#you do not have even the faintest idea what it’s like being in pain every day from doing NOTHING

[prisonpodcast]

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[dark-konohagakure2]

imagine succubus!reader lurking in the phantomhive manor to find a victim for the night cause a succubus gets their energy if they take control but ends up getting caught and noncon-ed by sebastian until she cant take it anymore and begs to stop

UGHHH I HAVE BEEN STUCK WITH THIS IDEA SINCE THE DAY I IMAGINED IT 😭😭 petition for more succubus!reader fics 😔

tw: noncon, succubus!reader, size difference, tail pulling, rough sex, overstimulation, humiliation, creampie

All characters depicted are 18+

Sebastian takes his duties as the butler of the Phantomhive household very seriously, so seriously in fact that he doesn't ever sleep, mainly because demons don't need to sleep, but the fact still remains that there is no butler more diligent than Sebastian. His keen senses are able to pick up on the smallest of noises, even the faintest creak of the floorboards won't escape his notice. If a pin dropping doesn't go unnoticed by Sebastian, then there is no way in hell that he won't notice the presence of another hellish entity in his midst.

He is equal parts intrigued and concerned. Sebastian knows he can effortlessly dispatch any threat towards his master, bit even so the thought of another demon being after him is quite concerning. Never one to waste his time dwelling on any worries he might have, Sebastian will quickly do his part as a butler by apprehending the uninvited guest.

It's comically easy for Sebastian, he's not called a devil of a butler for nothing, he's able to use his superior strength to yank the little demon over to him when she's unaware, grabbing her by the pointy tail, which makes her hiss out in pain like a cat. Sebastian likes cats, even the ones with claws, but he sadly can't pet her, not when she's been such a bad girl as to even attempt to endanger his master.

Sebastian knows precisely how to deal with a naughty little succubus like herself, her kind feed off the sexual energy and desires of men, so he'll give her exactly what every succubus wants, he'll give it to her until she's begging him to stop. It's a fitting punishment for the demonic intruder, and it finally gives Sebastian the opportunity to stop feigning his humanity, even if just for a short while.

"Naughty thing, did you truly believe you could intrude oh my master's property without consequence? Oh how adorable~ I'll be sure to give you something to remember before sending you back to our home~"

His eyes are glowing unabashedly now, the glowing red orbs now having a feral intensity to them as he starts teasing the lesser demon, yanking on her tail roughly as he exposes her holes to his hellish gaze, teasing her sensitive pussy lips mercilessly before he decides to have his fill of her. Sebastian hasn't had a good fuck in a while, and certainly never with another demon that was aware of his true nature, so he's going to savor this rare treat.

Being centuries old, Sebastian is well versed in the art of making somebody come undone around his cock, whether they want to or not. His hips will slam against her from behind, his balls slapping against his ass while he fucks her raw, pulling on her tail like a bully pulling on the braids of a girl he likes. Sebastian's cock is long and thick, even in his human form, so it'll ram against her oversensitive womb with every thrust, forcing her into one mind breaking orgasm after the other.

Demons typically can't reproduce with one another, so Sebastian can cum inside of her to his heart's content without a care in the world, and he won't be satisfied with cumming inside of her just once, he's going to breed her until she's begging him to stop, and for hours after that too. It won't take long for her to go from confident and rude to whining and pleading with him to show mercy, but nothing will come of those pleas aside from her receiving even more mockery and even more loads shot into her already overstuffed womb.

He finds her reactions and pleading to be both adorable and pitiful, not to mention ironic; a creature who feeds off of sex now begging him to stop fucking her, her impish pussy overflowing with cum and weakly gripping his cock, fucked loose from the brutal pounding she's getting. He definitely won't be stopping anymore despite her pleas, after all, lesser demons make lovely fucktoys.

"Oh my~ begging already, little one? How sad, your kind usually loves getting ravished so, you truly are a disgrace from all demonkind~! How cute~!"

But alas, he can't keep this adorable little kitten as a house pet as much as he wants to, his young master would never allow such a thing, but Sebastian takes pride in the fact that he successfully subdued another interloper, and she won't mess with him again, that is unless she wants her holes destroyed again.

[starryevermore]

the house of snow (24) ✧ coriolanus snow

the house of snow ✧ a royal coryo au | pinterest board| ao3

pairing: king!coriolanus snow x fem!reader

series summary: the king of panem is in search of a bride. and, for reasons you can never understand, coriolanus snow has set his sights on you. it would never be a happy marriage, you’re sure of that. but none of that matters, because when snow decides he wants something, he will do everything in his power to ensure it is his. 

chapter summary: coriolanus becomes obsessive.

word count: 1,033

series warnings?: 18+ MINORS DNI, royal au, regency au, arranged marriage, rivals to lovers, obsessive!coryo, jealous!coryo, protective!coryo, eventual smut, eventual pregnancy, more tags to be added later

chapter warnings?: a little angsty, pet name (petal), not proofread

There was seldom a day that Coriolanus didn’t go to consult your physician. He was supposed he was lucky that the physician was being quite handsomely, and the fact that he was King, because any ordinary man would have been turned away long ago with the frequency of Coriolanus’s visits. He couldn’t help himself. HIs stomach had been twisted into knots since your condition became known, and it had only grown worse since you had asked to give birth to the babe at the Snow family cottage. Coriolanus required near-constant reassurances that you, and the babe, would be well. 

You must have thought that Coriolanus was married to the physician himself with how often he frequented the physician’s chambers.

Coriolanus regretted how little time he was able to spend with you as a result. That never stopped him, however, from his obsessive tendency. He refused to let anything happen to you. Coriolanus would not be able to live with himself if he could have done something to prevent the loss of you and failed. If the visits were the only thing he could do, if the only aid he could provide was consulting the best physician in all of Panem, he would do it every hour if he could. 

Still yet, his heart ached at the distance between you and him. You did not come to the office much anymore. The morning sickness had wrecked you for many weeks and, by the time it finally subsided, you were so tired that you would rather sit curled up by your favorite window in the library than begin to think about the political obligations the Crown placed upon you. The most Coriolanus saw of you was during meal times and when you both would retire to your shared chambers. 

It was not enough. 

He wished he could burrow himself under your skin. He wished he could take the burden of pregnancy from you and give it to someone else. He wished he could stop himself from spiraling at the mere thought of not having you by his side. Did you know how mad you drove him? Did you have even the faintest idea what he was willing to do for you? You knew his love, but did you know how deep the well went? Coriolanus had not known love before you, and he would not know it after you. 

“You will be well,” he whispered.

You slept against his chest, arms wrapped around him. There would not be many more nights like this in the coming months as your bump grew with your babe. So he took the time to cherish it now, memorizing the feeling of your weight on top of him. How your soft snores blew air against his chest. The rise and fall of your body at each breath you took. Oh, he took special care to memorize that. You may have promised to let him be the one to go first, but you and he both knew there was no way to guarantee that. And if he did lose you in a few months time, he wanted to remember what it was like when you still breathed.

“I will not allow harm to fall your way.” Coriolanus carded his fingers through your hair, scratched his nails against your scalp. A satisfied noise escaped your lips. “I would take all your pain if you would let me.”

The weight of the bed shifted slightly as Coriolanus the Cat jumped onto the bed. He moved up the mattress and settled on the pillow closest to you. Coriolanus looked at the furry beast, who only offered a quiet mew before focusing its entire attention on you. At least the cat understood. 

“Our son would, too,” Coriolanus continued. “We love you so much. Remember that if Lady Death comes to take you away. Remember what you would leave behind.”

Coriolanus the Cat mew’d in agreement. 

“I love you, petal.”

As Coriolanus fell asleep, he dreamed of a day where the babe was born, safely bundled up in your arms. You were the picture of perfect health, as was the babe. He dreamt of a sweet girl, who had your beauty and your wits. He would spoil her as much as he did you. His princess and his Queen, perfectly safe in his arms. 

By the time morning came, he was filled with renewed vigor to ensure such dreams would become reality. The sun had only just began to rise, and you were still fast asleep, but neither stopped him from slipping out of bed. Coriolanus dressed himself as quickly and as quietly as he could manage without waking you. Before he left, he pressed a kiss to your forehead. If he would not be there when you woke, at least you would still feel his love. 

The physician was already awake when Coriolanus knocked on his door. The man barely regarded him as he opened the door. 

“I have come to update you on my wife’s condition,” Coriolanus said.

The physician eyed him warily. “Your Majesty, I have told you, I do not require these daily updates, nor do I require multiple ones a day. You may rest assured that my scheduled appointments with Her Majesty will suffice.”

Coriolanus straightened, his eyes narrowing at the man. “Is it a crime to wish my wife have a safe pregnancy?”

