fucking do it.

Nico couldn't breathe, he took in a stuttering gasp, "s-scared," his voice was soft, almost inaudible.

Rhea's eyes lit up, "What was that darling? Is that how you feel, scared?"

Nico wanted to scream at her.

fuck you fuck you FUCK YOU

He closed his eyes, nodding as much as he could in Rhea's harsh grip.

You had to say it it doesn't mean you are.

It doesn't mean you are. It... it...

"Good boy, such a quick learner," Rhea finally released her grip in his hair, allowing Nico to move his head to a less painful position as she sat up.

Nico's face burned with humiliation. He kept his eyes shut, not wanting to see Rhea's pleased face above him.

Rhea's weight lifted off him and Nico let out a small breath of relief.

That breath was quickly stolen away as her boot slammed into his ribs.

He let of a grunt of pain, gasping for air that had been knocked from his chest. Nico curled to the side, ignoring the pain the movement caused to the inflamed brand on the other side of him.

"That's for closing your eyes," Rhea spoke in an unenthused tone.

Nico forced his eyes open at her words, he took in weak, wheezy gasps, unable to catch his breath.

"s-sor-sor," he couldn't make the words through his desperate attempt to take in as much oxygen as he could.

Rhea turned, looking down at him with a smile, "I know you're trying, trying so hard to be good for me."

Nico crinkled his nose, trying to avoid showing his disgust too clearly.

Air finally felt like it was making it into Nico's lungs, he took in deep breaths, trying to slow himself down.

"That's it, calm down."

I'm going to fucking kill you.

"Good boy,"

NO NO NO NO NO

"Thank you," Nico's voice was raspy, it hurt to talk, "thank you, ma'am."

Nico rolled over onto his hands and knees, wincing as he pushed himself to his feet. He worried for a moment Rhea was going to force him back to the ground but she just watched him.

The world spun around him as Nico tried to maintain his balance, he stumbled back to rest against the wall so he wouldn't fall. As his vision stabilized Nico's eyes fell on Ash's crumpled form below him.

"You promised to take him to a hospital."

"We never agreed on a hospital-"

"Medical center then, you promised some kind of medical care. Take him there or I'm not going to keep doing this."

Rhea raised an eyebrow, her gaze darkening, "I'd be careful how you speak to me, I can make this deal much more painful if you give me a reason to. Now, if you ask nicely I can call someone to take him over there."

Of course, it can't be easy.

Nico met her eyes, "Please, help him."

She kept eye contact as she picked her radio from her belt, "come get one of the boys, bring a stretcher."

Nico breathed a sigh of relief, "thank you."

It wasn't long before the door swung open, the two guards who had Nico had come to be familiar with carried a stretcher between them.

"Hazel?" Nico wanted to make sure who he was doing this for was safe. Otherwise, this was all for nothing.

Rhea rolled her eyes, she pointed to Ash on the ground, "take him to the medical center, get a doctor for him. The girl too, different rooms, make sure they lock."

The guards nodded and began to move Ash to the stretcher laid beside him.

The movement seemed to be enough to wake Ash, his eyes jolted open, he flinched away from the guard's hands. He made eye contact with Nico across the room.

It's ok, Nico mouthed to Ash.

Rhea crossed to Nico's side, putting a hand on his head to stroke his hair, the gesture would almost be kind if its purpose wasn't pure humiliation, "Say goodbye to your friend darling."

Nico blinked away impending tears, "Goodbye Ash."

"What.. what are you talking about?" Ash looked confused, "what did you.. what are you doing to him? Where are you taking me?" His voice was weak, slightly slurred.

"I'm not doing anything to anyone, he asked for this, didn't you pet?"

Nico looked down avoiding Ash's gaze, trying to ignore Rhea's gentle hand in his hair.

"Yes ma'am."

[yaimlight]

Pairings: Bakugou Katsuki x Reader / Kirishima Eijiro x Reader

Rating: teen - light swearing, angst, unrequited love

Cross post on AO3. Find me under LokiLover89

This wasn’t supposed to happen. I was meant to be writing the next instalment for Twos Company but I wasn’t really feeling it. A new friend suggested I put it aside and try something new so I did and this happened. Turns out I couldn’t focuse on a romance because I was after a tragedy.

Katsuki slumped forward on the bar, his elbows digging in as knocked back his whisky and signalled the bar tender for another. The whole time he kept his eyes trained on the mirror behind the bar, watching as the happy couple laughed and clung to one another. His eyes tracked her every movement watching as he smile got wider, a pink tinge to her cheeks as she held out her left hand for all to see, the diamond on her engagement ring sparkling in the light.

He grunted as the bar tender placed another drink down in front of him, taking the empty glass away. Katsuki snatched the glass up quickly, draining half of it in one go. He was drinking too much, had lost count after glass number six and that had been half an hour ago but he couldn’t take it anymore. Katsuki knew if he carried on he would probably end up making a fool of himself, probably end up hurting people he cared about but he needed to drown out his feelings and the open bar seemed like a good placed to do that.

Y/N laughed, her face lighting up with it and Katsuki’s breath caught. She truly was beautiful, fucking perfect in his eyes. He wanted to be the reason for her smiles, wanted to be the one who could make her laugh like that. He wanted to be the one to kiss her and hold her tight, be the one she went home with every night and got to say I love you. Katsuki wanted all that and more and the bitter taste of jealousy and despair filled his mouth, making it feel like he was chewing on ash. His grip tightened on the glass as Katsuki finished off his drink and practically slammed the glass down whilst demanding another from the annoyed looking bartender.

“Bakubro!” Eijiro exclaimed loudly, flinging his arm over Katsuki’s shoulder and pulling the reluctant blonde tighter against him. He grunted at the action, swaying on his feet as he shoved the laughing man away from him. “Get off me shitty hair” he growled out angrily. The redhead went with a smile, turning to lean against the bar and waved to get the bartenders attention. Neither of them said anything as they waited for their drinks and Katsuki had to force himself to keep his eyes from straying to Y/N. He had been so caught up watching her that he hadn’t even noticed the other man leaving her side until it was too late to make a run for it. He hadn’t necessarily been avoiding Eijiro but he hadn’t been seeking out his company either, not wanting to bring the others good mood down.

“This is crazy huh? Man I can’t believe she said yes” Eijiro laughed, smiling brightly as he took a swig of his beer. Katsuki just grunted, sipping at he own now double whiskey. How the idiot had ever thought she would say no was beyond Katsuki. Everyone could see how smitten they were with each other. The thought was bitter in his mind, dark and twisting until his head hurt. He was a horrible person, an even worse friend. Eijiro had just gotten engaged, Katsuki should be happy for him but instead all he felt was a bitter and all-consuming jealousy that felt like it was going to suffocate him. He should leave.

He knocked back the last of his drink, placing the empty glass down before pushing himself up. He felt light headed, his mind and vision a little hazy around the edges. He had drunk too much but his heavy eyes still managed to find Y/N in the mirror, her smile still bright as she laughed with Mina and Jiro. “I need to go” he grumbled under his breath, not caring if Eijiro heard him or not. This should be a happy night, a time for celebration and him being here would just bring everything down. He hadn’t taken more than two steps before a hand was curling around his bicep and pulling him back.

Katsuki growled out in warning. “Get the fuck off me shitty hair” he snapped, yanking his arm out the other man’s hold. “You can’t go yet” he whined, a nervous look in his eyes. Huffing Katsuki folded his arms over his chest and stood up straighter, glaring down at his friend and trying to make himself look as intimidating as possible. It had never worked on the idiot before so why Katsuki thought it would now was beyond anyone’s guess. “Why the fuck not?” he spat out angrily. He just wanted to go home and drink until he passed out, until his mind was blissfully blank and numb.

Eijiro offered him a shy smile, rubbing nervously at the back of his neck and Katsuki’s stomach twisted as dread shoved his anger aside. “Well. You’re my best friend, more like a brother than anything and I can’t imagine going through this without you. I want you to be my best man” Eijiro asked sincerely and Katsuki actually felt the bile rising up his throat. This was too much, a fucking nightmare that just wouldn’t go away. Katsuki had thought it bad enough when the redhead had asked him along to help look for an engagement ring, the two of them going from shop to shop until Katsuki had spotted the perfect one.

It had caught his eye instantly, a thin rose gold band with a square cut dim and in the middle but it had been set on its points. It wasn’t an overly large diamond but it was the largest one on the ring, six smaller diamonds set either side that tapered off to be set into the band. It was simple and elegant and perfect, glistening under the bright lights of the store and he had been able to imagine on Y/Ns finger instantly, could picture the way it would sparkle and shimmer with every movement she made.

Katsuki had thought that would be the worst part but then he had had to listen to the idiot panic about how to ask her and after weeks of listening to him go on and on Katsuki had finally snapped. He had told Eijiro exactly how he would do it. What restaurant to go to even what wine to fucking order. He told him where to go afterwards, down to the cherry blossom lined river that lead out to a massive fountain that was always lit up at this time of year at night. He told Eijiro exactly what he would say to her as well, how he would tell Y/N how amazing she was, how her smile could light up his life like the first warm rays of sun after a cold and bitter winter and how his life didn’t seem worth it if she wasn’t there. He had spilt his feelings to his friend and Eijiro had said how beautiful it had been then proceeded to tease him about his hidden romantic side, completely unaware that Katsuki had meant every word.

He had thought it bad enough that she now wore the ring Katsuki had picked, had been proposed to the way Katsuki would have if it had been him but it was so much worse because now Eijiro wanted him to stand next to him at the alter and watch her walk towards him in a wedding dress and know that she wasn’t walking to him, wasn’t going to be devoting her life to him until their last breaths. He couldn’t do it, didn’t want to do it. It was be fucking torture, not to mention cruel but he knew he would because Eijiro was his fucking friend and it wasn’t his fault that Katsuki was so fucked up. He deserved a better friend than Katsuki but he had picked him for some reason and the blonde couldn’t disappoint him like that no matter how much it would hurt him.

Katsuki just stood there, staring at Eijiro with his hands clenched at his side, nails digging into his palms. “I...” Katsuki started to speak but Eijiro cut him off, placing his hands on his chest and smiling widely. “You don’t need to answer now. Just think about it. I’ve been a nervous mess through this and you’ve really helped me though it man”. Katsuki dug his nails in harder, the sharp sting of pain in his hands accompanied by the ice shard he felt digging into his chest. “It’s nothing” he ground out through clenched teeth, wanting this conversation over as quickly as possible.

Eijiro smiled, patting him on the chest before twisting and grabbing his beer and a glass of wine that he hadn’t noticed before. “You’re the best bro. I couldn’t have done this without you” he said cheerfully, his smile getting wider and showing off his incredibly sharp teeth. Katsuki could feel himself cracking as the redhead’s thanks and praise splitting his resolve to keep his feelings to himself but before Katsuki could crush their friendship into dust Eijiro was talking again, taking a few steps away from the bar. “I better go deliver this, don’t want to keep the future Mrs Kirishima waiting” he beamed and then he was gone, disappearing between the crows to go find Y/N.

Katsuki watched him go, suddenly feeling like his stomach was full of bricks. Growling he turned back to the bar, getting the bartenders attention once more but instead of getting a glass Katsuki took the whole bottle, snatching that and his previous glass off the bar top before stalking around the edges of the room until he found an empty booth in a relatively dark corner of the room. He sank into the soft and worn leather, half filling his glass and slumping forward, his eyes instantly finding Y/N and Eijiro amongst the crowed of well-wishers that had gathered in the small bar to congratulate them.

They looked good together, to annoyingly bright and happy people, smiling and laughing. Katsuki hated it. Hated how he couldn’t stop imagining himself in Eijiro’s place, his arm wrapped around Y/Ns waist as they huddled together, her loving gaze turned towards Katsuki as she retold the story of how he had proposed time and time again. He hatted every second he spent wallowing and fantasising yet he couldn’t seem to stop, the bitter taste of longing lodging in his throat. So as the night went on Katsuki drunk, slowly making his way through the bottle, his mind and body getting heavier under the excessive amounts of alcohol.

At some point the floor of the bad had become a dance floor and despite his angry protests Mina had dragged him from his secluded corner and forced him to take part it there stupidness and for the most part it had been okay. He had gotten lost to his friends idiocy, even managing a laugh when dunce face had crashed into the back of Deku and caused him spill his drink all down the candy canes pristine white shirt. It had been funny, even more so when Denki had made things worse in his haste to help by knocking the stuck up pricks glass of red wine down his front as well. The whole incident had improved his foul mood considerably but Katsuki wasn’t so lucky these days and the reality of his situation had come crashing back down around him when a panting and smiling Eijiro had slung his arm over Katsuki’s shoulder, his slightly drunken friend explaining his love and admiration for the blonde loud enough for most the room to hear before promptly informing Katsuki he needed to piss.

This wouldn’t normally be a problem, Katsuki shrugging the other man off and yelling at him for over sharing but before he could even utter a word of his disgust Eijiro was shoving him across the floor, his hands rock hard on Katsuki’s shoulders as he forced him towards Y/N insisting that his best friend, his best man keep his future wife company whilst he was gone. Katsuki had panicked, had seen the look of alarm in Y/Ns eyes as Eijiro had tried to shove them together. Both of them had tried to convince the red head that neither of them had needed to others company but he had insisted, sprouting some bullshit about his best man and his best girl spending time together as they were the two most important people in his life and he wanted them to get along. Both of them had gone quiet at that, neither of them looking at the other as Eijiro placed Katsuki’s hands on Y/Ns waist and hers on the blonde’s shoulders. He walked away with a laugh and a bright smile, jokingly yelling at Katsuki not to get to comfortable because he would be back soon enough to take his place not realising how both of them went stiff at his teasing words. It was awkward and horrible, the two of them just stood there as other couples around them danced to the slow love song and Katsuki desperately wished for the ground to open up and swallow him whole. This was all his fault.

Huffing and gritting his jaw Katsuki reluctantly started to move, well aware of people watching them and waiting to see what would happen. It was a well-known fact amongst their friends that though he and Y/N didn’t dislike one another they didn’t necessarily like one another either. There had always been a tension there, a reluctance to spend time together, especially in such close proximity they just didn’t know why. They moved to the music, barely even moving as they awkwardly shuffled, still neither of them looking at one another.

He felt stiff, his hands twitching as he tried to keep his grip light but it was difficult, having her this close. He could smell the faint sweet vanilla of her perfume, a gift from Eijiro last Christmas that Katsuki had helped pick. He could feel the heat coming off of her, no more so then where they were touching. They were close, to close really but he couldn’t help himself, his thumbs brushing ever so slightly against her sides. The last time he had touched her was months ago, Katsuki catching her as she tripped whilst they had all been hiking on a rare couple of days off together. He had been lagging behind, his eyes firmly fixed on her ass in her shorts as he berated himself for being so fucking weak. There hadn’t been anyone else there to help as she had slipped, arms flailing as she fell back and right into Katsuki’s waiting arms.

She had looked up at him with wide and surprised eyes, her back pressed firmly against his front. Her cheeks had been red, both from the exertion of the climb and the panic of falling, her chest heaving as she breathed deeply, sweat sliding down her neck and disappearing between her breasts. He had been struck by her beauty then, the sun shining down on them, bright and hot and he had felt it as clear as anything, the desire to hold on and never let go. His head had been half way bent down towards her, Y/Ns eyes going wide and he had been able to feel her surprise and panic. Then Eijiro had been calling out, Katsuki snapping out of his stupor and had practically shoved Y/N away from him and into the redhead’s arms. He had stormed ahead after that, yelling at Y/N to watch where she was going because he wouldn’t help her again. The feel of her in his arms had stayed there long after they had parted ways that night and like the pathetic mess he was Katsuki had let his mind wonder that night to what would have happened if it had just been them and he hadn’t let her go. He knew tonight would be the same.

“You don’t have to do this”. Her quiet voice cut through his thoughts and for the first time since they had been forced into each other’s arms Katsuki looked at her. Y/N looked back at him but she wasn’t smiling any more. She looked up at him with a mix of feelings. Pain, sadness, understanding but none more so obvious than pity. “Yes I do” he growled out, his anger getting the best of him. He didn’t need nor want her pity. She frowned, a small spark of anger flashing in her eyes that mirrored his own and Katsuki briefly wondered if it was his, her quirk picking up on it and making it her own.