“Of course not, Your Majesty.”

“Good. Then we shall continue as we have been.”

A sigh loosed from the physician’s lips. 

“What?” Coriolanus demanded. Ire rose up in his chest, strangling his heart. Did the physician know something he didn’t? Was the physician aware that this was all a lost cause? Was he only humoring a man sick with love?

“I am a physician, Your Majesty, not a miracle worker. I have learned and I have trained to do my work. But if death comes to take my patient, there is only so much I can do. No matter how many updates you wish to give me, no matter how carefully I monitor Her Majesty’s condition, if it is her time to go, I cannot always prevent it.”

Coriolanus grabbed the doorknob and slammed the door shut.

[fandom-imagines-stories]

Heaven

Aramis x Reader (The Musketeers)

Words: 6968

Part One; Part Two

Summary: The final hunt begins and Athos and the reader rush to find the others before Aramis’s recklessness leads him into Visage’s clutches. 

Notes: Finally! This trilogy has taken me a while to write, so I hope you guys have enjoyed it! Since this part switches around the reader and Aramis a lot, it jumps quite a bit, so I hope it isn’t too confusing. (Also, I can't believe how long this is compared to the others. oops)

Warnings: Violence, assault, death (some intense stuff, so just be aware. I tried to keep the opening scene impactful without being super descriptive)

More Musketeers imagines: HERE

-

“I demand to know where you are taking me.” You kept your tone as calm as possible as the carriage jerked and jostled over the unknown road. 

The man who’d dragged you from your rooms made no reply, keeping his indifferent gaze toward the window. Trees loomed like soldiers in the twilight, the sun sinking ever further into the horizon. Abandoning you. 

You wanted to argue more, but your voice had gone hoarse from shouting. Surely your fists had bruised form banging on the window. But he couldn’t hear you. Whatever your treacherous stable boy had told him had forced him away. Still, you held onto the hope that Aramis would come for you. A rat like Visage may have power, but even his brigade of idiotic followers lacked the skill to take on the musketeers. 

“I know that Visage put you up to this,” you scoffed, eyeing your riding companion. “But whatever ‘claims’ he believes he has are nothing more than delusions. He has spouted nothing but lies ever since the death of his mother.” 

While you weren’t sure where you had been taken, you knew it was further than you liked. You’d been traveling since early afternoon and you hadn’t the faintest idea where you were or why you were here. What could Visage possibly be planning? 

You were trying to discern which direction you’d traveled when the carriage abruptly halted. The man with you grabbed onto your hands and tied them with a rope. He knotted it so tightly you were sure it cut into your flesh.

“Enough of this,” you exclaimed as you were shoved out of the carriage. “What crimes have I committed? What right do you have to imprison me and cart me off like a common thief? I am a personal friend of the queen and I order you to-”

‘Oh enough with your screaming.” The cold voice sent shivers down your spine. “No one can hear you out here.”

You turned slowly, lifting your chin and blinking back any fear in your eyes. The man you’d suspected scowled back at you. 

You smirked. “Ah yes, I thought I smelled vermin.” 

Any smugness in your expression was instantly slapped away, the sting of Visage's hand radiation from your cheek. Fuming, you opened your mouth to speak, but he roughly took hold of your chin. 

“You have humiliated me for the last time,” he snarled. Visage shoved you back and you hit the forest floor hard, knocking the breath out of your lungs so that when he kicked you, you couldn’t even scream. 

Three of his men stood by and watched as he switched between his foot and his riding crop. You tried not to give him the satisfaction of watching you cry, but tears flowed with your permission. You were too delirious from the pain to care after a while.

When you thought you’d surely faint, Visage took you by the hair and lifted you off the ground. 

You spat in his face with the strength you still had. 

He threw you back down and took the riding crop to your hands, bound in front of you still with a rope that had turned red from bleeding wrists. Every hit sent an unimaginable pain up your arms, shaking your whole body and shattering your heart. Your hands that were once kissed and praised for their delicate beauty by Aramis. The hands of an artist. By the time he dragged you to your feet, you couldn’t feel anything but the throbbing in your fingers and bloodied knuckles. 

Visage nodded to his men and they pulled you up to a large cedar, pinning you back and tying you around the middle. Your cloak felt suffocating, pressing the sketchbook in your bodice into your chest. 

“It is lucky your mother is not alive to see you now,” you said through the blood on your lips. 

“Do not speak of her,” Visage snapped. “You preyed upon my mother’s generosity, all the while spitting on her family name.”

“You fail to remember that I have never been betrothed to you. Your mother knew this. She knew my heart belonged elsewhere.” The thought of him made your voice crack. “She knew my heart belonged to Aramis.” 

The men finished tying the rope. 

“It will always belong to Aramis.” 

Visage slapped you again. 

You took a deep breath and stared him in the eye. “I love Aramis.” 

Again.

“I love Aramis!” 

His hand gripped your throat, pushing your head back against the bark. 

“This I swear to you, you ungrateful bitch,” he sneered, leaning so his lips were by your ear. “I will tear him limb from limb for the embarrassment the two of your sordid relationship has caused me. And I will revel in every second.” 

He stood back, taking his pistol from his belt. 

You knew then that you didn’t want to die. 

“Aramis!” You cried, hoping that the heavens would hear you. 

“It seems like such a waste.” Visage loaded his weapon. “There was a time when all I could think about was your touch. The way the dresses my mother bought you fit your body.” 

“You will never get away with this,” you exclaimed. “I am friends with the queen and the best fighters of Captain Treville’s regiment. They will see justice is done.” 

“That’s where you're wrong, Y/N.” He took aim. “Nobody will miss a musketeer’s whore.” 

You tried to yell one last time, but with the final shot, Aramis’s name died on your lips. 

-

With no rain and with this part of the forest being relatively remote from Pinon, there was nothing to wash away the blood. The dark, dried stains coated the leaves on the ground and left horrible marks on the tree where you’d been bound. Looking at it felt as though you were being brutalized all over again. But when you thought of Visage’s sneer or the sting of his hand, you only imagined them directed toward your beloved Aramis. 

Any harm that should come to him would be put squarely on your shoulders. 

“This is where it happened,” you said quietly. 

Athos was stopping to give the horses water. He looked over at you with a grim expression. 

“It’s a miracle they found you.”

You shook your head. “It’ll be a miracle if we stop him. If Aramis and the others go after him tonight…”

“You underestimate us,” Athos tried to give you a smile to reassure you, but he was never known for his ability to comfort. “We are musketeers after all. They won’t charge in without a plan. Besides, they don’t know where Visage and his men are.”

“I do.” You turned your back to the tree of your torture, holding your head high with new determination. “Madam de Visage owned an orchard just east of the city. I’d bet my life that’s where Visage is hiding while he plots Aramis’s death.” 

Though you tried, you still couldn’t hide the growing fear in your voice. 

Athos walked across the clearing and put a hand on your shoulder. “Luckily we will be there to take him off guard and put an end to his schemes.” 

“I hope you’re right,” you sighed, shaking your head. “Oh, Athos. This is all my fault. If I hadn’t defied him, humiliated him, then-”

“Then you would have married a foul man you hate and abandoned the one you love, living out whatever days Visage allowed you to live in utter loneliness and misery,” he reasoned. “The only one to blame here is Visage. And we will see to it that justice is dealt and that you may reunite with Aramis.” 

His blue eyes bore into yours until you couldn’t take it. You lowered your gaze to the forest floor. 

Athos sighed. He knew that you were still warring with yourself over your return and he was fairly certain as to why. You didn’t see yourself as the same woman Aramis loved and you were afraid, when he saw you now, changed and broken, that he wouldn’t not love you. But after the past week of his friend’s utter despair, Athos knew that there was nothing that could take Aramis’s heart from you. Not even death. 

-

He clutched the bloodstained locket like a rosary. Aramis stood a ways from the other two while they gave their horses time to rest and their lungs a moment to breathe. The trio had been searching all afternoon for Visage’s camp and, though the place the stableboy had indicated showed signs of a brief settlement, Visage and his men were long gone now. 

“Tell me where to go,” Aramis muttered, holding the necklace to his lips as if in prayer. “Help me find him, my love.” 

D’Artagnan nudged Porthos in the arm. “He’s doing it again,” he whispered. 

“What?”

“I’m worried about him.”

“We all are.” 

“I know, but look at him.” The youngest of the group motioned to their friend’s tense shoulders, trembling frame, and perpetual fighting stance. “Even if we find Visage, will it matter?”

“Y/N deserves justice,” Porthos growled. 

“And I want to get it as much as any of us,” D’Artagnan sighed, “but what is the pursuit of it going to do to him? What will be left?”

Aramis stiffened, having pretended not to hear their conversation. He turned around. 