They glared at one another for a few long and tense moments, both of them stubborn and refusing to give in. Finally though Y/N sighed, tearing her gaze away from his to look off at something over his shoulder. “It’s not fair of him to ask it of you” she sighed, still not meeting Katsuki’s intense gaze. He scoffed at her remark. “Would you rather I tell him why I shouldn’t fucking do it?” he snarled out. She had the good sense to look a little sheepish, keeping her mouth thankfully shut. “That’s what I thought” he snapped, finally able to tear his gaze away from her.

Things felt even tenser now than they had before, Katsuki feeling on edge like he did before a fight. This wasn’t her fault. No Katsuki was the only person who could shoulder the blame for their current situation but that didn’t mean he couldn’t hate her just a little bit for making him fall so completely for her. It hadn’t always been that way though. The first time he meet her he had brushed her off, to consumed with his job and being his usual rude and abrasive self. The same had gone for the second and third time he had seen her but the fourth time had been different. They had been paired together for a rescue mission, Y/N assigned to him because of her quirk and his abrasive nature. It had been three days of constant work as they looked for survivors after a building collapsed and by the end of it Katsuki had fallen hard but it had already been too late by then. He had gone to Eijiro for advice on how to ask the women out and instead had found Y/N, all laughter and smiles and dressed only in one of the redhead’s many Crimson Riot tees. He had lost his chance long before he even knew he had had one.

He felt the pain and sorrow he had been feeling ease slightly, like a balm had been applied to sooth a burn. Not getting rid of the pain but lessening it slightly. He let out the breath he didn’t realise he had been holding in one big rush, some of the tension he had been feeling easing slightly. It wasn’t real, wasn’t even his own feelings but he welcomed it none the less. Katsuki wished it would go deeper though, wished it would smother everything he was feeling and leave him numb. “Make it stop” he whispered. He sounded desperate to his own ears, his voice cracking slightly as he begged for something he knew wasn’t possible. She was only an empath, able to manipulate others emotions but she couldn’t erase them all together.

“I wish I could” she answered just as softly and Katsuki once more turned to look down at her. She looked so sad and broken as she gazed back at him. He hatted that he was the one to make her look like that. All he ever wanted was to make her smile but he never had. No all he did was make her sad and nervous, uncomfortable to be around him. “I wish I could give you that Katsuki. You deserve so much more than this”. At some point one of her hands had moved from his shoulder, her palm pressing against his cheek. Her skin was soft and warm and despite knowing better Katsuki let his eyes fall closed and leaned into the touch, nuzzling against her. He shouldn’t be doing it, they were in the middle of a crowded room, any one could see him but his alcohol clouded mind didn’t allow him much time to worry about it, to busy trying to commit to memory how soft her skin felt against him.

“I’m sorry” she mumbled, her voice breaking slightly. Katsuki reluctantly opened his eyes, reaching up with both hands to pry her hand away from him. At some point they had stopped moving, the two of them stilling as a sombre aura seemed to settle over them. Around them people still laughed and danced, seemingly unaware or uncaring of what was happening between the two of them. Katsuki had to wonder if maybe that was her doing, pushing their feelings of happiness and excitement higher so they wouldn’t notice them.

“It’s not your fault” he mumbled. He held her hand in his, hiding it between them and looking down at it with a frown. The engagement ring glinted in the light, almost like it was taunting him. He ran his thumb over her knuckles, knocking against the ring. Her skin was soft and smooth under his thumb and he wanted to feel more of her, wanted to know if she was that soft all over. Without giving it another thought he slid his had high, flipping her hand over so he could no longer see the stupid diamonds. His fingers dancing along her wrist, feeling her pulse thumping away under her delicate skin. “It’s not your fault” he whispered again, his voice barely audible as he pressed his thumb down just to feel her pulse flutter. He wanted it to be because she welcomed his touch, liked the feel of him as much as he liked the feel of her but he knew it was probably nerves, Y/N keeping track of his emotions so she could stop him if he tried to take things too far.

Maybe this was already too far, pushing his luck whilst he was too drunk to properly keep control over his desires. He would regret all of this come morning when he was hung over and his mouth felt and tasted like something had crawled into his mouth and died. He would lay in bed going over everything he was doing now and hate himself for it, scream and shout and berate himself till he was red in the face and his head felt like it would explode. He would regret all of this but now, stood here before Y/N he couldn’t find it in him to stop, his fingers slowly working their way up her exposed arm.

“Katsuki” she said softly, placing her other hand over his and stopping his movements. Blinking stupidly Katsuki slowly turned to look at Y/N. She was smiling sadly at him, that look of pity back in her eyes and quickly Katsuki snatched his hands back, stepping away from her and looking around nervously. Fuck what was he doing? This was stupid, he was being stupid. Anyone could have seen them, would have been able to take one look at him and known how he felt.

Panicking Katsuki turned to make a quick escape but he didn’t get far. Y/N grabbed his arm, her grip tight and keeping him in place. Growling Katsuki tensed, his hands balling into fists again. “Let go of me” he growled but all Y/N did was tighten her grip, her fingers digging into his arm through his shirt. “No” she snapped, sounding angry now. Snarling Katsuki yanked his arm out of her hold and spun back round to face her. “What do you want from me?” he snarled, towering over her. He could see the small flicker of fear in her eyes, Y/N taking a slight step back and his heart fucking broke. People were looking, could feel their eyes on him but he couldn’t care less right now. People already thought of him as an asshole so why not give them exactly what they wanted?

When she didn’t say anything Katsuki scoffed and stormed from the room, this time Y/N letting him go. He slammed past people, not caring when they cried out in indignation. He had to get the fuck out of there before he made things even worse. “Hey Bakubro” Eijiro called excitedly as Katsuki got closer to him, smiling wide but it soon feel as he caught sight of the look on the blondes face. “What’s wrong?” he asked worriedly, eyes darting past Katsuki and he knew then that Y/N was following him. “I’m leaving” he snarled out, his shoulder slamming into the redheads on his way past.

“What the hell man!” he called out angrily as he stumbled to the side but Katsuki didn’t stop, storming from the bar and out into the cool night. The fresh air made him feel dizzy, the underlying feeling of nausea getting stronger but still he didn’t stop even as he stumbled. Finally though he came to a stop as he rounded the corner of the building and had stumbled half way down the side street. His anger finally run out and Katsuki collapsed back against the wall with a groan. He was fucking everything up. Eijiro was going to hate him after tonight and Katsuki would deserve it.

Screaming he slammed his fist against the wall, the rough stone slicing his knuckles open and leaving his hand throbbing. Cursing he cradled his arm against his chest, glaring down as blood began to drip over his fingers and onto the floor. “Well, that was clever” came a sarcastic and familiar voice from behind and Katsuki spun round snarling to find Y/N standing a few paces behind him, arms crossed and looking at him like he was an idiot. “Fuck off” he snapped, turning away from her and beginning to storm away from her. “Charming as always” she drawled sarcastically and Katsuki snapped.

“WHAT THE HELL DO YOU WANT FROM ME!?” he roared, his voice echoing off the walls as he spun round to glare at her. Everything fell silent apart from his ragged breathing. His chest was heaving and his hand throbbing and he was fucking done with this shit. He just wanted to go home and pretend this night had never fucking happened. Y/N looked startled, eyes wide and body tensed but it didn’t last. Sighing her shoulders slumped, her arms unfolding and falling to her sides. “We can’t keep doing this Katsuki”.

Katsuki felt his heart stutter at her tone of voice, sounding both determined and resigned to what was happening. “He’s worried about you, wanted to come after you himself but I thought it best that he didn’t”. Katsuki grunted at that, looking down at his feet in shame. Of course the idiot would be worried about him, probably thinking something was wrong that he could fix but there was no fixing this, not by Eijiro anyway. “I don’t want to come between you and him Katsuki. Your friendship means a lot to him and I don’t want to ruin that”. Katsuki winced at her soft and pleading words, that feeling of nausea back again but a thousand times worse. It wasn’t her coming between them it was him and his stupid fucking feelings. She shouldn’t be the one worried about ruining anything because all she had done was fall in love with a good man and been nice to his friends. It wasn’t her fault that Katsuki didn’t know how to handle his feelings and was falling apart at the seams.

“I’m leaving” she sighed and Katsuki’s head snapped up, eyes wide and full of panic. Y/N looked back at him with sad determination and he didn’t know what to do. What did she mean she was leaving? Leaving now or leaving, leaving? Surely if it was the latter than she would have said they were leaving, her and Eijiro but she hadn’t. “I’ve taken a job in America. Three months to help with the relief efforts after the last super villain attack” she explained and something in Katsuki eased. She wasn’t leaving all together but she was leaving.

Eijiro hadn’t said anything beforehand but Katsuki actively tried to avoid talking about Y/N with him so maybe he had missed it. Or maybe she had just decided after tonight, unable to stand Katsuki and his feelings any longer so she was running, trying to put some distance between them. Katsuki wouldn’t blame her. She was an empath, could feel everything Katsuki was feeling. It must be hard to smile and play nice when Katsuki was practically forcing his feelings onto her every time they were so much as in the same room together. He was surprised she hadn’t left already, convinced Eijiro to move cities to get away from him.

His self-disgust and anger lessened, his emotions getting duller once more. Y/N fiddled with the ring on her finger, nibbling on her lip and looking nervous. He felt his own nerves spike. He knew that look. Knew she was about to say something he wouldn’t necessarily like. “I want you to be happy Katsuki and I know that me being here is difficult for you so whilst I’m gone you should...you should try” she urged stepping towards him. Katsuki didn’t even know he was shaking until she gently took hold of his hands, her fingers delicately ghosting over his already bruising knuckles.

“You’re a good man Katsuki and you deserve so much more than this so I want you to try. Meet people, go on dates, forget I even exist if you have to just please try” she pleaded desperately. At some point she had stepped in closer, letting go of his damaged hand to curl hers around his neck, her fingers sinking into his hair. Katsuki mirrored her, his large hand cupping her cheek. He pressed their foreheads together, his red eyes boring into hers. They were close, close enough that he could feel her breath against his lips. He brushed his thumb along her cheek, intense eyes trying to take in every detail he could about her.

She was right. Always was. This wasn’t the first time they had had a conversation like this, Y/N trying to urge him to meet someone else, to move on and be happy. Katsuki had tried, time and time again he had tried but no matter what he had always found himself comparing them to Y/N and they had paled in comparison. But he couldn’t keep doing it. It was unfair of him to do this to her, to Eijiro. He needed to move on, let this go and with her gone maybe he would be able to. She wouldn’t be there to keep reminding him of what he wanted but couldn’t have. They said time healed all wounds and maybe without her there he would finally be able to move on.

He probably needed the distance, would have to cut down on his time with Eijiro so he didn’t have to listen to the other man going on about how much he missed Y/N but maybe, if he was lucky, by the time the wedding rolled around he would be able to stand up there with the redhead and feel nothing but happiness for his friend. It was a long shot, would take more than three pathetically short months to get past years of longing and love but he had to do it, not only for Y/Ns and Eijiro’s sake but also for his own.

“I love you” he whispered gruffly. It was the first time he had ever said it out loud, the first time he had let his guard down enough to let it all come crashing out but if this was going to be his only chance than he needed her to hear it from his lips instead of just feeling it mixed with his shame. She smiled softly at him, her eyes sad and glistening with unshed tears. “I know”. Katsuki slammed his own eyes shut, desperately trying to stop the tears before they could fall. He loved her but she didn’t love him back. She loved Eijiro and he loved her back and that was fact.

Katsuki couldn’t say what motivated him but he found himself leaning down, closing the gap between them and pressing his lips against hers. It was a chaste kiss, their lips barely moving. His lips were chapped and it tasted slightly salty but he couldn’t tell if it was her tears or his. She kissed him back though, her grip tightening on his neck slightly and he should feel elated at the fact but it was bittersweet. It felt like a goodbye and in some sense it was. She was leaving and taking his heart with him.

Katsuki pulled back slightly, keeping his eyes closed as he took a shuddering breath. He felt a calm wash over him, his racing heart instantly slowing. Sighing he stepped back, putting some distance between them and finally opened his eyes. Y/N had tear tracks down her face, her mascara having run and her eyes now red rimmed and puffy. He wanted to reach out and pull her into his embrace, to tell her everything would be okay and she shouldn’t cry over him but he didn’t think he would be able to let her go if he got his arms around her again and he needed to let her go.

Instead all he did was grunt and nod his head. He turned his back on her, shoving his hands into his pockets and wincing at the sting of pain that shot through his hand. He didn’t pull it out though, just carried on his way, listening to the thud of his feet on the pavement below. He didn’t look back, not once even though he desperately wanted to, ever hopeful that she would still be there but he didn’t want the disappointment of finding her gone.

Katsuki didn’t stop until he got home, keeping his mind focused on nothing but the pain in his hand and the rhythmic thud of his feet. He went through the motions getting back into his apartment, kicking his shoes off and shrugging his jacket over his shoulders. He chucked his keys into the waiting bowl on the small side table and then trudged into his living room. The apartment was cold and dark and completely still. Katsuki stood in the doorway, staring out at his empty home. In that moment he felt so completely and utterly alone. He had felt it before but never this sharply.

He had put so much effort into his career over the years, pushing everything else aside in his pursuit of becoming the best and it had payed off. He was number two now, just behind Deku but that was to be expected of All Might’s successor but there had been a lot of sacrifices along the way. Despite knowing it would never happen Katsuki had often entertained what it would be like to come home to Y/N. He knew what it was like to live with her, Eijiro having told him enough and he had witnessed it himself the few times he had been unable to get out of the other man’s invites without being a complete ass.

She always greeted him with a smile and a kiss, happy that the redhead was home. If she had made it home before him dinner would normally be waiting, the smell filling the apartment and it always smelt good. The place would be warm and lived in and the gentle sound of her chattering away as they discussed their days would be welcomed. Afterwards they would sit of the sofa, cuddled together and just enjoy the other’s company until it was time to go to bed. They would each have a preferred side of the bed and he would wrap his arms around her, holding her close as they drifted off, the last thing either of them hearing being the other saying that they loved them.

It was a dream, a fantasy that had slipped out of his grasp a long time ago but tonight made it seem so final. It was strange, how hard it suddenly hit him. He felt like someone had died, like a part of his life had been snuffed out. Katsuki’s legs gave out, his back hitting the wall behind him as he sank to the floor. Tears streamed down his face, his body shaking as he sobbed. He felt like he was being cut in two, a burning knife shoved into his gut and yanked all the way up to his heart. He shoved his hands into his hair, yanking at the strands as he began to rock.

This feeling wouldn’t last forever, he knew that but as his cries echoed around the empty room all Katsuki could feel was the overwhelming sense of guilt and grief. He had no one to blame for this but himself and as he collapsed onto his side, curling in on himself on the cold floor Katsuki let it all wash over him, wallowing in his pain. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would get up and move on, take it one day at a time but for now he would suffer and lament the loss of the women he loved.

[sanjisock]

bark to smoke, wood to ash

ao3

one.

You are eight and the words that fall out of your brothers’ mouth hurt like gravels, like acid, like gunshot wounds. They call you useless and it tears at your skin, they call you weak and it rings inside your ears for days. The bruises on your skin fade, but the words claw underneath, bone-deep, like a phantom scar.

A failure. A burden. A mistake. A mistake —

Brother.

You don’t know what’s wrong with the last one. It isn’t one of the bad words your mother taught you not to say, and your brothers never said it with the tone and derision they reserved for your name. Brother. Almost in passing, like an afterthought.

The word clung to you anyway, dirty and foreign, seeping under your skin like mud. It has sullied you into something you’re not.

(You are not, you know — you are not anyone’s brother. You’re not a —)

-

two.

You are thirteen when you realize that you hate the way you look in the mirror. You know you always do, at the back of your mind, but it’s the first time that it catches you off guard; there’s bile at the back of your throat, and you almost drive your leg through the vanity, shattering the ugly image staring back from the surface.

Zeff has just started giving you salaries — actual salaries instead of the meager pocket money they used to be — so the first thing you do is to visit the town’s market.

You are a boy, so you get yourself a couple of men’s shoes, loafers and dress shoes, oxfords and sandals. You are a boy, so you pick up the three-piece suits and vests, the kind a gentleman would wear. You are a boy, so you walk past the nail polish and lipsticks, and you don’t wonder how they would look against your pale skin, if they should match the dresses you will never wear.

You narrow your eyes at your own reflection, rubbing your chin, feeling the beginning of a stubble under your fingers. Your chest is a flat and narrow thing, every part of your body telling you what you have heard a thousand times — you’re a boy. You’re a boy. You’re a boy. 

(You are a boy because you don’t know what else you could be.)

-

three.

You are sixteen and nobody tells you you’re beautiful; they call you handsome and strong and clean-shaven and many other words that don’t settle right at the pit of your stomach. A good husband, one over-eager patron once said to her blushing teenage daughter; a rough delinquent, most shopkeepers would say behind your back after you’ve haggled their prices one too many times; a handsome boy, some of Zeff’s old associates would sometimes say, a clumsy attempt to praise you. You hate the last one the most.

You are sixteen and you fall for the first boy who calls you beautiful.

He’s a boy from the next village, a year older than you are, sharp-tongued and sharper smile. He visits on Saturdays as his parents go to the island’s marketplace, a few ways down the street from Baratie, and when he kisses you behind a passing cart he tastes like a brilliant supernova.

Beautiful , he calls you, and for the first time a word slides off your skin like honey. Beautiful, he whispers to your lips, and it warms you from the inside, right in the very center of your chest. Beautiful, he presses against your skin, and you close your eyes and take it all in, the way the word fits right in between your rib cage, tucked neatly against your heart.

It doesn’t last. He also calls you his man.

(You’re not his man. You’re not anyone’s man. You’re not a man —)

-

four.

Today’s celebration is more crowded than you are used to, which says a lot, considering how it usually goes with the Strawhats. Luffy, you are quick to learn, always finds a way to surprise you.

You’re carrying five plates on one hand and three glasses of beer on the other, half-tiptoeing to avoid stepping on people’s feet. Some of the locals wave at you, complimenting you on the food, and you don’t notice Nami among the crowd until she’s pressed against you, her breasts digging into the crevice of your back as someone pushes her from behind.

You feel a shock of jealousy burst through you.

It is shocking, in its suddenness. There is nothing inherently sexual with the thought; you’ve always been attracted to men and women alike, in the safety of your own mind — but this is something entirely different. You are suddenly aware of your adam’s apple, your flat chest, your dick between your legs; how they’re wrong wrong wrong — 

She must’ve felt the way you stiffened, because she leaps back in surprise and stammers out an apology. You want to tell her that it’s fine, but for once, you can’t. There are a lot of people you can lie to but not her, who’s been carved open and forced to lie for so long.

“I can’t,” you tell her; no longer caring if you don’t even make sense. “Nami-san, I can’t —”

Something erupts among the crowd, and Luffy emerges from it a moment later, always the center of attention. Nami’s instantly distracted, and you have never been more glad of Luffy’s natural proclivity for trouble.

You chase after him, and try not to think of the way envy curls coldly in your chest.

(For the first time in your life, you dare to want —)

-

five.

They force you to wear a dress and you run.

It’s wrong, you try to tell yourself, because men don’t wear skirts and you may be a failure to Judge but you won’t be one to Zeff. It’s wrong, you try to tell them, to every single resident of this cursed island of Momoiro, and they look at you with pity , and you hate them for it. It’s wrong, you try to tell someone, anyone who would listen, because you don’t know what else it could be.

So you run.

You run and you feel the silk of the dress slide against the inside of your thighs, the bra tight around your chest, the straps of your panties dig into your hips. You wonder if they would leave marks against your skin, the kind that’s red and stark and doesn’t disappear for days, like they have become a part of you somehow.

You run because you know it’s wrong.

(You run because it doesn’t feel wrong.)

-

six.

Zoro is terrible. A brute, a dumbass, an oaf — you hate his guts, you hate his voice, and you hate the way he always knows the right words to set you off into a tirade. He is loud and brash and everything a man is supposed to be and you hate that, too — like a constant reminder of who you aren’t, of who you’re supposed to be.

He also looks at you like you’re an equal, like someone he can depend on when all else fails. He pushes you towards your dream and never expects any less than the best; when the two of you stand side-by-side, something in your blood sings, like you are strong enough to take on the world.

That part — you don’t hate that.

(Zoro is terrible, but —)

-

seven.

Your stomach drops when your eyes meet Zoro’s.

He’s not supposed to be here , you want to think, but in hindsight, why shouldn’t he, when the tavern they are in seems to be the only establishment in this quaint little town that offers alcohol on its menu. Of course that brute is here.

You should’ve known better than to risk it. 

You are not wearing the — the whole thing , thankfully; the red dress from Momoiro still safely tucked at the corner of your locker, never to see the light of day. But your hair is shoulder-length and your nails are in three different colors, and you are at least five-inches taller than him because of the heels you are wearing. Zoro’s a dumbass with only one good eye left, but he’s not blind.

Zoro blinks, does a once-over. You wait for the other shoe to drop, for the disgust to crawl up his expression like poison ivy, but it never comes; he simply tilts his head to the side, more confused than anything.

The first thing he asks is, “How did you get your hair so long?”

“It’s called a wig , dumbass,” you retort, the banter between you two coming as naturally as breathing, even when your heart is pounding against your ribcage. “It’s like — fake hair, basically. Not that you’d know anything about fashion.”

Zoro scrunches up his nose, and he’s wearing that expression he always wears whenever someone tells him to count higher than ten. You usually find it hilarious, just one more thing to tease him about, but right now it is comforting in its familiarity. The disgust that you have long dreaded never seems to appear, and you feel tension slowly bleed over your shoulders.

“Huh,” Zoro says after a moment. A blush blooms across his cheeks, and he sounds almost embarrassed when he says, “suits you.”

(You remember being sixteen, falling in love with the boy who called you beautiful.)

-

eight.

“Please change us back!” Nami calls out to Law, and you feel your blood runs cold. You know it’s selfish, that none of these is yours, the breasts and the curves and the long, soft fingers; but you can’t help begging still, please don’t please don’t please don’t please —

Law still turns you back.

You fall to your knees. Nami thought it was from the physical wounds she’d received before Law switched you back, and you let her think that way. Your hands will not stop shaking for the rest of the day, and you tell Chopper that it’s the cold.

(This is not your body, your brain traitorously whispers, persistent. It’s never been the right body for you —)

-

nine.

Zoro slips his hand under your shirt, and you groan at that, pleased — you’ve been making out for what seems like forever now, and the way his finger brushes against your nipple is a welcome development. His mouth starts to trail down your neck, and you tug on his haramaki, urging him on. This thing between you two — whatever this is — has been long-overdue, and you feel like a second without the two of you naked is just another second wasted.

You slip out of your pants without thinking, and your breath hitches when you realize you’re still wearing your panties.

Zoro seems to notice your discomfort, because his hands immediately still. He looks up at you, eye searching, and you find it sweet, the way he’d stop if you tell him to stop. You don’t want him to, of course, if the arousal pooling at the bottom of your stomach is any indication; but you like knowing that you have the choice. You can count on one hand the number of times you’re able to do that — making choices, that is.

You know that you don’t need to explain anything, when it comes to Zoro. You have that choice too. He has always been good at giving people space, and you know he will wait until you are ready to say anything. But you look at the man in front of you who has never been anything but honest, and the words claw out of your throat before you can think twice.

“I’m a woman.”

Your voice is small and confused. Your throat burns, like the words have been scraped raw from its walls.

Zoro doesn’t say anything at first, and you tear your eyes away from him, because you’ve never been scared of him but you don’t think you can stand it if he starts to look at you different. You think of your pathetic excuse of a family, their cold eyes and colder shoulders, and you don’t know if you can go through another heartbreak. You know the Strawhats are better than this — better than them — but you can’t help thinking what if, what if, what if — 

“Okay,” Zoro says. And, “Thanks for telling me.”

You exhale, then. You didn’t realize you were holding your breath.

He fucks you into the bed, long and sweet, softer than you’d ever expect him capable of. He holds your hand after, and the two of you lie on the bed, chests pressed against one another’s under the covers of a warm blanket. He breathes out when you breathe in.

(For the first time in a long while, the king of Germa doesn’t haunt you. You are not his son, and you have never been his.)

-

ten.

“You ready?”

Zoro is leaning against the door frame, waiting for you, but you can’t bring yourself to tear your eyes away from the mirror yet. You watch the way your kimono hugs your frame, thick and rigid; nobody could’ve seen any curves, even if you had one. That’s the point, you’ve been told — this is Wano’s idea of a woman’s beauty. Femininity through the concealment of body curves. It’s different than most concepts you’ve heard of female beauty, and you like that — that there isn’t one way to be a woman, that there is no mold to fit in for you to be one.

“Yes,” you say, and you let him lead you towards the door.

(You are a woman, and you have never been anything else.)

[dapandapod]

Hi, I have a Geraskier prompt for you. Jaskier jumps in front of a spell aimed at Geralt. Geralt yells at Jaskier. They have no clue what the spell did until they get to town and Jaskier loses his memory of Geralt (the spell erases the thing he loves most). As Jaskier has been gravely injured before, Geralt decides to let him go. Jaskier goes back to Oxenfurt but something keeps nagging at him. Geralt keeps an eye on him from afar until Jaskier gets in trouble and Geralt saves him

Hi my lovely anon! I love this and it might have turned into a bigger thing than I expected! Thank you so much for your prompt and I would love to hear from you again!

There will be a part two written soon! Because this is just the beginning!

It’s on Ao3! 

Edit: part two! Part three! Part four!

                                    ~~~~~~~***~~~~~~~

                                        Hollow - Part 1

There is a vibration in the air. A pulsing energy coming from the woman in front of them. Chaos gathering and redying to unleash itself upon them. She is anger and hurt and shuddering breaths and thunder and sadness. The hairs on Geralt's arms rise, her magic so palpable he can almost touch it. She is very strong, but untrained. She can bring the chaos to her, she can shape it and give it intent, and she can most likely kill this entire village. Geralt flexes his grip on the sword. He has to time this exactly right. He raises his other hand, ready to sign Aard if need be.

~

In the end he doesn’t time it right. The world screeches to a halt, everything is white, red, blurry, and then Jaskier is falling to his knees in front of Geralt. “No.” Geralt breathes. “No no no, Jaskier! I told you to stay back!” The woman in front of them laughs an empty laugh. “I am sorry, witcher. I meant it for them, for you, but maybe this is better.” Her smile is without malice, without life, without colour.She puts her face to the darkening sky, admiring the first eager starsp peeking out on the night sky. Her skin turns grey, and slowly she is ash in the wind.

“Let it hurt you like it hurt me.” Her shadow whispers and she is gone.

Geralt drops his sword and throws himself over Jaskiers still form. Panic crashes through his body, wave after wave hitting him. Jaskier, the fool, stepped in front of him. Protected him. Jaskier wasn’t supposed to be here. He was supposed to stay with the other villagers, he was supposed to be safe.

His mouth tastes like iron, bile, smoke, it is so dry he can barely talk nor pray to anything, anyone who might hear him. “Jaskier, I am so sorry, please please, Jaskier…” A month. It was a month since the last time Jaskier was in danger because of him. Became hurt because of him. Slowly he turns Jaskier over so Geralt can see his face. There is no visible damage, and it makes Geralt's heart plummet. Physical hurts he can deal with, treat, clean, bandage. Magical hurts however are infinitely more complicated. Jaskier makes a small groan, eyes fluttering, when Geralt propps him up in his arms. Behind them he can hear the village open their doors, looking out at what is happening. “Is she gone?” Someone calls out to them. Geralt can’t answer. Jaskier is so pale, sweat appearing by his hairline. “Healer!” Geralt finally shouts over his shoulder. “Bring me your healer!”

There are rushing steps and then someone sits down by his side. A woman with a long braid and an apron puts her hand to Jaskiers face, to his body. She takes his pulse, smells his breath, looking at his pupils. Poking, prodding, pulling at clothes hunting for wounds or bruises. The bard's pale skin is unhurt, except the still healing scar on the side of his stomach. The healer gives Geralt a sideyed look, stern, and keeps examining him. Geralt knows. He blames himself for that one too.

“He will live.” She announces after a surprisingly short time, sitting back. “There is nothing physically wrong with him. The rest we will know when he wakes up.” The healer gets up, pats Geralt on the shoulder and moves back to the village. Nobody else dared come to them, but he can sense their eyes on his back. No matter. Geralt must take Jaskier to the inn, to their room, to safety, away from prying eyes. Carefully, with as much gentleness as he can muster, he picks up his bard and carries him close to his chest. Every breath expanding Jaskiers chest against his own is a small blessing.

~

There is no sleep. No meditation. There is only watching over his friend, his companion, his one truth for all these years. He put Jaskier in one of the beds. The bard has yet to wake up, so he tucks the blanket around his limp body. Then Geralt waits. Head in his hands, ears straining to hear every heartbeat, the armor still on his body, Geralt sits by Jaskiers bedside on a very rickety footstool. At some point he has to stretch, and he sit down on his own bed instead.

He hates contracts like this. He knew something wasn’t right, knew it the moment he stepped into her hut. She mourned, her eyes rimmed with red. The villagers wanted her dead, had claimed her a beast when a man died. Geralt don’t kill people. When they talked to her, Jaskiers words a balm on her hurt, they learned how they mistreated her. Abused her. Everybody but the man who died. “He was the one thing I loved, and they took it from me.”

It became clear she was after vengeance. Geralt doesn’t kill people, but he can't let her harm them. He can’t let her become him. He would stand between them, protect them from each other.

And Jaskier took the hit for it. Caring, loving, forgiving Jaskier, who never knows when to do what he has been told.

~

Sometime during the night he must have slumbered. That, or he didn’t notice the time passing. The stars hide behind the clouds, the sun slowly crawling out and tainting the sky with harsh reds and yellows.

The first rays of the morning sun find its way through the window. Jaskier stirs and Geralt's heart almost stops. When he looks up he sees the bard stretch his arms above his head, blinking his eyes open.

“Oh.” Jaskier says. “uhm...Good morning. Where am I?” Geralt exhales, a breath he has been holding since the moment Jaskier crumpled to the ground. “At the inn. You got hurt last night because of me. Again.” Geralt says, bitterness heavy in his voice. Jaskiers face is carefully blank as he studies the witcher. “Oh.” Is all he says again. It feels… wrong. Something is off. By now Jaskier would have told Geralt three times over what an idiot he is and how he should stop worrying. But he says nothing.

The silence is heavy and Geralt is very much not sure on what to do. Finally, he gets to his feet. When he does, Jaskier pulls his blanket up a little higher. There is an odd smell in the room now, one he can’t exactly place. Geralt frowns, and finally walks over to the door. “I’ll go fetch the healer.” he says, feeling awkward. Has the time finally come for Jaskier to blame him? Jaskier just nods. When no other reactions, words come from his friend, Geralt walks out. Hopefully the healer will know what is wrong.

~

“He doesn’t know you.” The healer says when she exits the room. Geralt had per request waited outside when she looked over Jaskier. It stung, but he accepted it. But this… “What does that mean?” Geralt asks, frown deepening. He still hasn't gotten out of his armor. He stands there looming over her but feeling like the smallest person in the world. “It means he has no memory of you, doesn’t know who you are or why he is here.” She says, voice cold. “I… but… is he hurt?” He asks her, but the healer shakes her head. “No. The magic must have altered his memories, I'm not sure to what extent, but he is otherwise fine.” They stand in silence for a while. Geralt pondering what to do, how to help, she just studying him.

“Witcher, I am going to be frank with you.” She says finally. “I think you should let him go. He is not safe with you.” “That is not your decision to make.” “No, it’s not. But you know it’s true. People never survive around your kind for long.” She says it with such disdain, such cold eyes. “We will leave when he is ready.” He says, trying to control himself, his anger. He walks past her and into their room. How does she fucking dare.