“Let’s go. We still have a few hours of daylight. If we don’t find anything, we’ll return to the boy and force him to tell us the truth,” he said, mounting his horse. 

“He told us all he knows,” D’Artagnan reasoned. “Scaring him more won’t do us any good.”

Aramis took off his hat to run a hand through his hair. “You’re right. It would just be a waste of time. We’ll just have to search through the night.” 

D’Artagnan’s worried expression deepened, casting a glance to Porthos, who took a deep breath and nodded. 

“Let’s find this bastard,” he muttered, though the concern he shared with D’Artagnan was becoming clearer in his voice. 

Aramis urged his tired horse on with the two others trailing behind him. 

They traveled for several more hours until their horses simply refused to go any further, much to Aramis’s annoyance, who was usually very gentle with the animals. Porthos plucked a couple of apples from one of the trees and tossed one at his friend. Aramis stared at the ripe red fruit. 

“Wait,” he gasped. “How far east have we traveled?” 

D’Artagnan shrugged. “Ten, eleven miles. Why?” 

Aramis thought of a map you had once shown him of the Visage’s property. The orchard. 

“He’s here,” Aramis said. “He must be.” 

His companions exchanged the same worried look from before.

“How can you be sure?” Porthos asked. 

“This is his mother’s land. The land he inherited. He’s a coward, he would have gone somewhere familiar. He must be here.” He drew his sword. 

“We should think about this,” D’Artagnan interjected. “He practically has a small army working for him. We can’t just barge into their camp.” 

“I know that,” Aramis snapped. “I had a plan before you three insisted on coming with me.” He paused, remembering the absence of their fourth friend. The others seemed to notice as well.

“Right,” Porthos mused, “where is Athos?” 

-

You tried to urge your horse forward, the forest growing darker and darker by the minute. 

“We should stop,” Athos said, slowing his horse from its trot. “We won’t arrive back to Paris before morning anyway, we might as well get a few hours of rest.” 

“At best, Visage and Aramis are still hunting each other in circles,” you said. “At worst…” You shook your head and pulled on the reins. “We cannot stand to lose any more time.” 

“I told you. Aramis will have a plan. Even if he didn’t, D’Artagnan and Porthos can reason with him to make one. He is not alone.” His eyes softened. “And neither are you.” 

“Honestly, Athos,” you scoffed, reluctantly dismounting from your horse and sitting at the base of a tree. “You can stop looking at me like I’m going to break.” Your statement was not supported by the trembling of your hands or the way you avoided his gaze, but your tone was laced with determination. “I have to find Visage.”

Athos sat beside you with a light chuckle and a shake of his head. 

“He’s been saying the same thing.” He plucked a blade of grass and held it to the light. “Both of you, so willing to throw yourself into harm's way to save each other, even if he believes he’s doing it for your memory alone.” Athos dropped the grass, watching it flit back down to the ground. “Love.” 

“You say it as if you know it yourself.”

He shook his head. “Not anymore.” 

You laid your head on his shoulder. Staring at your hands, you removed your leather gloves, wincing as the fabric grazed your scabbing wounds and bruises. No matter how hard you tried, you could not make them still, for they twitched painfully with every breath. 

“You were right, Athos,” you whispered. “I am afraid that when I see him again… I won’t be the woman he wants anymore.” 

Athos leaned his head back against the bark, drawing his arm around you a little tighter. And though he didn’t say anything, you took comfort in his reassuring silence. He knew there was nothing he could do to dissuade your troubled thoughts any more than you could banish his painful memories. 

So instead, you both slept while, somewhere on the other side of Paris, gunshots echoed through the trees. 

-

They found them in the dark of night. A few seemed under the heavy sleep of drink, but there were still some more alert standing guard. Visage was nowhere in sight. Any exhaustion plaguing the three men dissipated with a new wave of fury-fueled adrenaline. 

A figure appeared from the largest tent, bottle in one hand and sword in the other. Even in the pitch black, the man’s arrogant swagger and barking voice gave him away. 

Visage.

Aramis stepped forward. 

D’Artagnan grabbed his arm, raising a brow. 

“Surprise is everything,” he said, recalling his companion’s words from years past. 

Aramis took a breath and nodded, though every nerve burned. Just one shot was all he needed. All of this could be over. He remembered his friends’ concerns. Once this was over, what would become of him? 

Did it even matter anymore?” 

“Those four on the left, they’re the drunkest,” Porthos pointed out. “They’ll be easy to deal with.” 

“That still leaves twenty against three. Inebriated or not,” D’Artagnan sighed. 

“All that matters is taking down Visage,” Aramis said. 

“And,” Porthos started, “not getting killed in the process.” He shrugged, “At least until Athos gets here.” 

Aramis tensed with a new surge of frustration. “Where is he? What could possibly have kept him from something as important as this?”

The other two couldn’t answer, for they had the same questions. 

A branch cracked behind them and all three bolted upward, turning to face a wall of Visage’s men. Pistols clicked, ready to fire. 

Aramis went one way, D’Artagnan the other, and Porthos down the middle. Ten men attacked from the trees, followed by the others from the camp. The musketeers fought valiantly and impressively, killing several of their opponents before Porthos was struck with the back of a musket.

“Porthos!” D’Artagnan exclaimed. 

Five men surrounded him, forcing him to drop his weapon. One slashed a sword at his side.

Another group grabbed Aramis from behind and pulled his arms behind his back until he screamed. 

“I’ve heard of the recklessness of the musketeers, but I must say I expected better,” Visage called over the commotion as the three were overtaken. 

D’Artagnan glanced over at his captive friend grimly as the men pinned them both to the ground. “Surprise would have been everything.” 

With his arms still behind him, they shoved Aramis’ face into the dirt while his anger swelled in his chest, and tried to jerk free. 

“Don’t worry,” Visage sneered, now standing over him, “you’ll be with your whore soon enough.” 

He looked the man in the eye, brought up his heel, and kicked Aramis in the back of the head. 

The world and his hopes of revenge went black. 

Visage let out a hearty, despicable laugh, pushing Aramis’ face further into the mud with his foot. 

“Get him up,” he ordered. “We’ll take him to the tree where that sniveling girl died. Let them hang there together.” He flourished a hand and smiled. “I’m feeling poetic.”

“You bastard!” D’Artagnan growled. 

The men stood him up as they lifted Porthos and Aramis into a cart nearby. He watched his friends go with a sinking heart. He had to do something. But he couldn’t fight this many men on his own, no matter how much more skilled with a sword he may be. Then, it struck him. 

Athos. 

Athos would know what to do. 

But how could he find him? 

Visage slapped him across the cheek. The sting in his face added to the growing ache in his side, but if he could just get his arms free…

“I can see why she left you,” D’Artagnan chuckled. “What woman would choose a man who lets others do his work for him? What woman could ever want to hide behind this army of mindless brutes?” He leaned forward and spat in Visage’s face. “If you want to fight, then fight me. One on one. Like men.”

The other man’s face reddened with fury. He snapped his fingers. The men holding D’Artagnan released him. 

His stomach churned as he glanced at his unconscious companions one more time. How could he just run? How could he leave them here and flee like a coward after accusing Visage of being the very same? D’Artagnan closed his eyes and remembered Aramis’ words. 

“All that matters is taking down Visage.”

If he could get help, they could defeat Visage and still, maybe, live to honor the woman they were doing this all for. 

So he ran.

As D’Artagnan dashed into the trees, a group of men started to follow him, but Visage stopped them, his laughter booming in the youngest musketeer’s ears. 

“Let the coward go,” Visage said. “He’s not the one I want.” He looked to the cart and smirked. “Now move! All of you!” The darkness in his eyes returned. Hungry and wrathful. “We can get to the spot by morning and make it a musketeer’s grave.”

-

“Hold still,” you whispered. The needle shook in your hand and you tried to force it still. 

“I’m not the one I’m worried about,” Aramis smirked. He took your arm in one hand and put the other under your chin. “You’ll do fine. I’m right here to guide you.” He tried to keep the nerves out of his voice. Frankly, he was used to being on the other side of this situation and he didn’t care to have it the other way. 

The wound on his chest continued to slowly seep with the deep scarlet liquid overtaking your vision. 

“Just take a breath and steady your hands,” he instructed, releasing your arm but keeping a hand on your cheek. He nodded. 

You began. 

Aramis breathed through a hiss as the needle pierced his flesh and you muttered a string of apologies. 

“It’s alright. Just keep going.” 

“This is ridiculous,” you almost laughed. “I’m not the one with a slash in my chest. I should be comforting you, my love.” You leaned down and kissed his forehead. Aramis directed your lips down to his, letting his kiss reassure you. 