He close the door behind him, seething. Jaskier stands with his back to the door, pants loose on his hips, putting his shirt back on. Geralt just stands there, watching him. Jaskier notices him and suddenly that smell is back. Oh.

Geralt didn’t understand what it was, because it was never a smell he ever associated with Jaskier. Fear. It breaks Geralt's heart a thousand times over. Jaskier truly does not remember him. “Sorry.” He mumbles. “How are you feeling?” Geralt doesn't know where to look, because this is his fault. All of it.

Jaskier looks at him, face blank but eyes wary. With slow movements he stuffs his shirt in his pants. “Im fine.” Geralt moves over to his bed, sits down on the covers. “You really don’t remember me?” Geralt asks, and he knows, he knows, but he can’t help but torture himself. Jaskier cocks his head. “I really don’t, I'm afraid. Do we know each other?” Jaskier gives him a careful smile.

There is a whirlwind in Geralt's head. The years they spent together. Summer nights in front of the fire, Jaskier gently playing his lute and Geralt caring for his swords. Quiet mornings before a hunt, Jaskier fussing over his armor. Roach shoving at Jaskier when she can smell the treats he always keeps for her in his pockets. Yennefer and Jaskier bickering over their wine, Jaskiers constant river of words, the way he always, always steps in front of Geralt when all Geralt wants is to keep him safe. How can he keep Jaskier safe? How can Jaskier be safe by his side?

He is silent for too long. Jaskiers smile falters, crumbles. Geralt did that too. He pulls in a breath, holds it in his lungs, but the heavy feeling won't go away. “Witcher?” He doesn’t even remember his fucking name. He exhales. “We have been traveling together for a while.” Geralt says, closing his eyes, the heavy feeling won’t leave his chest, there is a pounding happening in his temples, his fingers want to clench onto something. “I was taking you to Oxenfurt.” It is not a lie. He would never, will never, lie to his bard. His bard. They have been talking about going there sometime. Why not now? A small line appears between Jaskiers eyebrows, Geralt imagines he is looking for a memory, a confirmation. “Im sorry, it is very frustrating not to remember. What is your name? Have we been traveling for long?” “No.” Geralt says. Liar, liar, liar, liar. “I am Geralt of Rivia. If you are uncomfortable with me here… I can… I don’t have to…If you still want to go there, that is.” His words are failing him and Jaskier gives him a gentle smile. The smell of fear is slowly dispatching and Jaskiers normal scent returns. “Im Julian.” He says.

Let it hurt you like it hurt me.

~

They set out together later that day. They don’t talk about what happened the day before. They barely talk at all. It is only two weeks of travel to get to Oxenfurt, and Geralt is not sure if it is a blessing or a curse. He has two weeks to either get Jaskier back, or let him go. He feels so utterly selfish, keeping this choice from Jaskier, to not let him be the one to choose. But he is simply not brave enough.

The first night under the open sky is oddly enough very much like normal. Without a word they split the tasks of making a fire, putting out bedrolls and preparing food the same way they always do.

When Jaskier fetches their bedrolls, Roach buffs his arm, begging for a treat. Geralt watches them from where he is digging out a hole for their fire. Jaskier smiles at her, petting her head gently, talking to her in soft tones. She buffs him again and tries to get into his pockets. “Im sorry girl, look, I have nothi-....” Geralt hears him trail off when he puts his hand in his pocket, only to find a sugarcube. His confusion is evident, his smile gone, but he holds it out for her.

When they are sitting by the fire, passing a cheese and some bread between them, Geralt watches Jaskier. He doesn't know what to do, what to say. “Why can I remember Roach but not you?” Jaskier suddenly asks, eyes fixed on the flames. The light flickers and paints his features in red and orange and sharp shadows. Geralt cuts off a piece of cheese and puts the rest down on the cloth between them. “What did the healer tell you?” “That I was hit with magic that altered something in my mind. She wasn’t sure of what exactly, but she wasn’t very worried about it.” Of course she wasn’t. “I don’t remember what happened that night at all.” It would finally seem like the floodgates opened. Somehow it soothes Geralt to hear him, even if the words uttered makes it worse. Geralt is quiet, chewing on his cheese slowly. “I fought a woman with untamed chaos. She lost her love and wanted revenge. You stepped in front of me when she unleashed her magic.” Jaskier nods, and sinks into his thoughts again. They barely talk for the rest of the evening. Jaskier asks no questions and Geralt is too conflicted about it all to make smalltalk. They go to bed, and when Jaskiers breath evens out and the small familiar snores fill the air together with the crackles from the dying fire, Geralt allows himself to fall. The worry, the relief, the numbing panic, the fear of loss, but he already lost him didn’t he? At least he is not dead.

~

It is weird to make smalltalk with someone he has known for years. To listen to him talk about his parents, anecdotes from his studies. He even tells him about a bar fight that he started. He tells it as if Geralt wasn’t there, right next to him, hauling his ass out of there when it got too heated. What is worse is that Geralt learns new things about his friend, about his past. And Jaskier keeps referring to himself as Julian. Every now and then there is a whiff of fear from Jaskier. Geralt tries to keep the sadness from his face. The Jaskier without Geralt will have a safe life where he won’t ever need to feel fear.

Jaskier hasn't touched his lute since they left.

~

“I um… thank you witcher.” Jaskier says awkwardly. They are outside the gates of his university. “Do I pay you now or uhm…?” “No. It’s fine.” “Will you stay here for a while? Or out on the Path again?” “Roach needs to rest, so I’ll stay for the night.” “Roach?” “....My horse….” “Right. Right. Sorry.” Jaskier is frowning again. He does that a lot now. “You know, we could take a drink together? As a thank you?” This is goodbye. Geralt can see it. “If you want to.”

~

They sit across each other in the tavern. The lighting is dim and it smells like dust and stale ale. The table probably hasn't been wiped in the last ten years, and when Geralt lifts his tankard there is a sticky sound as the table doesn’t want to let go.

It has always been hard to find words. They are tricky, deceptive, easy to misimprent. Tonight is no exception. They stick to his throat, cling to the roof of his mouth, refusing to get out. Geralt has never felt dread like this.

“Why do you look so sad, master witcher?” Jaskier asks, cocking his head. A drunk, angry man comes up to their table before Geralt can compose an answer. His cheeks are blotchy red, eyes watery and he reeks of alcohol and unwashed body. “The white fucking wolf, the freak of fucking nature.” He growls. “Butcher of fucking Blaviken.” Jaskiers eyes widen a fraction, something like recognition flickers across his face. That probably rang some kind of bell. It was so long ago. Why should it matter to anybody but him anymore? Geralt sighs, deciding that ignoring the man is the best option. “Heey! I'm talking to you, asshole!” the man slurs. “Leave off.” Jaskier says, a hint of anger coloring his voice. “Ain’t fucking talking to you, bard.” The drunkard says, waving around making his drink slosh down over his arm and onto their table. Jaskier looks confused for a moment, like there is something just out of his minds reach. “You mutant bastard, you are as much a monster as what you fucking slay” the drunkard slurs on. It has been a long time since last he was talked to like this. Much thanks to Jaskiers impressive work.

A woman with hair the colour of straw comes up to the drunkard, grabbing his elbow. “Are you nuts?” She hiss at him. “Don’t insult a witcher! Do you want to die?!” and she drags him away. Jaskier looks after them as they walk away. “Are you always treated like this?” he frowns. Geralt is really starting to hate that look on him. “Not as much anymore.” They sit in silence. “Every time I look at you, witcher, I have this nagging feeling. Like there is something I'm missing.” Every fiber of Geralt being wants to tell him. Wants to break that fucking spell, get his friend back. But he can’t. The healer is right. Jaskier has a big scar and a lost memory as proof. He will not survive a witchers company much longer. “Either way, master witcher, thank you for bringing me safely back here. I hope our roads will cross again.”

~

Geralt walks hurriedly away among the trees. It takes everything he has not to just take off running. His muscles are stiff from holding back, there is a churning inside his ribs, his eyes are burning. When he finally is far enough not to see or hear or smell Oxenfurt anymore, he sinks to his knees, lets go. He can fetch Roach in the morning.

He is anger and hurt and shuddering breaths and thunder and sadness.

He lets it all out in the darkness where no one can see.

[persephonesfill]

oh! darling

a/n: I wrote this because I was sad over stony, and if I have to be sad, so do you guys. Be aware, Steve does have panic attacks throughout this fic, so if that's something that might trigger you, please take care of yourselves. I don't want any of you to seriously hurt yourselves. That being said, I cried four times while writing this. Enjoy! Also, friendly reminder that I don't own Marvel or anything related to it. This is all just for shits and giggles.

summary: Steve Rogers was no stranger to pain. From birth, he had dealt with a whole slew of illnesses ranging from asthma to scarlet fever. Chronic colds that left him bedridden and trembling. Heart palpitations that stole the breath from his lungs...But the pain of seeing Tony slumped against a stray bit of wreckage that had once been their compound—their home—outclassed every wound Steve had ever received. No stab wound, no gunshot, no repulsor blast had brought him closer to death than this moment.

ship(s): steve rogers/tony stark

rating: teen and up

warning(s): canonical character death, grief, unhealthy coping mechanisms, panic attacks

—————

Steve Rogers was no stranger to pain. From birth, he had dealt with a whole slew of illnesses ranging from asthma to scarlet fever. Chronic colds that left him bedridden and trembling. Heart palpitations that stole the breath from his lungs. 

One particular moment was forever ingrained in his perfect memory. The Great Depression had just kicked off. Steve had been 12 when his mother took on extra shifts at Mount Sinai, treating tuberculosis patients just to make ends meet. She had never meant to bring it home with her. 

The same disease that had taken her life six years later had first tried to take her son. 

He remembered feeling like he was in Hell as the fever and chills swept over him in excruciating waves. Each breath felt as if someone had wrapped his lungs in barbed wire. When his mother had seen the blood he had coughed into his handkerchief, her face had paled. 

One night as the fever burned its way through his body, taking what little strength he had with it, Steve finally heard her. During the few hours he was awake, Steve had only been allowed to see his mother; she had already been exposed to TB. Each hour he spent with her, not once did she fall apart. She would smooth back his sweat-soaked hair and press cold compresses to his forehead to break the fever as much as she could. She had stood tall, a pillar of strength, just for him. 

But at night, Sarah Rogers let her suffering show. 

“Not my son,” Steve had heard her say, and he could see her then, even though he barely had the strength to open his eyes.  Her frail shoulders wracked with sobs, her arms wrapped around herself as if it would keep her from crumbling. “Please, God, don’t take my son.” 

The inferno in his lungs paled in comparison to the pain that had erupted in his heart that night. 

His mother didn’t deserve to sound like that. She didn’t deserve to sound so broken. As the fever ravaged his body, Steve vowed that he would fight. He would fight this disease and anything else that tried to knock him down, to make sure his mother never sounded like that for the rest of her life.  

The serum had been his ticket to freedom. His mother may have been long gone by that point, but part of Steve hoped that when she looked down on him, she could rest in peace knowing that her son wouldn’t be on death’s door anytime soon. Steve remembered the first breath he had taken after the serum went into effect. He had reveled in the rush of air that swelled in his lungs. Gone was the tightness in his chest, the lightness in his head. He had been reborn, devoid of every scar, bruise, and ailment that had troubled him for 25 years. Not even the war and HYDRA and all of their enhanced weapons could leave a mark on him, although they did hurt like a bitch; wounds that would have killed any other man, Steve recovered from within a day. 

But the pain of seeing Tony slumped against a stray bit of wreckage that had once been their compound—their home—outclassed every wound Steve had ever received. No stab wound, no gunshot,  no repulsor blast had brought him closer to death than this moment. 

For the first time in over a hundred years, he couldn’t breathe. A long-dormant part of his brain thought “asthma attack,” but that couldn’t be possible. Why would the serum fail him now? After serving him dutifully all these years? So why couldn’t he breathe? Why, with every intake of breath, could he only taste ashes and blood and smoke? 

Tony’s dead eyes, black and unseeing, bored into him, and something inside of Steve’s chest snapped. Bile rose up, searing his throat. This was wrong. Everything was wrong. Tony wasn’t dead, he couldn’t be dead. Men like Tony couldn’t just die. 

“Not him,” he thought. His heart stuttered in his chest. The cut on his arm twinged as he lowered the remains of his shield. “Please, God, not him, too.”

The light in the arc reactor flickered once, twice, before fluttering out completely as if to mock him. 

“Mr. Stark?” a boy who could only be Spider-Man, given his spider-themed suit said, his voice wavering. 

“I lost the kid.” The memory slammed into him with all the force of a freight train. A half-dead Tony with his skin pale and stretched taut over his bones. They had lost that first battle and with it, Tony’s child in all but blood; it had nearly killed Tony.

The kid’s—and that’s what he was, God, how could they bring a kid into this—shoulders started to tremble. 

“Mr. Stark, please.”

It was the “please” that twisted the knife into Steve’s heart. The “please” that brought fresh tears to his eyes. After Natasha’s death, Steve thought he had cried them all away, but apparently, his body had made more. There was always more. 

Did the kid even know what he was begging for? But how could Steve judge him when he had done the same? 

Theirs was the pleading of children, scared and confused and desperate for the hurt to stop.

Pepper kneeled next to Tony, her head bowed in grief over the love of her life’s chest, and Steve remembered that this wasn’t his wound to bear. He willed himself to stop hurting, to stop feeling altogether, but he couldn’t. 

“He’s not yours,” his brain supplied as if that would help him. “He was never yours.” 

Steve’s shoulders sagged. The pain didn’t go away.

                                                       *************

Steve stood tall and rigid like a column at the funeral. Like a soldier. It had been two weeks since that final battle that had taken everything from him. He had tried to make his peace with it. He had tried to go on with his life. But that night before the funeral, he had broken, leaving his apartment a wreck. In public, Steve had always been silent in his grief. Reclusive. He hated feeling weak around others and only let go when he was by himself, raging at the cruelty and the injustice of the world with a fury that scared even him. 

He had screamed until his voice was hoarse, thrown furniture, and even tried getting drunk despite knowing it was in vain. He remembered begging at some point, just like the kid had, with bitterness in his blood and hard liquor on his breath. 

“Why did it have to be him?” he had said. No one had answered. 

By morning, Steve had been entirely devoid of all emotion, aside from shame at the state of his apartment. At least that’s what he wanted to project. Because the alternative...the alternative would have caused him more harm in the end.

So he stood there and paid his respects in a way that had suited his role in Tony’s life; an acquaintance. A stranger. 

The only one who had noticed something was amiss was Bucky, who had stared pointedly at Steve’s hands, which he had buried in his pockets. They had scabbed over in time for the funeral, but just barely. Steve had said nothing. What was there to say?

When the boat carrying Tony’s heart floated off into the distance, hugs and condolences were exchanged, and slowly, almost reluctantly, their group of mourners began to peel off one by one. Soon it was just Pepper and Steve left standing in the yard. Happy and Rhodey had left with Morgan to feed her. “Hamburgers,” Happy had said. 

Steve wasn’t sure why he had stayed. He had no business intruding on their home. But he couldn’t bear the thought of going back to that little Brooklyn apartment that felt more like a tomb than home these days. Part of him feared that if he went back, it would all start to feel real; Tony was dead, and there was no bringing him back.

Pepper pulled Steve aside, taking his head in hers, sitting on the wood and rope swing affixed to her front porch. A stray breeze carried the scent of sweet-smelling violets their way.

She looked beautiful, devastatingly so, and Steve was reminded of everything that Tony had sacrificed. She leveled him with a smile, although this close, he could see that her eyes were puffy. 

His suit was too tight around his neck. Steve was hot, too hot, and the sudden urge to tug it off was overwhelming. Hadn’t there just been a breeze? Why was he hot? The damper on his emotions loosened—there was the familiar pinprick of tears welling in his eyes, the tightness in his throat—before he got a grip. 

He shouldn’t have stayed. He had no right. He had no right to Tony. He had thrown that away the day he had decided to drive his shield into Tony’s chest.

“I’m glad you came, Steve,” Pepper said. 

At first, Steve figured she was lying, just for the sake of being polite, but no, this was Pepper Potts—“Stark,” his mind hissed—if she had an issue with him, she would let him know. 

“I’m glad I was invited,” Steve said, his voice coming out steady, much to his relief. “Thank you, Pepper.” 

Pepper’s tilted her head. Her hair shifted with the movement, flashing like copper in the evening sun. “There’s no need to thank me, Steve. He would’ve wanted you here.” 

The disbelief must have shown on his face. 

“Oh,” Pepper started. “Oh, Steve.”

Why was she comforting him? When he was the one who took her husband from her? When he was the one who killed Tony Stark? The tightness in his chest was back. He wasn’t sure if it had ever truly left him. 

He tried desperately to clear his throat, to wrestle some kind of control over his emotions before they broke through his carefully constructed walls, but goddamn it, he couldn’t breathe—

“Steve, you’re okay,” Pepper said, her hands gripping his shoulders. The contact grounded him, brought him back to earth for a moment; Steve sucked in a gust of air that rattled in his chest.

“That’s it,” she said. “You’re okay. You’re home.”

No, he wasn’t. This cabin wasn’t his home, and neither was that lonely apartment in Brooklyn. Home was...home was…

“You are home,” Pepper said firmly. “You’re with family. That’s your home.” 

“I’m not—we’re not—“

“Later,” he had promised himself earlier as he had gotten ready for the day ahead of him. “You can fall apart again later.” He didn’t want anyone to see him like this, let alone Pepper.

“We’re your family. Tony was your family.” One of her hands left his shoulders to smooth his hair back, just like his mom had done when he was a child. Steve found himself leaning into her touch, letting her words soak into his skin like ink. 

“I killed him,” he said, his voice cracking. Steve was cracking. He could feel the fissures in his heart, spider-webbing their way through his chest, his arms, his legs. One more blow and he’d shatter completely. “I took him from you, and I killed him.” 

He was so selfish. Pepper was the one who’d have to go on without her husband, her soulmate. She’d have to look after Morgan all by herself, and once again, he had made it about him. 

“You didn’t take him from me,” she said. Her voice had taken on a brittle edge. “And you didn’t kill him. I let him go.”

She let him go. She made it sound like it was the most natural thing in the world. How good of a person did you have to be to release lightning after you caught it in a bottle?

“You should hate me,” Steve said. 

Pepper shook her head. “I don’t. Tony didn’t. I can’t hate what he loved. And he did love you, Steve.”

His mouth opened, but no words came out. 

Pepper pushed on. “He loved you. Maybe it wasn’t like he loved me, or Rhodey, or Morgan. But I do know he loved you.” 

There was no way. Tony was the type who had seen what he wanted and went for it no matter what anyone else said. He would have said something... wouldn’t he? But this was Tony Stark, Steve remembered. The same man who had kept the fact that he was slowly dying a secret for nearly a year. If he did love Steve, that secret had gone to the grave with him.

There had been a time before the Accords, before Ultron, when Steve had thought...he thought there might have been something building between them. Slaps on the back that had lingered too long. Their heads bent too close together for two colleagues, pouring over a file. And those late nights…those late nights when Steve couldn’t stay warm no matter how many blankets he piled onto his bed. When Tony couldn’t close his eyes without seeing exploding stars behind them. On those nights, they had found each other. And they had talked. About anything. Everything. Just because they could. Anything to make the nightmares stop.

And then Ultron had happened. The Accords. Siberia. And here they were eight years later. One of them dead, and the other halfway there. 

“I,” Steve began, but he didn’t even know what he was going to say. “He,” he tried again. “He was mine,” he finally decided. It was the worst possible thing to say to a grieving widow, but Pepper didn’t seem to mind. She had an eerie way of understanding him. “He was mine. He was my—he was my person.” That didn’t sound any better.

“I know,” she said. Steve’s resolve turned to water. His arms left his sides and engulfed Pepper in his embrace. “He was mine,” his voice broke on the last word, and so did the tenuous control he had over his emotions. He had always been prone to silent tears followed by hiccups and raging headaches that left him bedridden. The serum had taken care of the hiccups and the headaches. All that was left for him was to cry. So he did. He held onto Pepper, buried his face into her soft, long hair, and let himself die. A wet patch grew on his shoulder; Pepper was crying too. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. He knew it was useless. It did nothing to ease the godawful ache in his chest. The serum refused to cure that. Not even time would heal it. For as long as he breathed, he would carry this with him. Maybe eventually he’d be able to grin and bear it. Smile through the pain. 

Steve Rogers was no stranger to pain.

[eddieeatsass]

Luck Has Nothing to Do With It

This was written as a gift for the winner of my 2K followers giveaway on tumblr! @s-onora asked for some fluffy middle-aged reddie smut with aftercare, I hope I delivered. This was incredibly fun to write and very different from most of the stuff I've put out thus far. I didn't realize how much tooth-rotting fluff could heal my soul. :') Summary: “Richie had won life’s lottery. He’s not sure how it happened, and he certainly had his fair share of bullshit before getting where he is now, but if Richie were asked in this very moment how he felt about his life, he would be confident in saying it was pretty much perfect.” Pairing: Reddie Rating: E Warnings: Smut, explicit language

Read on AO3

Richie had won life’s lottery. He’s not sure how it happened, and he certainly had his fair share of bullshit before getting where he is now, but if Richie were asked in this very moment how he felt about his life, he would be confident in saying it was pretty much perfect.

He’s managed to lock down a fairly satisfying career doing standup, though the world of entertainment is always a bit unsteady, he’s made enough friends in the industry that he’s found himself always having something lined up.

He owns a small house in a surprisingly suburban neighborhood. Although he’s located in the big city, he still managed to find the one area that was reminiscent of the small town he’d grown up in.

And finally, the thing that made life even worth living, is that he married his best friend, Eddie Kaspbrak.

Richie knew it was cliche; closeted gay kid has crush on best friend. But the difference between him and a cheesy romcom plot line is that it actually worked out for him. For them. Because unbeknownst to him at the time, Eddie was living the exact same platitude.

It’s not as if things fell into place right away. Richie and Eddie both had their own journeys to fulfill, and unfortunately those journeys pushed them apart for a while. Richie had accepted his sexuality long before Eddie, and it scared him off for a few years. In that time, Richie reeled as he watched Eddie get married to a woman, one as vile as his mother at that, and live a seemingly perfect life.

It took almost a decade for them to screw their heads on the right way and stop denying their life long languish. Of course they stayed in contact because of their friends, consistent in group chats, wishing each other a happy birthday on Facebook once a year, but that was about it… Until Ben and Beverly decided to get married.

That night, Eddie had admitted to Richie that weddings made bile rise up in his throat, reminded him of his own terrible ceremony and everything that had come after it. That night, they had their very first kiss. Their very first confession. It marked the beginning of everything coming together.

Now, merely five years later, Richie got to come home to Eddie every single day. He got to kiss those rounds cheeks, hear that melodic laugh, and listen to that neurotic voice whenever he wanted to, and he’s never been happier.

Today, like most days, wasn’t particularly remarkable, but Richie still strode home with a small hop to his step in anticipation of seeing Eddie. He stopped at a small flower stand on the way, picking up a bouquet of yellow roses that he knew Eddie would turn his nose up at, pivoting around quickly to hide the blush that painted his cheeks. Eddie hated gestures like that, but in the kind of way where he actually loved them.

By the time Richie got to their front door he was practically vibrating with excitement. He was a hopeless romantic who was living in his dream world; who could blame him?

As soon as Richie entered his house his senses searched for any signs of Eddie. He couldn’t see him, or hear him, but he could smell something coming from the kitchen that gave him good enough of a clue to check there first.

Toeing off his shoes, he placed them gently on the rack inside the coat closet (one of Eddie’s house rules was that Richie had to tone down his messiness to a slightly less chaotic level.) Richie rocketed down the hallway and used his now sock clad feet to slide across the linoleum floor of the kitchen, only regretting it slightly when he slid too far and his hip bone collided with the counter.

His impact was what alerted Eddie to Richie’s presence, the smaller man reacting with a jump and a small scolding of Richie’s name.

“Sorry Eds, didn’t mean to startle you.” Richie couldn’t say it with a straight face, his smile no doubt making his apology seem insincere, but he knew Eddie didn’t mind.

Richie strode forward, meeting Eddie in the middle of the kitchen and presenting the bouquet of flowers to him. As expected, Eddie scoffed and immediately moved to turn away, but Richie caught his chin and pulled him into a kiss instead. He felt Eddie melt beneath him, probably melted a bit himself if he was honest, and when he pulled away that familiar blush was there to validate him; roses were a good idea.

He placed the bouquet on the counter, making a mental note to put them in a vase as soon as he was done soaking up his boyfriend’s attention.

“Wacha making? Smells good.” Richie noted, coming up behind Eddie and wrapping his arms around his waist.

“It was supposed to be a lasagna, but it’s looking more like charred volcanic rock.”

“Mmm, I’ve always wanted to expand my taste buds.”

“Well this won’t do anything but destroy your taste buds.” Eddie admonished.

The timer rang out, signaling the end of the lasagna’s cook time. Richie peered over at their (admittedly, probably too old) oven, and back at Eddie with a cocked eyebrow. “I guess it’s time to find out.” Richie smirked.

Eddie unstuck himself from Richie and turned everything off. He grabbed the oven mitts Mike had bought them for Christmas, cute little pieces designed to look like turtles, and pulled his dish out of the oven.

He set it on the stovetop with a clunk, and Richie gathered beside him to gaze down at the very sad looking pasta dish.

Somehow it was burnt and soupey at the same time, but Eddie had put so much effort into it, so Richie still pulled a small piece of noodle off the top and popped it in his mouth.

It was hard enough to imitate uncooked pasta, and it had an ash-like taste that reminded Richie of the times Bev and him used to sneak behind their school and share a cigarette she’d smuggled from her aunt’s purse, but as he continued to chew it seemed to dissolve into goo.

But still, he smiled, cheery as ever as he gazed down at a hopeful Eddie.

“You’re gonna die from food poisoning.” Eddie said worriedly.

“In that case, can we make tonight memorable?” Richie joked, pressing himself into the slot against Eddie’s back that allowed him to rest his head on that tiny shoulder. With no response from Eddie, he nosed at his cheek and added “It wasn’t that bad”.

“Shut up.” Eddie grumbled.

“Seriously! I mean it’s no chinese food but-”

“We can’t order chinese food every night Richie.”

“How do you know? Has a man ever tested that theory?”

Eddie crossed his arms over his chest stubbornly, pouting in the way he always did when trying to seem serious.

“Fine, I’ll find something else to eat then.” Richie rocked them back and forth slowly, dipping down and trailing light kisses along Eddie’s neck. “Something sexier.” Richie whispered into Eddie’s ear.

Eddie snorted, turning himself around in Richie’s arms and draping his own over Richie’s shoulders.

“My boyfriend thinks I’m sexier than lasagna, I’m flattered.”

Richie grabbed Eddie’s ass playfully, pulling him flush against his chest.

“Just wait until you hear my dirty talk.” Richie teased. They both fell into lighthearted giggles, Eddie letting himself relax into Richie’s hold. Richie moved his hands up to the small of Eddie’s back, rubbing gentle circles into the exposed skin where Eddie’s shirt had rode up.

“Well, let’s hear it then.” Eddie whispered lowly, peering up at Richie with mischief.

It didn’t take long for them to find themselves back in bed, tangled up in each other’s limbs. Richie had made good on his promise and was indulging himself in Eddie’s body, writhing into the bed for the friction he so desperately craved.

Richie loved a lot of things about Eddie; he loved the way Eddie's eyes would crinkle at the sides when he laughed, loved the small dimples in Eddie's lower back that he could trace with his fingers, loved the subtle bow in Eddie's legs that even he didn't notice, but Richie had been fixated on since they were children. So it was hard for Richie to say exactly what his favorite part of Eddie was, but it was no secret that Eddie's ass was a strong contender.

Eddie, unbeknownst to himself, was built like a god. His hips flared out into large globes that sloped down like scoops of ice cream beckoning Richie to take a bite. It drove Richie crazy, and it would probably be the cause of his (future) insanity if he wasn't able to indulge in his obsession. Luckily, Eddie liked getting his ass played with just as much as Richie liked playing with it.

Richie parted Eddie's cheeks gently, always handling him with care even in their rougher times. He got lost momentarily, staring at the pink pucker that had once been so forbidden, only allowed to be fantasized in Richie's shameful dreams. Eddie, however, was having none of Richie's preamble, and made sure Richie knew as much by pushing his hips back and whining impatiently.

Richie couldn't help but chuckle before obliging, leaning in to lick a hot stripe across Eddie's hole.

He earned an appraising moan in return. Grinning to himself, he went in for more. Eddie may have been the one receiving pleasure, but Richie got off on it just as much, if not more. He could probably cum just like this, completely untouched, just devouring Eddie's little body bit by bit. But he was only getting started.

He brought his index finger up to join his mouth, teasing Eddie's entrance with slight pressure. He alternated between his tongue and his finger, assaulting the area in waves. He'd prod at Eddie's hole with his finger while his tongue trailed up his perineum, then switch to fucking Eddie with his tongue while his hand idly worked his cock. It was a process that eventually left Eddie exactly how he wanted him: completely pliant and pleading.

Richie reached into their nightstand, easily grabbing their bottle of lubricant and bringing it to his side. He pumped it into his hand a couple times, coating his fingers generously before moving back down to his target, but a small hand stopped him.

“Rich…” Eddie started, voice wavering self consciously. Richie already knew what Eddie was gearing up to say. They’d been here many times before, but Eddie still got nervous when asking. Richie thought it was endearing that Eddie was still so shy about it.

“You wanna top?” Richie filled in the silence, making it a little easier for Eddie to get into it.

Eddie nodded, looking up at Richie through thick lashes and adding quickly “Only if you want to. I don’t mind bottoming if you’re not in the mood tonight”.

“And pass up a chance to get fucked by my literal wet dream of a man?” Richie used his lubed up hand to stroke Eddie’s cock, watching the sinful way Eddie’s eyes rolled back in his head at the extra stimulation.

Richie crowded into Eddie’s space, stilling his hand on the head of the flushed dick in his hold and only using his thumb to dip into the slit and rub through the pre-cum gathered there.

Richie was already practically in Eddie’s lap, so he took advantage of the position and splayed his legs out over Eddie’s, leaning back into the mattress with his forearm propping him up as the other snaked between his legs. He could feel the way Eddie’s thighs twitched under his own where their legs overlapped, but he stayed still, enthralled by the show Richie was about to put on.

He circled his own hole the way he did Eddie’s, only he didn’t tease himself or draw the process out like he would on his boyfriend. No, instead, he wasted no time in pushing one finger into himself straight up to the knuckle.

He heard Eddie’s shaky exhale and was empowered to continue. Richie wasn’t a stranger to this feeling; even when he topped Eddie usually had a finger in him, and Richie often played with himself while masturbating. However, he didn’t normally move this fast... but then again he didn’t normally have the promise of his boyfriend’s dick in his ass so today wasn’t a normal day.

Richie rocked down on his finger, relishing in the mild stretch. He continued to hump into his hand until he felt ready to add another finger, and that’s where he began to lose control.

The second finger felt mind-numbing, stirring up Richie’s consciousness until it was putty, his brain losing control only second to the feeling of pleasure he was chasing. He scissored his fingers, trying to open himself up as quickly as possible while still respecting his body’s limits.

“I love seeing you like this…” Eddie whispered, quiet enough that Richie wondered if he even meant to say it aloud.

“Yeah?” Richie goaded, spreading his legs a little bit further. “Like seeing me open myself up for you, baby?”

Eddie nodded, swallowing audibly in a way that made his adam's apple bob. Richie suddenly wanted to leave marks all over it.

“Come here.” Richie reached for Eddie's neck, pulling him down on top of him and going straight for that tantalizing neck. Richie’s legs ended up pushed up against his chest, a position that was sure to leave him with back issues in the morning, but for the moment it felt deliciously provocative.

As Richie marked Eddie up, he felt another hand join his own, teasing around his rim and making it very hard for him to concentrate on the hickies he was leaving. Before the fog could clear from his mind, Eddie was swatting Richie’s hand away, replacing it with three fingers of his own.