You continued stitching until the wound was closed and the blood more or less stopped. Aramis craned his neck to examine your work. 

“I don’t believe I could have done it better,” he grinned. 

You were glad to see the color return to his face. When he’d come to you, he was pale and shaking from adrenaline. Whatever fight he’d won, was won with a cost. 

You kissed him again, this time with all of your fear and concern and startlement. Aramis’ hand cupped the back of your head, pulling you closer. 

It settled then, in both of your minds, that this was more than a mere flirtation. What began as little more than a series of private rendezvous in your bedroom had turned into something else entirely. Neither of you had intended it. In fact, it frightened both of you so much that you had to break apart to hide the panic from the other person. 

You moved to the other side of your bedroom and stood before your vanity, where a bowl of water turned pink as you scrubbed your lover’s blood from your fingers. 

Aramis watched you in the reflection and conquered his own cowardice. 

“I love you,” he whispered, the words barely making it past his lips. 

You froze. 

This wasn’t supposed to happen. But, lying there in your bed, with a wound over his heart, he realized that perhaps this was exactly what was meant to be. 

He spoke louder. “I love you.” 

“Aramis…” It took only seconds, but to you, your mind seemed to reel for hours. How could you put it into words, for those simple three didn’t seem like enough? There wasn’t a way to describe what he’d become for you. He was a wild, untamable, excitement that still somehow grounded you. Both the shelter and the storm in every wonderful way. 

You crossed the room and sat beside him. And, as you watched his dark, adoring eyes, you answered his unspoken question. 

“I love you,” you said. “Of course, I love you.” 

Your hands were steady now as you took his face in your palms and pulled his lips to yours. 

Against your skin, he whispered the same, sweet phrase you’d heard time and again, and yet, no matter how often you’d heard it, it still lit a soft flame in your heart. 

“Tu es mon paradis.”

-

D’Artagnan did not know where he was running, but somehow, he knew it was the right direction. He could feel it. The image of Porthos and Aramis in that cart fueled his sprint, even after his lungs felt as though they’d burst from exhaustion and his legs wanted to give out. Even when the wound in his side continued to throb and bleed to the point of concern.

 He would find Athos. They would get help. They would bring the wrath of the entire regiment down on the scum Visage. 

He wasn’t sure how long it had been when he heard the distinct thumps of hooves riding over fallen leaves. 

He ducked behind a tree and braced himself. Luckily, Visage’s men hadn’t had the opportunity to take all of his weapons, leaving him with a single pistol and a dueling dagger. D’Artagnan again saw his friends overtaken and despairing. He would at least take out a few of Visage’s mindless soldiers on his way to Athos.

D’Artagnan took a deep breath, loaded his pistol, and leaped out into the path with a furious cry. 

The horses alerted and reared back. 

D’Artagnan aimed.

“Wait!” A familiar voice shouted. 

The youngest musketeer met eyes with the clear blue eyes of his noble friend and a sigh of relief left his lips. 

“You have no idea how happy I am to see you,” he grinned. 

Athos met him with a grim stare. 

“D’Artagnan?” 

The other figure dismounted from their horse, still hidden by the animal’s body. But D’Artagnan knew that voice. 

You stepped out into the moonlight and D’Artagnan looked as if he’d seen a ghost. Of course, for him, he had. 

“You’re alive?” He gasped. 

You answered by taking him in your arms, the darkness in your chest lifting enough for laughter. His arms enveloped you, still stiff with shock. He pulled away to look at your face.

“But how is this possible? How could…” He trailed off, dark eyes wide and glistening. 

You laid a gloved hand on his cheek. “I will have to explain later. I’m afraid we don’t have time.” Your eyes scanned the trees behind him. Athos did the same, realizing at the same moment as you. You looked into D’Artagnan’s eyes. “Where is Aramis?” 

His gaze fell to the ground. 

Your heart sank. 

“Where is he?” 

The youngest musketeer gulped. “He and Porthos were taken by Visage. I barely escaped.” Guilt washed over his features. “I only ran so I could find help. So I could find Athos. I didn’t want to leave them. I swear. I didn’t…” He trailed off with shame in his voice. 

You put your hands on his shoulders. “If you hadn’t escaped, you wouldn’t have found us and all three of you would be dead by now,” you reasoned, though panic was rising in your throat. “The best thing now is for you to help us find them before Visage-” You stopped, unable to even think the words. 

“Did Visage say where he was taking them?” Athos asked. 

D’Artagnan tried to gather his thoughts, mind still reeling from your survival. He closed his eyes and heard that awful man’s instructions. 

“He wants to kill him at the spot that he killed-” He opened his eyes, finding yours. “Well, where he thought he killed you.” 

“That means they’re coming this way,” you exclaimed. “We can stop them on the road.” 

“Wait.” Athos held up a hand. His eyes darted between the two of you. A thoughtful smirk played on his features. “I may have a better idea.”

Athos gathered the two of you and noted every detail, every possible variation. D’Artagnan’s face lit up with a confident smile. He patted his friend on the back. Despite Visage’s numbers, it could actually work. 

You only prayed it wouldn’t be too late.

-

Aramis awoke, tied back to back with Porthos, in a wagon surrounded by at least a dozen men on foot and at least half that on horseback. He pulled at his restraints. 

“Tried that,” Porthos huffed. “No use. They know their knots.” 

“Where’s D’Artagnan?” Aramis asked. 

His friend did not answer. 

A hopeful man may have believed their young companion had escaped. But Aramis was no longer a hopeful man. 

Aramis hung his head, the claws of defeat sinking into his chest. 

“I shouldn’t have brought you into this,” he sighed. “Visage is my fight and now D’Artagnan is-”

“We don’t know that,” Porthos interrupted. He nudged Aramis’s shoulder. “And don’t start on that again. Your fight is my fight. Always has been, always will be.” Porthos leaned back as best he could, trying to give his friend a reassuring glance. “All for one, remember?” 

Aramis couldn’t bring himself to respond. 

Porthos just nodded, having enough hope for both of them. “We’ll figure it out.” His tone darkened. “And then we’ll get Visage.” Porthos’s shoulders tensed, searching the riders around them for their villainous leader. While he let his anger keep his head clear, the same couldn’t be said for his fellow captive. 

Aramis stared out at the trees behind them. 

Did Visage tie D’Artagnan up, shoot him, and beat him the way he had to Y/N? Another life gone… because of him. 

Hours must have passed, for the sun had begun to peak over the horizon. He watched it with a heavy heart and a numb mind. Perhaps it would be his last sunrise. Worse, perhaps he wanted it to be. 

“This is it,” Visage announced. 

He sneered at the empty clearing. Animals must have picked the body apart and dragged it off. Too bad. He would have liked to see the musketeer’s face when he looked upon the broken form of the woman he’d stolen. 

The wagon halted. Men roughly grabbed the two musketeers and pulled them to the ground. It took four to subdue Porthos as they cut them apart. 

Visage grabbed Aramis by the hair and forced his face toward a tree with splintered, rust-colored bark. 

“This is where she cried for you,” he sneered, pulling his head back until Aramis winced. “Where she bled and begged. Where the heart you stole stopped beating.” He threw Aramis down hard enough that when he hit the ground, he saw spots. 

He almost thought he saw movement in the trees behind Visage, but it must have been the impact of the tree trunk against his temple. 

“And now,” Visage pulled out his pistol. “It’s where I will put an end to your miserable, dishonorable, foul life.” He looked at the man before him with hate in his eyes and aimed at Aramis’ heart. 

“No!” Porthos cried, almost breaking free. Another man had to help hold him. 

Your hand shook more than it ever had before. 

“It has to be you.” Athos had said. “D’Artagnan and I must take on the other men. You will have to kill Visage.” 

But your hands wouldn’t allow you. You could hardly keep the pistol in your grip. It was as if Visage was crushing them all over again. Then you heard Aramis speak. 

“I love Y/N. I love her with every breath I’ve ever had. I love her with every beat of my heart. And I will love her after my soul has left this body because I know she loved me all the same.” Aramis took your necklace from his pocket and brought it to his lips. He stared up at Visage, whose hand quivered with rage. Aramis accepted his fate. “And not even death can take that from us.”

Visage cocked his weapon. 

You took a breath, steadied your hands, and fired. 

A shot rang through the air and a mass pushed Aramis against the tree, slamming his already pounding head against the bark. Blurred chaos broke out around him. All he could see was light. 

The pressure on his chest lifted and another figure appeared above him, enveloped by the rising sun. 

“Please wake up, my love,” said the angel. “Please, Aramis.” 

A smile spread across his lips. “I never believed I deserved heaven.” He lifted a hand to your face. “But I must be there.” 

You took his hand in yours and, forgetting the battle around you, crashed your lips into his. All sound dropped away. Everything seemed still. All vanished except for you, Aramis, and the rays of the sun. 

“You’re alive, Aramis,” you breathed against his lips. You pulled back, running your still-gloved fingers through his hair. “I’m alive.” 

Aramis stared up at you, his fingers still grazing your cheek, not believing that it was truly your flesh that he felt. Then, the shock passed, and joyous tears took its place. 

But your reunion was short-lived, for the body beside you stirred and you felt the sharpness of a blade slide across your arm. You held up a hand to defend yourself and another latched onto it with crushing strength. You cried out, feeling your bones whine in his iron grasp. 

“Impossible!” Visage shrieked, eyes blazing. He lunged at you, but Aramis rolled on top of you, shielding you with his body and dodging Visage’s strike. 

The battle around you continued. Porthos, now freed, tried to keep his focus on his opponent, though his gaze kept slipping over to you. After a moment of surprise, a victorious smile spread across his face and he fought with new vigor, a strong battle cry roaring through the trees. Athos and D’Artagnan were keeping Visage’s men at bay while their leader stumbled to his feet. 

“You have crawled up from Hell,” he spat. Blood dripped down his chin and seeped from the wound in his chest. “I killed you. I watched you die on this very spot. Demon. That’s what you are.”

“If I am anything, it is a phantom of your own making, Visage.” You stepped towards him. Aramis tried to keep you behind him, but you gave him a reassuring nod. 

Visage couldn’t hurt you now.

“It isn’t possible.” He stumbled. He held Aramis’s confiscated sword in his hand and raised it. “You are mine. Your life belonged to me. Your death is my right.” 

He moved, hands trembling weakly.

You were faster. Your sword plunged into his heart, eliciting a final gasp from his lips. He leaned forward, sinking further onto your blade. You glared at the instigator of all of your pain, the master behind your nightmares, and knew that you had one. 

“I belong to no one.” 

You drew your weapon out of his chest swiftly and watched his body fall to the ground where he believed he had killed you. 

How’s that for poetic?

You let your sword fall to your feet, blood-spattered metal glistening amongst the leaves. Something inside you burst and the emotion behind it drowned you. Relief and fear, anger and shame, love and hatred, all combined to fuel the tears that flowed freely down your face. More than ever, looking at the body of the man who made you into a killer, you knew that you were broken. 

The rest of the battle subsided- the head of the snake was severed. Visage’s men surrendered to the musketeers and Porthos and D’Artagnan gathered them into the cart to take them back to be tried for the attempted murder of several of the king’s men, as well as a close friend of Queen Anne. Visage would pay for his crimes, even after death. 

You collected yourself and removed your gloves. The bruised and scabbed state of your hands still appalled you, a symbol of everything that had been shattered inside you. You threw your gloves onto Visage’s chest, now forever still. 

“It’s real,” Aramis said, voice soft and breaking. “You’re here.”

You crossed your arms, hiding your hands as best you could. Fear kept you from turning around. The joy of seeing him had once again been replaced by the terror that kept you from revealing yourself sooner. You lifted your eyes and met the cool blue of your traveling companion the past few days. Porthos and D’Artagnan stood beside him. 

Athos saw your fear and opened his mouth to speak only to close it again. Instead, he just nodded. It gave you enough strength to face what you were truly afraid of. 

But you didn’t even have the chance to turn all the way before you were taken up into Aramis’s arms, strong and yet shaking with emotion. 

“I had wanted him to kill me,” Aramis breathed against your hair. “I did not want to walk in a world that you had been taken from. I thought I’d lost you. I thought…” He pulled away, smiling brightly through his tears. 

“I may not be the woman you loved anymore,” you cried, broken hands gripping the leather of his coat. “I’m afraid he has damaged me beyond repair. He has taken everything from me and he almost took you.” 

In the clarity after the chaos, he could see the welts and bruises, the forming scars and cruelly made marks on your skin. Aramis gently ran his finger over the bruise on your cheek, wiping away your tears. 

“Tu seras toujours mon paradis,” he whispered. Aramis kissed the bruise, then the cut on your lip, then the gash across your brow. “Not even God can change that.” He pulled you closer. “I have been granted the miracle of holding you again, my love.” He kissed your lips, a reaffirming action that filled you both with warmth. “And I don’t intend to take it for granted."

“Aramis,” you sighed, letting yourself melt into him. 

The three others joined you. As soon as you left Aramis’s embrace, you were pulled into Porthos’s. 

“I knew it’d take more than a bullet to stop ya,” he cheered, nearly lifting you off the ground. 

Aramis put a hand on his shoulder. “Yes, but she’s still injured, so be careful.”

“It’s alright.” You hugged the strong musketeer back. “I missed you too, Porthos.” 

Utter happiness and relief surrounded you, lightening your spirits and lifting your heart. Aramis kept an arm around your waist, your closeness helping him convince himself this was real. 

“We should go,” Athos said. “Captain Treville will want to hear a report and I’m sure the queen will be relieved to know her favorite artist is alive and well.” 

The musketeers nodded. It was decided that another team of men would come out and dig proper graves for Visage and his fallen soldiers. D’Artagnan gathered the horses while Porthos manned the cart. 

“Alright, you lot!” He boomed. “Anyone tries anything and you’ll be joining your master in Hell!” 

Needless to say, the men obeyed. 

You remained behind doubt and worry returning. Aramis stayed with you, brows furrowed with concern. 

“What is it, darling?” He asked. 

You stared down at your hands. They were shaking again. “My hands. I don’t know if I’ll ever paint again.” Your eyes fell to Visage once more. “Another thing he took from me.”

Aramis stepped around you, blocking your view of the body and bringing your hands to his lips, kissing them gently as he had your other wounds. 

“These hands saved my life,” he said. “I’m sure they will endure, just as you have.” 

Keeping your hands in his, the two of you walked together, leading you back home. 

-

One Year Later

“Would all of you just please hold still!” You giggled, peeking up over your canvas. 

“Aren’t you nearly finished?” D’Artagnan whined. “It’s been hours.” 

“Yeah, my limbs are all seizing up,” Porthos added. 

Aramis rolled his eyes. “Great art takes time, my friends. Let her work.” He met your gaze and winked. 

The four of them stood together, noble and daring in their uniforms, but lacking the stiff detachment that many soldier’s portraits often had. They loved each other and you tried to capture that with every stroke. D’Artagnan was right. The painting had actually been done for the past ten minutes, but you enjoyed teasing them. 

All four pairs of eyes snapped to the door and they fell into a bow. 

Your brush fell to your side with a huff. “Boys, I told you not to-” 

“How is it coming?” The queen’s voice sounded from behind you. 

You whirled around and curtseyed, face reddening. “It’s just about complete, Your Majesty.” 

Anne appeared beside you, admiring your work over your shoulder. Her smile brightened with awe. 

“It’s beautiful,” she praised, laying an affectionate hand on your arm. “It’ll make a wonderful wedding present.” 

Aramis beamed from across the room. 

Porthos held up a hand. “Speaking of which.” An excited grin spread across his and D’Artagnan’s faces. The two broke away from the others and hurried to the large table in the corner. 

“I told you not to move,” you said. 

“This’ll only take a second.” Athos followed them and Aramis walked to you. 

“They wouldn’t tell me either,” your fiance smirked. He stood on his toes, trying to peek over the top to see the painting. You swatted at his nose with your brush. 

“You will see it when it’s finished.”

“It is finished,” the queen laughed. “It is perfect.” She motioned for Aramis to come around the easel. 

“Well, now you’ve ruined my fun.” You gave Anne a mock pout. 

Aramis wrapped an arm around your waist and gazed at your work with loving admiration. 

The painting depicted the four musketeers grouped together like brothers. In front of them, you had painted a rendition of yourself working at the canvas, painting the same image. That, of course, had been his plan. While you had just wanted a normal portrait of him and his companions, he had insisted that you include yourself, somehow. 

“You’re facing away.” He noted.

“Well, I can’t very well paint my own face while I’m looking at all of yours, hm?” 

He nuzzled your cheek. “I suppose I’ll just have to commission an artist’s self-portrait so you can see how lovely you are, hm?” 

“We’ll see.” 

It had taken a long time for you to allow yourself to look in the mirror. The idea of painting a reflection of your face was not something you had in mind quite yet. 

The three others returned, holding a box and a scroll. 

“You’ll have plenty of time to work on it here,” Anne smiled. 

Athos held out the box while the other two unrolled the scroll. It was a blueprint. A blueprint for an artist’s studio and a home to match. 

Aramis’s jaw fell and you turned to the queen. 

“What is this?”

“Consider it a wedding present of my own to the both of you.” 

Porthos cleared his throat. 