Richie cried out into Eddie’s collarbone, petering off into a wanton moan as the feeling of being split open traveled up his cock and down his legs. Eddie’s fingers were so much better than his own, working him open with precision that came from years of doing it to himself.

And then Eddie found his prostate, and Richie was pretty sure it was a self destruct button that caused the rest of his functioning brain to melt into sludge and pour out his ears.

He was gone, absolutely and completely subservient to Eddie’s touch. He could hear himself babbling, but wasn’t aware of what was coming out of his mouth. If he had to guess, it was probably garbled praise. Richie never could hold himself back from telling Eddie how good he made Richie feel.

“Please, Richie-” Eddie was breathing hard, his fingers moving double time inside Richie’s quickly stiffening body.

“Get your fucking cock in my ass now.” Richie ground out between clenched teeth.

Eddie replaced his fingers with his slicked up cock, moving the hand that had wound Richie up so tight to his hypersensitive dick. The touch made Richie hiss, but his jaw quickly fell open as Eddie pushed in, holding Richie tight at the base to keep him from cumming prematurely.

They both shuttered, a moment of pure bliss enveloping them. Eddie finally looked up to meet Richie’s eyes, want and hunger meeting love and devotion. Richie pulled him down into a searing kiss, moaning into Eddie’s mouth when he started moving his hips.

“You feel so good.” Eddie slurred against Richie’s lips. “So warm and tight, fuck Richie.”

Eddie was the perfect size to fill Richie up and hit all the right places. Each thrust let his cock rub up at a different angle, stimulating every nerve from Richie’s rim all the way up to his prostate. The sensation drove him wild, but what would be the death of him was the way Eddie looked hunched over him.

He could still see features of that young boy he fell in love with; the button of his nose, those big doe eyes, thin pink lips, and freckles that had no business being as cute as they were. But while Eddie had retained his cuteness factor, he’d also grown to be incredibly sexy. His chin had broadened, jaw getting stronger and cheekbones more defined. The loss of his baby fat had revealed new things for Richie to obsess over, and when he was leaning over Richie like this, sweat collected on his furrowed brow and tongue caught between his lips, Richie had a hard time keeping his obsessions at bay.

“How are you so fucking beautiful?” Richie murmured, not expecting a response.

Eddie picked up his pace, spurred on by Richie’s words. Richie had promised Eddie dirty talk, and he planned to deliver, no matter how difficult it was to form words while Eddie worked him towards orgasm.

“I love watching your cock slide into me, ahhhh, love the way you stretch me out.”

“God, Rich-” Eddie’s breath was speeding up, his pants becoming quicker with every thrust.

“Look at how well you work me over.”

Eddie’s eyes were screwed shut, his nostrils flared as he tried to slow himself down, but Richie didn’t want that. Richie wanted to watch Eddie come undone inside him.

“Look.” Richie repeated more insistently, squeezing Eddie’s thigh.

Eddie’s eyes popped open and immediately honed in on the spot where they were connected. He shuttered reflexively, a drawn out moan escaping him.

“Rich- I’m gonna cum, please-”

Richie snaked his hand down to his cock and began jerking it with abandon, giving Eddie the nod to let go.

Barely a few thrusts later and Eddie was emptying into Richie. He continued to pound into him even when his body went taut, moving through the stiffness to bring Richie to his own release.

The stimulation was overwhelming, Richie could feel the press of Eddie’s cock hammering into his prostate, the slide of his hand over his own cock, but what finally sent him over the edge was the feeling of Eddie’s cum seeping out of his hole as Eddie continued ramming into him.

Richie came with a quiet scream, his back arching as he tried to both get away from the feeling and get impossibly closer at the same time. He was wracked with emotion, tears flowing freely and a sob escaping him as he came down hard from the rush of endorphins.

Eddie pulled out of Richie, quickly crawling into his arms and shushing him with a soothing voice.

It wasn’t uncommon for Richie to cry after sex, so Eddie continued doing what he always did; staying close and making sure Richie knew he was there. Light touches, gentle whispers, anything to remind Richie that it was okay to feel overwhelmed.

It took a couple minutes for Richie to calm down, but his sobs slowly turned into sniffles and his arms eventually wrapped around Eddie.

“Have I told you I love you yet today?” Richie asked quietly, a dopey smile on his face.

“Three times this morning, twice at lunch, and once during downtime after your show.” Eddie counted off teasingly.

“Keeping track?”

Eddie rolled his eyes, burying his face back into Richie’s chest.

“I just like hearing it.” Eddie defended, voice half muffled.

“I like saying it.” Richie responded assuredly, placing a kiss atop the pillowy curls below him.

“I love you too.” Eddie murmured, the words coming out in a sigh of contentment.

“I’m so lucky to have you.” Richie whispered, his chest heavy with happiness.

“Luck has nothing to do with it; we were always going to end up together.”

[doodlecharme]

For the ones that’ll hate your guts

Day 2 - Maglor > Weapons, Wife, Childhood, Music & Songs of Power, Elrond & Elros, Kingship, Maglor’s Gap, Redemption

Another entry for @feanorianweek ! I actually somewhat started basing this on the song Sing by My Chemical Romance (terribly cliché, I know) but I felt like it fit? especially towards the end.

Enjoy!

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Eyes, hundreds of eyes watching him... he could block them out, couldn’t he? Pretend he was only in his room, not here in front of the hundreds of guests his father had invite for his first recital. He was only composing, playing bits and pieces to nobody at all, to test their sound, see if they worked. Oh, he knew Nelyo was just down the hall, listening to what he could. But his brother gave him space, never disrupted.

Yes, this was just a test. He would play the piece through to see how it sounded altogether. If there were adjustments to be made, he could do that later.

A quiet sniffle pulled him from his thoughts and brought his attention to the sheet music on his stand, illuminated by the gentle glow of Laurelin’s light streaming through his window. He smiled. Nelyo was listening.

His fingers strummed the first notes of the song on his harp.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

He choked- whether from the smoke or his father’s words, he could not say. A burning pain spread through his chest, and his eyes stung, and tears streamed down his cheeks, and still he could not tell if the ashes of the burning ships or the knowledge that his brother’s ashes were among them were the cause.

He could not pretend. Not this time. He could not pretend like he could when the Trees lost their light, when their grandfather fell, when they killed at Alqualondë. Telvo still lived, and he still screamed. And he could not pretend or block it out.

Rain started to fall and the fires slowly went out as the first notes of his first lament rang clear through the air.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Again.

Maedhros would not sleep.

Fingon had tried, and the healers had tried, and even Fingolfin had tried to get him to sleep with no success. They had requested he try as a last resort, apparently having heard of the power he had learned he held. And it wasn’t that Maedhros wasn’t tired; they knew he was exhausted, could see it clearly in the deep bags that sat under his eyes. No, even here, in relative safety and surrounded by family and warriors to guard, the horrors he had lived while in Angband were too much. Maedhros would not allow himself to rest

It would be much like at Losgar, he thought, and fought back the bitter taste of bile that came with it. Only I am soothing the flame of my brother’s fëa with metaphorical rain.

He let that image fill his mind, allowed his intent to leak into the soft song he sang.

Maedhros’ hand clutched Fingon’ s tightly.

For the first time in years, Maglor allowed himself to pretend, remembering little brothers that were afraid of the dark and would come to him for a comforting lullaby. This was just another one of those times, and just another monster under their bed to banish from their mind. His song changed to an achingly familiar lullaby.

Maedhros’ eyes slipped closed.

Breathe in.

Breathe out. 

Fire, fire, he could not escape it! It followed him everywhere he went, from his mother’s and brother’s hair, to Losgar, to his father burning in his own light. Ash coated his throat as he stumbled around looking for a way out of the flames.

Help! Please, anyone!

“TELVO!”

No... that couldn’t be him, his brother had burned on the ships centuries ago... hadn’t he?

There was so much fire, all around him, flames reaching for the sky...

Is this how it had felt for his little brother?

“HELP!”

He could barely breathe.

“PLEASE!”

He couldn’t leave them, whoever it was. He had to get everyone out, make sure they were safe. But this was not Losgar, and there was no sea nearby to turn to rain, so he had no way to extinguish the flames around him.

Unless...

He knew fire. It had followed him and his brothers all his life, had forced him to learn its destructive song through its own will, though he had never used it for his own gain.

He listened now, feeling its rhythm and melody... and struck up a tune of his own.

Even though his voice cracked, even though he ended up with a hacking cough only a few seconds in, the effect was immediate. The discord from his song mixing with that of the fire caused some of the surrounding flames to lessen, but the fire’s song was still stronger. 

“HELP! ANYBODY!”

Maglor grit his teeth and continued, putting all his focus into keeping the discord and not allowing himself to slip into the beating rhythm of the flames.

He didn’t stop when he found the boy, lost in the flames, or when they reached the edge of the battlefield. Even when his brother found them, he kept humming, protecting them.

He only stopped when he was far enough away that the fire’s song was a distant whisper, and his world faded to black.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Sharp as the swords and knives he carried, Maglor had honed his skill in song, turning it into another weapon to wield. It cut down any in his way as efficiently as any blade. None that stood between him and the fulfillment of the Oath stood a chance of hearing it.

Mighty Singer, indeed.

But now... Maglor felt lost. No amount of Song would comfort these two elflings. They had been taught to fear his voice, warned of the power it held, and they flinched any time he opened his mouth even to just speak.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, and they flinched back again, eyes wide and clutching at each other tightly. He swallowed back the guilt that ate away at his stomach. “It’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you.”

One of them glared at him, and he recoiled, shocked by the coldness in the boy’s eyes. “You already did!”

He pulled away from his brother to show the gash that ran across the still-crying boy’s leg. “You hurt my brother!”

So many had been hurt, had been killed at Maglor’s hand. By his voice. He reeled back; all he had ever done since he learned it could be a weapon was use it as one, and that thought sickened him to his core.

His voice, and his music, that had been heard by thousands of people on the shores of Aman, that used to be a thing of beauty, was now as ugly as the orc filth that roamed the wilds of the land. How had he allowed that to happen? What had happened to sweet, caring Káno?

“Can I- Will you- will you let me try?” The glaring boy frowned at him, and Maglor kept his eyes on the crying one’s leg. “Would you let me heal it?”

He didn't even know if he could. He had never tried, preferring to keep away from the infirmaries and healing tents to avoid the scent of blood, and rot, and the herbs they used. They reminded him too much of-

The crying one tugged at the frowning boy’s hand and nodded, and the frowning boy begrudgingly moved aside. Maglor watched him as he shifted closer to where the boys sat.

What song could he use? He knew none, other than ones for war, or to counter an already existing song, or to help his brother sleep...

It’s like at Losgar, he thought, old memories stirring. Only this time, I have no flames to put out. I am soothing the heat of the day, and helping the flowers to grow.

By the time he was finished, you could hardly even see the scar.

Breathe in. 

Breathe out.

Maglor stared out across the sea, silent, unmoving. The roaring of the waves crashing into the crumbling cliffs below filled his ears. The wind whipped at his face.

He felt none of it, lost in a sea of numbness.

Lost. 

He had lost everything.

His scream broke through the spell. Large chunks of the cliffside fell away, the sea’s destructive song made all the more stronger with the addition of his voice, and Maglor fell to his knees as a tremor ran through the earth. He choked on the ash flittering in the breeze, reminded of Losgar, of the Gap, of the kinslayings, and he screamed again. He choked again, and screamed, and remembered that the fire of the earth had taken the last of his brothers from him.

Screaming fell into sobbing. An Oath he had sworn, and naught but ruin, on himself, on those he loved, on the world, had come of it. There was no Song he could sing to heal it all. No Song could undo his past mistakes.

Perhaps others could learn from them.

Golden rays of light from the setting sun filtered through the clouds, and it reminded him of a home that had once been and never would be again. Of six chaotic, loving brothers, a caring father, and a wonderful mother. Of sheet music on a stand, illuminated by the gentle glow of Laurelin’s light streaming through an open window. Nelyo was listening, just down the hall as he had ever been. Nelyo was always listening.

No matter how far away he was.

His fingers strummed the first notes of the Noldolantë on his harp.

[flutteringphalanges]

Summary:  “Am I in Hell?” Agatha’s voice was hoarse, a hint of fear in her tone. “That depends on your definition,” Dracula answered. “Perhaps.” His fingers felt cool against her burning skin, the fever raging through her body. “If you’re going to kill me, then do it,” she mumbled. The count chuckled, gazing into her eyes. “On the contrary,” he smirked. “I’m going to save you.”

((In which Dracula cares for a gravely ill Agatha))

Characters: Agatha Van Helsing/Dracula

Rating: M *THIS CHAPTER HAS SMUT*

Read on FFN and AO3

A/N: Oh god, it’s officially, this story is M and I wrote my first actual smut scene. I’m so nervous my stomach is flip flopping. Thank you for all of your support! I could really use some feedback on this one, guys! Like, ah! This was different! I hope you enjoy it! If you don’t want to read the smut, stop reading after the italicized part and pick back up on chapter eight whenever I finish that! Okay, I hope you enjoy! -Jen

                                                Chapter Seven

"If it hurts too much, we can try again tomorrow."

Dracula's words seemed distant to Agatha as she bit down on her lower lip, her injured hand grasping the wooden stake. Three weeks had passed since the incident and it had been the vampire's suggestion that she work on regaining the strength she once possessed. He'd even gone so far as to give her a stake-a humorous take at inspiration, to squeeze in order to test her muscles. It hurt. Like Hell. Every fiber from the tips of her fingers to her palm burning. But she kept on despite this. Van Helsings weren't weak and she sure wasn't going to be the first one.

"Good," Dracula coached. "You're getting stronger." His lips curved into a smile as she met his gaze, her forehead speckled with droplets of sweat. "Perhaps I should start becoming a little nervous again."

"Your sarcasm needs as much work as my hand." She snorted, rolling her eyes as she loosened her hold. "I like to visualize thrusting this through your chest."

"Whatever motivates you, Agatha," the vampire smirked. "I would expect nothing less."

She huffed softly, the pale purple of her dress complimenting her fair complexion. It was surprisingly comfortable and not overly elegant-something she had expected when it came to the Count and his taste for the finer things in life. And of the few he had given to her, this one was her favorite. Though, she did her best not to overly flatter him. He was still the enemy. The target. And she kept that in mind. Even if the thought did occasionally slip the forefront of her mind.

"So, what are your plans for today, hm?" Dracula eyed her curiously. In a way, it was almost an inside joke at this point. There wasn't much in the castle to do and though Agatha swore each day would be her last, she had yet to leave. "Any new plots? Motivations?"

"As if I would ever share them with you." She responded curtly, pretending to be mildly interested in her piece of wood. "Did you find the books I requested?"

"Ah, so I've become your servant now, have I?" The vampire mused, leaning back in his chair. "First-no, twice I've healed you now, provided you with clothing and food, and now you ask for reading materials?" She gave him a look and he smirked. "I would forget about your precious books even though you have an entire library here at your disposal."

"We have different tastes," Agatha merely shrugged. "And since I'm being held captive, I don't think it's too much to ask."

"Perhaps I should've purchased a dictionary so you could've read up on the difference between captivity and free will." The Count snorted, shaking his head. "Honestly, Agatha, sometimes I question you."

"Question me about what?" She asked in genuine curiosity.

"Everything," he replied. "Take that as an insult or a compliment is your choice. But I'd personally think of it as a good thing."

Agatha eyed him for a moment before looking away. Sometimes she found herself questioning him. Had she really stayed in the castle for this long? It was hard to keep track of time some days. Dracula tended to keep things in the dark, torches being the only light to brighten what little space they cast down upon. There was one way to know. A way she very much didn't like or approve of.

"I'll be hunting tonight." Dracula informed her, rising from where he sat. "I shouldn't be too long."

She knew what that meant. He already had someone or several people in mind. The vampire was calculated, meticulous. Dracula knew who he wanted and when he wanted them and she truly despised it. The loss of innocent life. Absentmindedly, her fingers began to tap on the table, dangerously close to the stake. But even she knew that for whatever reason, she had no intentions on using it.

"Don't let them suffer." It was an odd request, before she'd spat at him to refrain from killing to begin with. What was she becoming? "If you must, have mercy."