“Our present,” Anne corrected. “It was these noble gentlemen’s idea. I merely funded it.” 

“Which was greatly appreciated, Your Majesty,” Athos said. He bowed again, the others following suit. 

“I don’t know how to ever repay you,” Aramis said. “Any of you.” He pulled you fully into his arms. His miracle. His world. “Thank you.” 

“After everything the two of you went through, it is the least I can do to contribute to your future happiness.” Anne retrieved a quill from your station and handed it to you. “It shall be a great house and a great house needs a name.”

Aramis chuckled. “I am no nobleman, Your Majesty.”

“You are all more deserving than any nobleman I’ve ever met,” she argued. “Believe me, this is more than deserved.” She leaned to you. “Besides, it’s fun.” 

You looked to your fiance and to his friends- your friends- and beamed. You took the quill in your hand, now bearing a simple and perfect ring promising you to the man you loved. Aramis smiled and kissed your cheek, standing behind you as you signed your future home’s title. 

Heaven. 

[flamingo-writes]

Hello Flamingo!!! how are you? I hope ok.

This is an idea that came to my head a few weeks ago, if you'd like to write it, it's up to you! I hope you like it💕

Reader who was generating a great addiction to the medications that were prescribed for his anxiety and depression, adding other types of addictions such as cigarettes or alcohol, meets Hobie/Spider-Punk and helps they with this problem, empathizing with their situation, Hobie would visit Reader from time to time to ask how things are going or develop some kind of relationship with they.

I think it's an essence of Hobie that you don't often see and I think it's something he would do quite often.

I am finally replying to this! Jesus, I am so SORRY for the delay!

I absolutely loved this request! And I learned so much about addictions during my research. And got google constantly concerned offering me hotlines every google search.

Flirting With An Addiction — Hobie x GN!Reader

Title based of the song Particles by Nothing But Thieves. Love this band, love this song, helped me set the mood for the angsty parts. Especially any live or acoustic version 😭

A/N: i have to clear some stuff first, because some of you are too quick to feel victimised. I do not specify colour nor gender of the reader. I do mention the reader looks pale at some point. Now, because it happened to me once, that someone tried to get sassy with me because dark skin can’t get pale, yes, yes it can. If you have a heartbeat you can get pale, period. Pale is not only a synonym for white, paleness is a medical term used to describe the loss of normal colour in skin or membranes. Pale is a way to describe someone who presents paleness. If you have dark skin, you can still get pale when you’re sick.

Warnings: drug consumption, needles, depictions of several withdrawals symptoms like stomach issues (emetophobia), depression, anxiety,

Word count: 2.7K

Hearing from your parents first hand that you had gone missing was the worst that could have happened to Hobie Brown. You were his favourite person, his best friend, his go to confidant, his partner in crime. And hearing you had gone missing felt like the ground on his feet started crumpling down. His lungs ran out of breath as he mouthed:

"What?”

And your mother explained, drowning in her own tears. And even as she did, he couldn’t understand what was coming out of her mouth, as a horrendous buzz was drilling his brain. He simply heard: "drugs" "weed" "ecstasy" "used needle" "gone". His stomach turned, making him feel nauseous as he couldn’t find anything to say to your parents other than:

"I’m so sorry" he said. "I could’ve helped them" he said. "I wasn’t there for them," he said. And with that, he was gone. Somewhere along the line, he put his mask back on and took off.

Pav and Gwen were there with him when it happened. What started as an innocent hangout at his place, turned into a search party. When Hobie thought of inviting you over as well and realising you weren’t picking up the phone in your house, he decided to look for you. You weren’t at your place, you weren’t at his, your coworkers said you hadn’t showed up for work in three days, and that’s when he went to your mother.

"They’ve been gone for the last five days…" were the last things he heard before that painful buzz started echoing in his head.

He took off. And he’d never swung so fast in his entire life. Pav and Gwen didn’t even have the chance to exchange glances when both of them were running after him. "Running". Between not being familiarised with Old York’s building distribution, nor being familiarised with the streets, they had absolutely no clue where Hobie was heading. They simply guessed Hobie knew where you were.

Boy, we’re they wrong.

Hobie had not the faintest clue where you were. He had a notion of where you could be. But with every fibre in his body he wished he was wrong. "Used needle" was perhaps his best clue, and possibly the one that terrified him the most.

He had a pretty decent notion of where the most famous crack houses were. He’d grown in the streets, of course he knew. More than once he’d been in them, not to make business, but because he was looking for something or someone, or doing Spider-Man duties. And truth was, the very last person he thought he’d ever go looking into a crack house was you.

As he arrived to the first one and kicked the door open, the few junkies there flinched, expecting to see a copper. But instead they saw Spider-Man. He looked around. Pushers, burnouts, and crunched junkies passed out on the floor. Some, Hobie wasn’t even sure they were still alive. He walked around looking for you.

Pav and Gwen caught up with him, and soon realised what was going on. Hobie did not know where you were, he was looking for you. Gwen didn’t have much experience with the darker side of her New York, she was creeped out. Pav, on the other hand, was the youngest of the gang. And he’d been Spider-Man for so little, he hadn’t had the misfortune to end up in the lower parts of Mumbattan. Pav was terrified.

"Hobie?” Gwen asked as he quickly walked out of the flat.

"Not ‘ere" He mumbled, more to himself and took off again.

It went on like that for the next few hours. Crack house after crack house. Desperately looking for you, whether you were baked out of your mind, or simply OD. But the fact that with every place he went to, his chances of finding you grew narrower and narrower, he didn’t know what he preferred. To find you dead on the floor of one of those nasty places, or not finding you at all. With each location, Hobie’s anxiety grew, his movements became clumsier, rougher, even more aggressive.

"Hobie, wait—" Pav yelled after the fifth crack house.

But Hobie didn’t stop. He listened, but his mind was rushing with adrenaline, hyper focusing on his task at hand: finding you.

The guilt accumulated in his chest, weighting more and more with every passing minute. Why was he even feeling guilty for? It’s not like he’d given you the drugs, and forced a needle up your arm. But he knew you had problems with loneliness, he knew about your consuming anxiety and your seasonal depression. He knew you had a strange relationship with your medication. He knew you were picking up a liking for recreational drugs. Harmless stuff like weed and shrooms. Acid at most. He should’ve imagined you’d eventually try to stray into the drugs you swore never to mess with. Ice, dust, junk…He should’ve guessed something like this was going to happen. But he was busy. He was busy being Spider-Man, he was busy jumping between universes. He was busy helping others, but not helping you. Not when he knew you had it rough. That guilt consumed him. He was busy helping everyone else, but you. He was busy helping people from another universe, but not that one person who he considered his family, his world. And boy, that guilt was drowning him.

Was it good luck or bad luck when he found you? He couldn’t tell. He felt his blood turn cold the moment he saw you.

Despite the pale look on your face, and the dark circles under your eyes, but you looked so peaceful. Lying on a dirty mattress, eyes closed, mouth slightly open, relaxed face. You looked so beautiful in the most disturbing way. Thinner than what Hobie remembered. And so terrifyingly still. Were you alive and lost in some euphoric dream? Or were you dead? It was hard to tell. You didn’t seem to be breathing.

Hobie rushed to your side, and he quickly checked your pulse. He called your name, almost in a desperate cry as his eyes quickly teared up behind his mask with the most suffocating feeling of powerlessness and incompetence that he’d ever felt washed over him. You groaned in response, unable to form coherent words and simply stuck to noises, your mind was far too dissolved, drowned in heroine, trapping you in a haze.

He checked your pulse. He checked your breathing. Your eyes of course were almost completely black due to the high. And you had a couple of marks on your arms from needles. Hobie didn’t even dare to count them, the less he knew about your newfound addiction the better for him, or so he thought. He looked around and next to the mattress there were various classic heroine use paraphernalia, making Hobie’s throat close.

"No, no, no, no baby…" Hobie whispered as he stared at you as you lied there, relaxed and heavy in his arms. He pulled his mask off to better look at you. For you to look at him if you were there by any chance. "Not heroine, why heroine…" He whispered as he pulled you closer and kissed your forehead. "You knew heroine wasn’t to be messed with, one time is fine, two makes you an addict, sweet’eart…" He purred with his lips pressed against your skin.

"Hobie…" Gwen said gently touching his shoulder.

"We have to go," Hobie said at once as he carried you.

Once in his boathouse, Hobie gently set you down on his bed as he sat on the edge and stared at you attentively. His eyes looking miserable, as he caressed your cheek delicately.

"Hobie?” Pav said, slowly walking inside his room. "We’re very sorry…"

"I am too…" He murmured in response.

"Can we help?” Gwen asked softly.

Hobie was ready to tell them to leave him alone for a while, when he actually thought of something.