Now the vampire even looked somewhat taken aback by her words. "I let them dream," the Count replied. "It's as humane as one can get when taking their life. In the end, wouldn't you wish the same?"

"When I take my final breath, I want it to be quick and painless." Agatha said, locking her eyes on his. "I don't think I even wish to know what is happening. Dreams can be a nightmare on their own. I'd rather fade away into the thoughtlessness of the unknown."

"No white light? No ringing bells as you arrive at your believed gates of the Silver City?" He inquired with a small smile. "My, what an interesting nun you were indeed."

"I've been told that quite a lot." Agatha answered with a small, half smile. "Isn't that the reason you spared me?"

"There is not a singular reason for me deciding to save you." Dracula replied simply as he fetched his cape. "You are a rarity of your species, Agatha. Like a fine aged wine. And I quite like that about you."

"But you don't drink." She replied, cocking an eyebrow.

"Wine," he grinned. "And as much as I love our conversations, the moon is full and night only lasts for so long." The vampire seemed to study her for a moment before speaking once more. "Goodbye, Agatha, I suppose I shall see you shortly."

"Don't get caught up in the Sun," she merely smirked. "Ashes aren't the easiest to sweep up."

And with a quiet snort, the nun watched as he disappeared. Something in her stomach twisted. A rather strange feeling manifesting from within as she rose from her chair. But the cool draft from the castle halls soothed her troubled mind.

Agatha wrung out water from a cloth she had soaking in a bucket and dabbed at the beads of sweat on her grandfather's brow. Abraham Van Helsing's chest rose and fell with uneven breaths, his lips speckled with blood. Tuberculosis. She knew how dangerous it was. How infectious the disease could be. But she wasn't about to let him die alone. Not after everything.

"Agatha."

The name came out as a croak and she couldn't tell if he was addressing her or mindlessly saying the word. She gripped his hand, feeling how hot and clammy his skin was. He smelled of death. A sickening stench. But she swallowed the bile in the back of her throat. Down, down to the pit of her stomach.

"Yes, Grandfather?" She whispered, hearing her own emotion in her voice. She had to remain strong. Abraham hated weakness. And in the end, she would give him what he desired.

"Don't…" He heaved before hacking up another spray of bright red blood. "Don't let him win…"

"Who?" She said, leaning in closer as his tone grew faint. "Who shouldn't I let win?"

"The vampire," Abraham coughed. "Dracula...no matter what, destroy him. Do what I…" He was panting, struggling as his lungs fought against his own body. "...Finish what I couldn't."

"I promise, Grandfather." Agatha murmured, pressing her forehead to his still hand. "I'll take down Count Dracula even if it kills me. You have my word…"

It was the sound of howling that caused Agatha to sit upright in her chair. She sucked in a breath, nearly knocking a book onto the floor that she had been reading. Had she really fallen asleep? As she rose from her spot, the castle doors flew open and there Dracula stood. Stripped down. Completely, utterly naked. Their eyes locked onto one another and, as if drawn to him by an unknown power, she drew closer. Fainter and fainter become the words of her grandfather. A dream lost as something else surfaced in her mind.

It reminded her of the night back at St. Mary's Convent. The black wolf with the soulless eyes. Agatha stepped forward and hesitantly reached out a hand. Dracula remained still as she touched his chest, the thick slime of carnage coating her skin like that of a newborn babe. It was surprisingly warm, the scent strong. But not as foul as she had expected. No. Earthy. Wet. And her fingers traced lightly over his flesh, creating shapes that held no given name.

"You're a monster." But there was surprisingly no malice in her tone. "A beast."

"I am," the vampire agreed. "Are you frightened?"

"No," Agatha shook her head, finally meeting his gaze. "No, I'm not."

This time he touched her, hands moving to slide the shoulders of her dress down. Her skin was creamy, but held more blush than his ever would. She was alive after all. Dracula could hear Agatha's heart rate begin to increase, the succulent vein that was her jugular throbbing just enough to where he could visibly watch it thrum against her throat. He paused momentarily, dark eyes holding her blues.

"I could kill you right where we stand now." His voice was low, calm. "Break you in two. Drain you dry of every drop of your blood." The Count's index finger trailed down the curve of her cheek. "You should be terrified of me."

"I've survived with you this long, haven't I?" She countered, inhaling deeply. "And I could've easily killed you as well." He smirked at her words. "So it seems we've spared each other."

"For the time being," he answered.

"For the time being," she agreed.

When his fingers undid the back of her dress with such precision, Agatha didn't protest. Unlike before when she stood naked before him, she didn't cover herself. Dracula's tongue trailed across her skin like a serpent, flicking against the perk bud on her right breast. She trembled, but it wasn't in fear. Far, far from it.

"Agatha…"

His mouth brushed against her stomach, cool air from his whispers bringing forth goosebumps. He was moving slow. So slow. Whether or not he was doing it on purpose, she wasn't sure. It was violent or done in fury like the first time. And when his hands went to part her legs, she let out a breathless gasp.

"Bed…" She managed to choke out as he looked up at her in amusement. "Move to…" Christ, she couldn't even get a sentence out. The bastard had bewitched her. "I'll…"

"I won't let you fall." Dracula finished as if reading her mind. "Let me take control."

Control. Like Hell she'd give him the upper...oh. OH. Agatha couldn't stifle back the moan that escaped deep from within her throat as Dracula drug his tongue against the sensitive, pink slit. The Count supported her with one arm as he nuzzled his face against her. Her toes curled tightly together and she whimpered. Whimpered like a frightened animal that was hunted by a hungry wolf.

"Please…" She swallowed, so close on the edge. "I need…"

"Hm?" Dracula paused, seemingly delighted by the former nun's state. "What do you need Agatha?" He touched her gently. Teasingly soft. Testing her. "You're quite hard to understand."

"You." She finally forced out through her teeth. "I need you!"

Apparently that was all the Count needed to hear. Swept up as if she was as light as a feather and whisked her away. Dracula laid her spread eagle across the bed. It was only then that Agatha realized how hard the vampire's length had gotten. He loomed over her studying his prize. Before she could utter another plea, he plunged himself deep within her core. She gasped, arching her back as he began to thrust, both of his hands pinning her wrists to the mattress.

It wasn't right. It was so wrong. So wrong that it was right. So very, very right. And Agatha relished in it. Her eyes closed as the sound of her heart racing filled her ears. She grew closer. Ever so closer. Right to the edge. And as his name hung to the very tip of her tongue, Agatha Van Helsing felt the sharp, white hot pain of fangs piercing into her neck.

And her eyes flew wide open.

[indigodawns]

46. A lingering kiss before a long trip apart

fuck, I accidentally deleted my response and with it your ask so here we go @ashes-and-dust; our favourite niche pairing and 46. A lingering kiss before a long trip apart (post with prompts here)

--

‘You’re kidding me,’ Owen says, staring at Norton, who is currently spread languidly across a queen-size bed in their – yes, their – hostel room. ‘Where the fuck is the other bed?’

Norton blinks in that slow, infuriating way of his that Owen has become tragically familiar with during his month-long stay in the 1950s. A month of spending too much time with Norton Folgate as they tried to figure out how to get Owen back to his own time. Owen hadn’t attempted to shake him off and find Diane instead. Really, he hadn’t. 

(He had. The 1950s had proven awfully difficult when it came to tracing people, as had Norton, who had somehow seemed to know about his plans and made sure to cross them at every possible opportunity.)

‘Even you can’t be that dense, darling,’ Norton drawls, unmoved. ‘This was the only room they had left.’ His eyes flit over Owen’s frame. ‘Just one more night and we might never see each other again. Let’s at least make it memorable.’

Owen rolls his eyes. ‘In your dreams, Folgate.’ Definitely not in his. That weird dream from last week doesn’t count, it’s been over two months without getting laid, so sue him. Anyways, tomorrow he’ll be back in his own time, free to pick up anyone who was wanting. If that someone didn’t have impeccable composure and eyes a colour Owen never did figure out, well, he would be all the better for it. 

It’s just that Owen loves pushing people until they show their cracks, bleeding through it bit by bit and granting him the upper hand. This way people either begin to trust him – mistaking their own eagerness to be heard for a genuine connection – or grow wary of him, desperate to keep him at bay, like Jack. 

It’s just that Owen has the unsettling feeling that Norton understands this, somehow, and is beating him at his own game.

--

Otherwise naked, Owen steps into one of the ugly striped pyjama pants he’s been borrowing from Norton this month, ignoring the man’s presence in the bed at the other side of the tiny room. Despite the February chill that creeps into the old (new?) buildings here, he’s refused to wear any of the shirts as well. Who the hell wears a preppy full-body suit to bed? Except Norton Folgate, of course. Owen himself wouldn’t want to be found dead in it. He doesn’t let himself linger on how viable that would be, knowing his luck and, well, Torchwood. Maybe those two went hand in hand. Either way, this Alejandro or whatever of Norton’s has terrible taste. 

As Owen slips under the covers, Norton turns to look at him. His normally immaculate hairdo has been slightly ruffled by the pillow already, a strand of it teasing at the corner of his eye.

‘I am sorry you didn’t get to find Diane.’

The statement hangs heavily in the few inches between their faces. 

Owen looks away, scoffs. ‘Right, even though you were so bloody helpful.’ He doesn’t have to look to see Norton raising an eyebrow. Again, tragically familiar by now.

‘We both know that if she’d been the kind of woman to stay, you wouldn’t have wanted her.’

Something uncoils inside Owen at that, rears its dark and ugly head. ‘You don’t know shit, Norton,’ he snaps. 

‘Charming attitude, Doctor Harper, that’ll do the job nicely.’

‘What the fuck are you talking about?’ 

‘Yes, that. I mean the snappishness, darling. That whole uncaring, roguish thing you’ve got going on. Perfect for keeping people at a distance, isn’t it?’

He can feel Norton’s eyes boring into his back. ‘Isn’t the whole Freud thing a bit outdated, even for you?’

Norton hums. ‘Far from it, I’m afraid.’

Owen waits for the biting remark that’ll surely follow, but it never comes. Instead, a hush falls over the room. He hates how loud it makes the pounding of his heart sound. It makes his skin crawl, restlessness itching its way through his body. 

He turns around to face Norton again, suddenly desperate for a reaction. He’s not prepared for the thoughtful look he finds in Norton’s eyes.

‘I understand.’ 

The admission is quiet, and it’s as if a sort of veil Owen hadn’t noticed before it disappeared has fallen away from Norton’s face, leaving him rawer, exposed almost. If he didn’t know the man any better, Owen would say he looked vulnerable. 

He rolls over to his other side.

‘Good night, Folgate.’

The reply doesn’t come right away, and Owen thinks maybe he’s broken something again without wanting to. But then, quietly, composed again:

‘Good night, Owen.’

--

The portal is fizzling, sparks flying off it every now and then, and Owen wonders not for the first time how the hell he ended up in a shitty old sci-fi movie. 

‘It may not look it,’ Norton is saying, voice echoing off the walls of the abandoned warehouse, ‘but they promised it’s completely safe – well, they said it shouldn’t kill you. Immediately.’

‘Right,’ Owen mutters, ‘that’s incredibly reassuring, thanks.’ He doesn’t trust Norton for a second, but what choice does he have at this point? He has to get back to his own time. Still, something other than distrust holds him back, has him hesitating to return. He tries to reason it away: he hasn’t managed to find Diane in a month – who’s to say he would’ve in a year? That is, if she ever made it back at all. 

His eyes catch Norton’s, and he hates the haughty, knowing look he finds there. The restlessness that has been lingering under his skin is suddenly back tenfold, pushing at him, making him close some of the distance between him and Norton. Anything to stop this, to stop the way he can feel everything he’s locked away trying to rise up through his insides like bile.

Norton’s breath rushes over his face, those unreadable eyes still trained on Owen’s. Neither of them moves. 

Something snaps in Owen.

His lips are on Norton’s before he can think better of it, desperate and demanding. He doesn’t know what he expected – hesitation perhaps – but Norton doesn’t waste a second before responding in kind, lacing his fingers in his hair and dragging him closer, teeth dragging over his lips. It stirs something low in Owen’s belly, pushes against the hollow feeling that’s settled there. He lets himself cup Norton’s jaw, slips his tongue past the other’s lips for just a moment, tasting. Then he steps back.

Breathing hard, he makes his way to the portal. It’s only when he turns around that he catches the light flush on Norton’s cheeks, the slightest tremor in his composure. 

‘Doctor Harper,’ Norton says, inclining his head, voice smooth and steady as ever. ‘It’s been a, ah, pleasure.’ The smile curling his lips is almost genuine, and just a little bit dangerous.

‘I’ll see you around, Norton.’

Not looking back, he steps through the portal, back into his own time.

[diveronarpg]

Congratulations, CARA! You’ve been accepted for the role of HIPPOLYTA. Admin Julie: Cara, you’ve once again blown us away with your app. From your plots, to your para sample, to the reason why you were drawn towards Halcyon, everything about the woman we see here is incredibly human in a very gripping way -- and we know that’s not easy to pin down when it comes to Halcyon. It was a joy to read. The additional writing sample especially drew me in, and by the end of it, I was totally hooked. We’re thrilled to see you bring her to our dashboards once again, and we cannot wait for you to put what you have planned for Hal into play on the dashboard. Set her loose! Go wild -- we’re watching with anticipation. Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

OUT OF CHARACTER

Alias | Cara

Age | 34

Preferred Pronouns | She, Her

Activity Level | Please describe how active you think you’ll be in a few sentences. - I’m able to get online everyday and do replies. Depending on how many and the length, I can write one to three replies perday. I do have a busy schedule during the weekend, so these would be my less active days.

Timezone | EST

How did you find the rp?  | I’ve been aware of it since it’s first run and was happy to see it back last year. I’ve been checking in often, waiting for the right moment to apply. And now, after being inactive, I’m back.

Current/Past RP Accounts |

https://ofhippclyta.tumblr.com/

https://laraxrutherford.tumblr.com

https://theninalowell.tumblr.com/

IN CHARACTER

Character | Hippolyta, Halcyon Santos

What drew you to this character? | I’ve been eyeing Diverona since it opened and the character I always come back to is Hippolyta.

To say she’s resilient would be an understatement. There’s something amazing in her, in a woman who falls from grace like her, someone who had everything and still defied the odds and wanted her own path. Her label being the Phoenix is only proof of that. Halcyon is a woman who sacrificed a lot to the idea that others had of herself, who she was or should be. Being good of heart, like she once was, doesn’t make it less a sacrifice. Halcyon existed for others only for a long time, something that she didn’t challenge. Her purpose served others until her time came.

The strength she showed since Cosimo came after her is not something she showed before. Not in such a raw way. It was one of the most determining moments of her life, when she asked to be taken to him, and it was her first taste of another kind of power. She didn’t accept death because there’s something stronger inside of her, a  will to live on her own terms. She had nothing left to lose, she had been betrayed by everyone she ever loved and trusted. She saw an opportunity and took it, something that is very interesting to her. She has the ability to see steps ahead, of being able to size her opponents the minute she sees them. It’s something that most likely comes from all her years of sitting quiet, of observing the world around her without making a move.

Halcyon is a complex person, with two sides. She is kind, something that hasn’t changed in all those years, surprisingly. Her kindness is mostly shown through her work for the Church. Halcyon always had a want and a need to help those who were less fortunate than she and she’s still doing it. But that kindness has hardened over the years. Halcyon has been holding her breath for so long, that when her husband died and she knew the Capulet would come for her, in a way, she started to breathe again. His death was the final push she needed to let go of the life she lived and to forge a new one.

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character? |

Rising higher. Halcyon is ambitious, there’s no denying. She is deeply loyal to Cosimo and Vivianne but what about the others? How far will her ambition take her? I would like to have her be confronted with the opportunity to do something, maybe double-cross one of her own, in order to rise higher. Or even be faced with the choice of choosing between Vivianne and herself. Because as much as Halcyon isn’t selfish, how far would she go, in terms of sacrificing herself? Her loyalty to Cosimo is strong but weaker than the one to herself. Breaking away from the Capulets wouldn’t be easy, if even doable, but if her life was at stake,, or if Cosimo betrayed something she strongly believed in, she  would try to keep her head high and rise from the ashes of that betrayal, one again.