"Yes…"

He then gave them a short shopping list with food and over the counter painkillers and some medication for stomach issues. It seemed very random to them, but in that moment Hobie thought he’d keep you in his boat and help you through your detox. At least as long as he could. A week or two, to start, and from then, he’d improvise along the way.

His impulsive and spontaneous thought of keeping you there over the period of detox didn’t really prepare him for the absolute torture it turned out to be.

To him, it was terribly, awfully, agonisingly painful. Watching you suffer like that. The way you whined and curled up on his bed, crying in silence from the pain, dealing with the tummy issues. The nausea, the not being able to leave the bathroom, looking weak, constantly upset, the shivering, and awful ups and downs in your anxiety and your mood.

Everything hurt, your head, your limbs, every muscle in your body, your stomach, even organs you couldn’t exactly pin point where they were, now you could because of the sharp pain. Even the smell of food made you excruciatingly nauseous, and puke green bile across the room, even feeling nausea was painful. It was hell. You were dying, you were sure your entire body was shutting down and you were going to die in this aching hell. Too anxious to sleep, to weak to move, too nauseous to do as much as roll over on the bed, too shaky to even be able to hold things in your hands. Sometimes you didn’t even feel your limbs at all for hours.

He could only imagine how it was like for you. How it was going inside your head. But sitting and watching was awful for him. He wanted to help, and from an objective point of view he knew he was helping, but he didn’t want you to hurt. He wished time and time again that he was able to take that pain away from you. The first three days were the peak of your suffering. And there was nothing Hobie could do other than keep an eye on you and get you what you needed.

When the physical symptoms started to subside, when you were able to keep food in your stomach, and when you stopped complaining about everything hurting, the psychological symptoms began. The consuming guilt and anxiety, the fear of showing up at work or at your parents’ house, the fear of the disappointment. Pitying yourself, pulling yourself down into that depressive hole you’d been digging.

Crying every night before going to bed became a recurrent event. You crying your heart out as Hobie held you tightly in his arms, comforted you until you’d fall asleep. You cried several times a day, but the one before bed was always the worst.

And soon, it became a recurrent event. Hobie keeping you all in one piece, as you cried and your heart broke all over again. His long yet strong and warm arms managed to hold you together every single night. Soon, sleeping together became a habit. And more than a habit, soon, Hobie’s company became a better painkiller than the pills you took. His scent managed to soothe the nausea which was thankfully decreasing with every day. His warmth seemed to help you control the shivers and the goosebumps. His voice quieted down the mean anxious thoughts in your brain. His company drifted you to sleep for several hours without waking up with tachycardia and short breath.

Falling asleep in his arms became just the right medication, although the long term effects were still there. But they were much bearable. The mornings were the best time of the day. First thing in the morning, drowned in the aftermath of that sleepy haze, you’d always find yourself staring at Hobie.

He didn't like mornings, he wasn’t a morning person. But something about seeing him sleep, his face relaxed, thick lips slightly parted, and the dim sunlight hitting his face, making him look absolutely gorgeous. Had he always been this attractive? Easy, yes; he had always been an attractive lad. But had you always felt that feeling in your heart? That was new. And you were sure it was not the usual tachycardia you’d get from the drugs, but something Hobie did unconsciously.

"You know it’s real creepy that you stare at people while they sleep…” He whispered softly as he woke up slowly, opening his eyes slowly and seeing you staring at him with a subtle and sweet smile on your lips.

"Shut up" You chuckled.

"How are you feeling?" His voice was low and raspy, still creeping with sleep.

"Better…although that might change in a couple of hours" You sighed, already getting mentally ready for the awful up and downs in your mood and anxiety.

"I’m sorry"

"That my life now, I guess"

"It’ll get better…it’s been getting better hasn’t it?" He immediately added as he looked at you, slightly more awake, taking in the details of your face, as you were snuggled next to him, most of your body touching his, sharing the same comforting heat.

"Yeah I think so" You purred.

"Hey, I’ve got you, okay? Not letting you fall again into that dark place"He whispered, leaning forward, bumping his forehead against yours, as one of his hands caressed you cheek, making your heart skip a beat.

"Thank you" You closed you eyes, as you savoured this sweet intimate moment with Hobie.

"Don’t mention it, luv"

"But I mean it…" You whispered. "You’ve been basically the entire time here…keeping an eye on me…ignoring your Spider-Man duties…I’ve heard you argue with that Miguel guy over your watch…"

"He can fuck off," He said with a cheerful whisper and a chuckle "he’s got another hundreds of spider-people at his service, he doesn’t miss me, he just likes to be patronising…"

"I still appreciate it very much…" Your eyes opened slowly with your statement as you stared into his eyes, and he seemed to immediately get lost in yours.

"No problem…I’d do anything for you…"

You both stared into each other’s eyes. And something about his eyes was slightly different. The eyes you grew up looking at, those eyes you knew how to read perfectly, almost being able to read his thoughts, now had something slightly different about them. Something that made your heart race and your cheeks grow hot. Something Hobie saw reflected in your own.

And you both read each other’s minds. And you both leaned forward without having to be told. Closing your eyes, you felt your breath leave your lungs when you felt his warm lips against yours.

Hobie wasn’t by any means a slow tender guy, he was the passionate dude who knew how to use his tongue. Not this time. This time he felt the world stop, time stop, and all there was, was you. And he wanted to savour it. He kissed you slower than he was used to. The kiss was gentler than what he was used to. He was used to kissing strangers, perhaps someone he shared chemistry with, but never really someone he cared for as much as you. This felt far more special, far more unique. This felt like something he could get addicted to, and something he wanted to relive often.

As he broke the kiss slowly, catching his breath, he opened his eyes and stared at you as you remained with your eyes closed, still processing what you’d felt. He smiled and bumped his forehead against yours.

"I promise you, you’ll be alright, okay? I’ll make sure you’re safe and sound…even if it kills me" He reassured you.

"Please don’t say that," You murmured.

"What?" He chuckled.

"Anything that’s in some way related to you dying," Hobie chuckled, thinking your concerns were very cute, although very understandable as well.

"Fine…" He replied "I’ll make sure you’re safe and sound even if…it’s a near death experience…better?"

“No, not really…" You chuckled, "but I appreciate the effort

"Hey, you mean so much to me, you know that?"

"You mean mean so much to me too…"

[seradyn]

Royal Respite and Midnight Melody!

The two I’m most excited about 🤤🤤

I’m going to start with Midnight Melody cause I wAnT tOO

This is a short one shot I thought of when I reexamined some of Astarion’s lines post Cazador. When the player asks how he feels directly following the event, he explains he feels ‘numb’. From my own experience and what I’ve learned about surviving abuse, often people can struggle coping with a world where their abuser is out of the picture, because so much of their life was consumed by them, either physically or mentally. We see this not only in Astarion, but in Karlach too, who has similar feelings after Gortash’s death, because all the rage she built up around him has nowhere to go. It’s still there, but now it’s trapped inside without an outlet, instead of being healed when her abuser went away like they think it should have.

Astarion is the same way; without Cazador, where is he supposed to direct all his energy, his hatred, his rage over what happened to him? It’s still there, even though he’s dead, and it’s not fair. I wouldn’t be surprised if he struggled with his purpose after Cazador’s death. This happens with real survivors too; their whole world revolved around their abuser for so long, once they’re gone they just feel so empty and lost.

This fic is a take on that, where reader helps reassure Astarion that he doesn’t have to know what he wants right now, and they’re more than happy to help him figure it out. He tells them he doesn’t have a heart to guide him, but that’s not true. Is it not reader’s blood that flows through his veins? Does reader’s heart not beat for him? They remind him, hold his head gently to their chest so he can listen, can hear the heartbeat that is not only theirs, but one they give freely to him, too.

Basically more tooth rotting fluff and non sexual intimacy. Baby boy just needs to be held and I’ll be damned if I don’t smother him in affection. He deserves it.

Here is snippet:

~

“It’s nothing serious, of course…” he said quietly. Another lie, but you didn’t say anything, simply cradling his hand to your chest, a precious and fragile part of him. It gave him time to work up the courage to continue.

“It’s just that…When I was under Cazador,” he hissed the name, fangs poking out over his bottom lip, “every thought I had, everything I did was for him. He dominated us, mind, body and soul, and used that dominance to make our whole world about him.”

His eyes were wild with anger, that grimace back on his face, because it was so much worse to say it out loud, to acknowledge how much of his life belonged to his old master. You squeezed his hand to encourage him to keep going. This needed to come out, lest he push you away to protect you from the rot that did naught but burrow and consume down into his being.