The ties that bind. When it comes to Halcyon, blood doesn’t run deeper than water. At least not anymore. Her parents caused her too much pain. But could she go as far as hurting them? Halcyon cares deeply about Verona, but what if her parents stood in her way? She never fully let the darkness and ugliness stain her, but would going as far as to cast out her own blood be the thing to push her over the edge? Killing for others is easy, but killing for oneself is harder. In a moment of anger, Halcyon would be confronted with the ghosts of her past and seize that opportunity to completely severe her current life from her past life. Because there is a darkness inside of her, despite all her goodness, and having that balance tip when it comes to her parents specifically would be something that completely unleashed that darkness inside of her.

Greatness. I see Halcyon has still being adored, even if not as much as she used to be. Those who watched her fall and get up, more than once, might have even more faith in her. But I want that faith the people have in her, the symbol they made her be, to eventually fade, either because they turn their backs  on her or because she did. Though I imagine if they knew what she was really up to, they would be the ones to cast her out. It would also test her faith, and that’s something I’d like to have happen to her, to wonder who or what she is without God.

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | Yes. Death is needed for this kind of group and while I adore Halcyon with all my heart, killing her would be a good plot. I would just like her to have been developed and written a bit before, so that her death could be more meaningful and that she would have her moment to shine.

IN-DEPTH

In-Character Para Sample: Again, write as much or as little as you need to get your interpretation across.

SAMPLE I

It had been a strange request, to dye a wedding dress in red, but the Santos name held too much for the tailor to turn it down and the hush money helped too. “Why do you need two dresses?” her future husband had asked, his tone bored. It was an arranged wedding for him as well, and he hoped to gain a dutiful bride. He had been assured that it would be the case.

Halcyon and Callum had gone on a few very public dates, the wedding being regarded as the event of the year. The Santos and Pardi, united as one. Halcyon Pardi, the woman hated the sound of that. Where Celia had insisted they both keep their maiden name, Halcyon was expected to shed hers as soon as the vows would be pronounced. Nonetheless, she smiled on these outings, nodded when he talked and voiced the right opinions only when prompted. She knew that her life would be just like that and she wanted to feel Celia one last time, to feel passion before losing it forever. And so, she had Celia’s wedding dress dyed crimson, a sign of the fire that burned her and the blood her heart had bled.

“Everyone except me to have one for the wedding and another for the ceremony. A woman has to be trusted on these things dearest.” The words sounded sweet, they all did when they came out of her. But they tasted bitter to Halcyon, bile rising into her throat. They ached, every single one of them. They cut through the very fabric of her soul. And she bore them, like the children she would never give him, refused to give him. She was thankful for the pills she could take, until she wasn’t fertile anymore, so that she would never give this man and her parents what they hoped; an heir. Her two biggest rebellions, she thought as her finger ran through the fabric of the dress, now tucked away in her closet, never to be worn again. Celia was gone and she was now someone’s wife.

A voice was heard and Halcyon rushed into the master’s bathroom, avoiding the man she kissed every night. His voice sounded angry and she knew he was talking about them again, the Capulets. Her husband was greedy, money wasn’t enough, he wanted power. And the Capulets had the one thing he really wanted, Verona. Halcyon ran the bath’s water, creating a diversion. She played the almost empty headed wife so well, he often forgot she even had thoughts that weren’t his. Callum felt safe around her, too safe. Pressing her ear against the shut door, she could hear everything he was saying. He had been trying to buy the police department lately, thinking that if he had them in his pockets, the rest would follow easily. But they were not easy to bribe and he was going at it all wrong. He was playing a dangerous game, pretending to help Cosimo while working against him. He wanted to be mayor and he needed more than the few businessmen that stood in his corner.

Halcyon could see all this unfolding before him and the man still thought he was on top of everything. Every little mistake he made, she predicted, finding some sick joy in it, in watching him be a fool. She kept quiet and maybe, just maybe, if he didn’t expect her to be nothing else than an accessory, would she have helped him see what was coming. But with every day that passed, he kept asking why she wasn’t pregnant when it was all she had to do. He kept treating her as if she was failing at the only thing she was supposed to be good at, bearing children. She pretended to cry and despair as he badgered her about it. But that was her secret, at least one of the many she was starting to collect.

As she stood there, holding her breath so that not even that would make her miss a word, she could see too well the choices she had in front of her. If she talked, if she said it all, surely he would understand his mistakes and be able to stay alive. And wasn’t that her duty, as a wife, to help her husband? Hadn’t she vowed, in the Cathedral, to stand by his side, for better or worse? It was a holy bond and Halcyon respected the Church. But she knew her words had been empty then, they meant nothing if they weren’t spoken to the woman she loved. It was there, in their bathroom, that she was conscious, for the very first time, that she would let this man walk into his death. From the outside, it would look as if she had been passive in all this, not involved. But the reality was different, every moment she chose to stay quiet was bringing her one step closer to her freedom and she knew that.

Maybe one day she would understand that he had been her first kill, her first taste of the darkness that was buried inside herself. And years later, when Vivianne would suggest she infiltrated the police department, she would smile, knowing that she would succeed where a man failed.

SAMPLE II

A delicate flower, that’s what they had built her to be. They gave her poise and grace, told her she was the best and deserved the world. And in return, she smiled, nodded and extended her hand to those who needed it. She had walked among them, an angel, her light inspiring others. Never did Halcyon let it alter her, her heart remaining pure. She had loved, believed in it. Like an innocent girl, not yet the woman she was today, she was bound to wed. The fire that consumed her gave her strength, made her better. Halcyon was naive, she believed that everyone was like her, good, or at least, that those who raised her were as good as she saw them. She had been wrong, fooled by her faith. When her fire ended in ashes, she had to get up. She rose above herself with a burnt mark that would always follow her, a scar forever etched on her heart. Had it been a mistake, to nurse her broken heart and not turn the city upside down looking for her missing  half?

No matter how deep the bullet lay, reality was ugly. The woman she loved could be bought. And by none other than her parents. It was with trembling hands, already feeling the blow in her heart, tears coming down, that she had taken the note that was left with the wedding dress. A soft finger ran  over it, even when she couldn’t see the words anymore obscured by her vision. That’s when the light had gone out. There was rage that first night, something that she was ashamed of. She had sought out her confidante the next morning, feeling herself calmer in the hot air of the Cathedral. She was told that God had a plan for her and she believed it.

Halcyon draped herself in her sadness, coming out of it even more beautiful than before. Her failed engagement wasn’t a secret, the Santos’ were well-known in the city. And it wasn’t long before talk of another wedding ran through the streets.

“I can’t,” she cried many times. “Please don’t make me do this.”

“You’re marrying him. We gave our word.”

“Mama, please,” she appealed to her mother, the one who had nursed her, taken care of her.

“Listen to your father. He knows what’s best.” And Halcyon knew, she had left her mother’s womb for good.

“Stop being a child, Halcyon,” her father snapped. His final words on the subject.

She smiled the day of her wedding, she was gracious to the guest, she played her part. And she played it well. There had been too many tears, too much pleading that had lead to this moment. Her parents had as good as killed her the day they gave her hand away, sealed her faith in a magnificent ceremony, a funeral where she was dressed in white. It wasn’t the fact that she didn’t love him. It was the fact that they extinguished her light, put her in a cell and threw away the key. Halcyon didn’t exist, the shadow that walked this world instead was not her. And they didn’t care, for they all had what they wanted. Her parents gained more money and her husband gained the most beautiful woman in the city. A trophy, polished regularly, something that people took pride in, a simple object. Never did she let others see  any of this. She was only his wife, but she was a good one, a dutiful one. Devoting herself to charities, the only thing she was allowed to do, and the halo on her head grew bigger. Little did they know, her hands would soon be bathed in crimson. When her husband was killed, the tears weren’t for him. They were for her, for finally being free from him and from her family.

Halcyon knew Cosimo’s men would come for her. Against everything, she hadn’t fled the city. Verona was her home and like a Queen, she would never leave it behind. Her blood would soil the city if needed, her pain and anguish visible for everyone. A martyr. She had left the door unlocked, knowing there was no need to try and protect herself. Cosimo was powerful and a locked door would not stop him or those who worked for him. Her back was to them when they came in as she looked at the city she called her own all her life. It would all be over soon. “Please,” she started. Make it quick. Her life flashed by, the faces of those she helped and of those who caused her pain. But what troubled her, even more, were the words she heard all her life. Fragile. Useless. Deviant. Wife. Martyr. Fiancée. Beautiful. Kind. Icon. Weak. One word was missing, one word had never been spoken to describe her. Determined. Never before had she felt such courage, or rather, had she been aware of it. “Take me to him.” The words were said as she turned to face them, an angel awaiting her death.

All her life, Halcyon had stood by, quiet, observing. The world unfolded in front of her and she watched it, in awe. Never before had she thought that all her observing would pay off for her, that being quiet would serve her. A presence quick to be forgotten, a pretty face deemed nothing more, the woman has listened. And learned. Until this moment, until her life hung in the balance, she never understood how precious that gift had been. It paid her in information. Her husband was dead, killed by the Capulets. And they thought, foolishly, that all of his secrets were buried with him. They had been wrong. Information was precious, the most powerful currency there was. Information would be her most powerful weapon. “There’s more he doesn’t know.” The words were a whisper as the woman slowly found her voice, the one that had been muffled all her life. She could be valuable, something she saw for the first time in her life. Every moment led her to this, right now, she could finally see it. They thought they had put her down for good, but she got up, stronger than ever. The shackles  on her hands were gone.

SAMPLE III

It hadn’t been long, or so it felt like, since Vivianne was in the hospital and now it was Halcyon’s turn to be freshly out, or almost. The days following her release had been spent trying to patch the hemorrhage, a word that could be taken to its most literal meaning. The Capulets were bleeding despite all their physical wounds being, at last, and yet things still felt too fragile. The capitana could be seen at all hours at the headquarters, working relentlessly to find a way to make the Montagues pay double for their actions. Halcyon herself had come close to losing too much, with Theo laying unconscious in a hospital bed for days, a player so precious to the woman, she had been on edge. A short breath of relief had been exhaled when she learned to other had woken up, something she felt on more than one level, some form of friendship forming with the informant.

It was late at night and when everything had started to blur she silently made her way to her dear friend and underboss’ office. On a night like this, exhausted like she was, it was the comfort of the friend she was seeking and not the advice of the leader she blindly followed. “Posso entrare?” May I come in? Tired words that followed a soft knock on Vivianne’s door. Something in Halcyon’s voice had the woman looking up from the reading she was doing and beckoned her to the more private area of her office.

There had been whispers of the state the underboss had been in when she learned that Halcyon and not come back from the mission, something she had seen, in parts, herself when she was finally alone with the older woman. Halcyon had seen changes, subtle ones, in her mentor since she got out of the hospital as if a confidence she once paraded so easily was no longer so strong. Maybe the capitana was reading too much into all this, a trick her own emotions were playing on her. It was, after all, so small what she thought she saw. If only she was not looking at the other so often, maybe they would not be here tonight.

The two women shared a bond, everyone knew it, but it was not something that was openly discussed between the two. Halcyon would die for Vivianne, in a heartbeat. But the moments when they talked about how much the friendship meant were rare. Tonight, the younger one needed that, for herself, but she sensed also for the underboss. As they sat down, closer than usual, an action that was deliberate on her part, a soft sigh escaped her. “Too much has been on your mind.” It wasn’t a question, a simple fact that was uttered as big brown eyes searched the blues she dreamed of losing herself into.

It was a rare occurrence, a hand brushing the other, waiting to see if part of the skin she felt like she craved at times would shy away. When it did not, Halcyon’s hand became heavier, a gesture that was meant to let Vivianne know she was there. But suddenly, it did not seem enough. Amidst the chaos, this simple hand, one that would follow the other woman anywhere, felt too little. “Whatever it is, whatever you’re keeping, you are stronger than it.” Without thinking, something she would never do usually, Halcyon let go of the woman’s hand. Light fingers followed by warm palms went to the underboss’ visage. For a woman who could be ruthless, there was genuine care for those she cared about, many of whom had been targeted lately.  “You won’t lose us. You won’t lose me.” They were so close and the touch felt like everything that could soothe Halcyon’s tired body and mind. But Halcyon did not dare allow herself to go further, to let the sudden flushing of her cheeks get what drove the blood there. She did not close the small, too small, space between their lips.

SAMPLE IV

Location: Halcyon’s house

Date: March 25th, 2019

Ever since the hospital, the Capulet forged a second layer around her, another armour that guarded her from the outside. The physical wounds were something she could take, another symbol of the war she was fighting. But the emotional ones were something she tried to shield herself from, marks that were carved too deeply into her soul. Wounds that followed her everywhere, even in her sleep. Days were long, the list of things that had to be done to contain the hemorrhage the Capulet had been cursed with in recent months and the woman always came home later than usual, long nights working at the Cathedral. Some nights she even prayed, the Faith that had been testing her for years never too far. The lights were not turned on as she walked into her penthouse, the dark soothing for the headache that had been building all day. Heels were carefully discarded, joining others that were in the entrance, forming a delicate line. Never would she dare say the words out loud, but there was loneliness lately in coming home to such an empty place, a longing for something more, something well beyond her reach. Her hand could extend, fingers grasping into thin air, and never would she reach what was missing.

The television was turned on, the channel already on Rai News24. It casted a glow in the living room and she went to the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea, the background noise eased part of the storm inside of her. The Santos name was heard distantly just as the kettle started to boil, the whistle of it drowning the noise. Not that it mattered, her father’s business was often in the spotlight. The name barely registered, too preoccupied with the day she had, going over every little detail of everything that was said to her, trying to see if she had missed anything. Absent fingers were running along the edge of her tea cup as she walked back to the living, only then looking at the screen in front of her. Strangely enough, the news was still talking about her father. Breaking News were not words that were usually associated with any of his activities. The images did not make any sense, neither were the words. Was this really how Halcyon Santos was to learn of her father’s death? Not by her own mother but by the coldness of the television. The cup she was holding dropped to the floor, shattering in tiny fragments. Slowly walking closer to the object that was turning her world upside down, finger gently brushing a picture of her father that came with the segment. The woman crumbled on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably. Halcyon didn’t know if she was crying because her cage was finally broken for good or if it was because the man she once held so high would never be redeemed in her eyes, breaking her heart forever.

Extras: If you have anything else you’d like to include (further headcanons, an inspo tag, a mock blog, etc), feel free to share it here! This is OPTIONAL.

Headcanons

Training Halcyon was easy. Her years of ballet made her graceful and athletic. Hand- to- hand combat came easily to her, it was another form of dance. The woman surprised everyone by how easily and quickly it came to her and soon, she was able to  best more experienced fighters.

She started at the bottom and rose rather quickly because of how determined and dedicated she is. Halcyon directed all her energy and emotions into the tasks that were given to her, breathing and living solely for the Capulets. She was running and quick-thinking, able to see many outcomes unfolding before her. Her charm and apparent sweetness fooled more than one and it played at her advantage.

Halcyon is still nursing her broken heart. Celia was the great love of her life, up until this point. She was a burning fire and Halcyon gave herself completely to her lover., The woman always knew she was attracted to other women. And to men at times, something that was very confusing for her Catholic soul. Never before Celia had she been so open and free with another person . It was Halcyon, timid and fair compared to her passionate lover, who proposed. The ring was exquisite and when Celia said yes, Halcyon thought she could never be happier. In the days and weeks leading to Celia’s departure Halcyon could feel something had changed. She thought it was the wedding’s excitement, as the day was nearing. But when she came home to an empty house and saw the dress, she knew. Her heart hasn’t mended since].

The first tasks she had when she joined the Capulets were easy enough. Her first kill wasn’t. It was a conflicting moment, one where her soul fought the two sides of her, the light and the darkness. Never before did she thought she would or could kill another. But when the moment came, it felt…easy. There was half a confession to Hugo, Halcyon talking of a great sin without naming it. But she found that once you committed something that seemed hard, the next times were easier, until it came almost naturally. There was a war to fight and she was now part of it.