“Even after the nautiloid, he inhabited so much of my thoughts,” he went on, his voice slightly rasped and shaking. “Though instead of fear or obedience, it was anger and determination to kill him. Even when he lost control of me, all I could think about was him. Even with his body rotting in the dirt, I cannot get him out of my head.”

“And now that he’s gone…I can’t help but wonder…what am I supposed to do?” His eyes filled with sorrow then, displeasure with himself. “With Cazador dead…I find myself losing all sense of direction.”

Your heart broke for him, jagged pieces of it left on the floor for you to step on. You cupped Astarion’s cheek, lifting his face to look at you. His eyes were wide, glistening in the dim candlelight as they filled with pain and worse: self loathing. You didn’t need the tadpole to hear that treacherous little voice in his head, one you knew like an old friend that whispered pathetic, worthless, weak. You knew he wanted to protect you, wanted to give you the life you deserved, yet he hadn’t the faintest idea how to do that, where to even start, and it pained him.

Gently, allowing him to pull back if he so desired, you led him into your arms, wrapping them around him so you could rub at the tension in his back. He nearly collapsed into your embrace in relief, immediately wrapping his own arms around you and crushing you to him. You massaged his shoulder blades while he pressed needy, frantic kisses into your hair, afraid you might pull away and leave should he stop.

“It’s okay not to know,” you said into his chest, kissing his sternum. “We can figure it out together. I’ll always be here with you, no matter what future you decide you want.”

He let out a tense breath, burying his face in your neck. “I know,” he mumbled. “I know whatever future awaits, I want you to be a part of it.” He leaned back, just enough that he could meet your eyes, so you could see into the dark abyss where his mind lingered. “The problem is, I don’t know what I want our future to look like. What I want it to look like.”

It was then you fully realized that what Astarion had been feeling since the confrontation with Cazador was lost. So, so lost, in a world without his master to contend with. The hopelessness you heard on his tongue was a knife piercing your tender heart, a sharp pain burning through your chest as it tried to beat around it, blood gushing from the wound and radiating out across your skin. What was freedom to one who didn’t know how to live with it, didn’t know how it felt? Though his chains had been broken, the memory of them still pulled him down and suffocated him. You wished so deeply to spare Astarion this pain, for he lived so long in the shadows of the world, you wanted to shower him in the light until he was blinded.

Abruptly, he shook his head, a growl ripping past his lips as he pulled himself away from you. It should be so easy, to move on and enjoy life now that he was allowed to. His desires could be fulfilled, instead of remaining the desperate wishes of a slave who longed for escape. The world was his for the taking, his life his own once more.

So why did he still feel so broken?

“Now that I’m free, I’m supposed to be able to do whatever I want. Follow my heart, as our companions said.” He spit the words; they tasted foul in his mouth.

“How am I supposed to know what I want without a heart to guide me?”

~

I’ll send you the full version once the first draft is done. Hope you like it 💕

Royal Respite has a similar vibe, and is also pure tooth rotting fluff/non sexual intimacy. It’s a one shot in which reader gives Ardyn a massage after he delivers the peace treaty proposal to the Lucian council. Just letting reader dote on him while he talks about his day, and letting him relax before everything goes to shit, basically. Ardyn has been working to make this plan come true for literally decades. I think he deserves some rest before it fully comes to fruition.

No snippet for this one yet, since I’ve been hyper focused on some of my Astarion fics *cough* see above *cough* but hopefully it doesn’t take too long to get on paper. You’ll be the first to know when there’s a rough draft 💕

[scribespirare]

anon who asked about requests here!! if you want a flower gang request/idea/prompt, more on pregnant miles and milk?

aahhhh im writing again so I finally got to this, sorry for how long it took! i'm opening requests again fully now at least?

Miles’ breasts started to swell basically from day one. It was actually his first clue to his pregnancy even before his scent began to change; the sudden tenderness of his chest, the way his nipples practically ached at every brush of Miguel’s lips.

By month two he had gone from an A-cup, the faintest plumpness to his chest that fit his lithe, athletic build, to a C-cup. Almost a handful according to Miguel. But considering how fucking huge the Alpha was, Miles regarded that observation with the derision it deserved.

At month four Miles’ back was already starting to kill him and his DD-cups threw off his balance even more than the new belly he was starting to grow. It was almost a relief at that point when he pulled his newly bought bra off at the end of the day and found damp spots on the inside of it.

“Miguel!” he called, wriggling out of the rest of his clothes and kicking them towards the hamper, not bothering to try and bend over to pick them up. Thankfully his Alpha was willing to follow him around and pick up the small chores that Miles was starting to struggle with and Miles was one hundred percent willing to take advantage of that. How anyone with large breasts managed to get vigorous physical activities done was beyond him.

His Alpha was in the doorway seconds later, face creased slightly in concern as he looked Miles up and down. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Miles said, putting his hands at the small of his back and arching to stretch. Of course Miguel’s eyes tracked the movement. “My milk’s coming in and I’m hoping expressing it will make my chest stop aching. Help me?”

Miguel relaxed, tension bleeding from the wide shoulders and mouth tilting up on one side to reveal a hint of fang. “It’s early, you probably won’t be able to produce much. And you’re sore because they’re growing, not because of the milk. It probably wouldn’t do much to help.”

“Oh, are you an Omega specialist now?” Miles quipped, rolling his eyes. “Either suck on my nipples or don’t big guy, don’t need the commentary.”

He was swept off his feet so quickly that Miles gasped, followed by a loud laugh. “Asshole!” he cried, batting at the arm that was tucked under his ass.

“Stop being a brat and I’ll stop manhandling you,” Miguel said with utmost patience, even as he lowered Miles onto their bed. There was a time when he would have tossed Miles onto it, and Miles would laugh as he was pounced on, the mattress bouncing under their combined weights. But Miguel was so careful with him these days, loving even when he was being an ass by carting Miles around like a sack of flour.

Settled with his back propped up on pillows, Miles leaned back and let his mate position them how he wanted. And apparently what he wanted was to curl against Miles’ side, cupping the breast closest to him and squeezing the generous flesh gently.

“You know if you didn’t love them so much I’d be really self-conscious about how big my breasts have gotten,” Miles said casually, and it was true.

“They’re gorgeous,” Miguel told him, squeezing again. “Just like the rest of you.” When he lowered his head and sucked Miles’ nipple into his mouth, the Omega gasped, spine arching and eyes squeezing closed in a grimace. It wasn’t painful per say, but he was incredibly sensitive and the gentle but rhythmic pulling of his mate’s mouth was a lot to handle.

“Oh fuck,” he said, then repeated it again a moment later with a hell of a lot more emphasis when a sudden tingling started in his shoulder and then flowed downwards. Miguel made a small noise and sucked harder, until Miles whined and tugged at his hair in complaint. “God I can’t decide if that feels good or not.”

Miguel, looking completely content, cracked open an eye to take in Miles’ expression as he ghosted a hand down over the Omega’s belly bump. Miles didn’t complain, just let his thighs fall open with a little sigh. He wasn’t wet but it only took Miguel’s thumb gently circling his clit for that first rush of warmth to run through him. Within a few minutes Miguel was sliding two thick fingers inside him and Miles was moaning, running his fingers through his Alpha’s hair in encouragement. Despite Miguel’s doubts, expressing the milk really was easing some of the ache in Miles’ breast. He could feel a physical difference between them, his left still full and tight and the other throbbing sweetly, pleasure a warm current just under his skin.

“Switch sides,” Miles murmured, wanting to relieve the last of his aching.

With a small audible pop, Miguel pulled off his breast. A small orange bead still clung to Miles’ nipple and the Alpha gave him one last lick to catch it on his tongue. The milk had a warm, sweet scent that bloomed between them.

“Feels good?” Miguel asked, even as he pulled his fingers free and shifted so he could reach the other breast.

“Very,” Miles sighed, watching through half-lidded eyes as Miguel took those wet fingers and swiped them over his untouched nipple. Spreading Miles’ slick over the sensitive flesh before licking it right back up. “You look like you’re enjoying yourself just as much.”

“Mm,” was Miguel’s only response, a small noise of agreement. He pulled the nipple into his mouth and repeated the gentle suction until Miles felt that tingling once more, his milk letting down. He groaned softly, then groaned again when Miguel flicked his clit and pushed back inside him.

“Fuck, you take such good care of me, Alpha,” Miles murmured, closing his eyes and letting himself go lax. His mate didn’t reply except to rub circles into Miles’ clit with his thumb, making the Omega’s thighs start to tremble.

By the time Miguel was done nursing on him, Miles had come twice and was completely boneless in their bed. Forget taking advantage of Miguel’s willingness to clean up after him, the Alpha was never going to be allowed to unlatch from Miles’ nipples ever again.

[loquaciousquark]

hello again, question two incoming! i was thinking about my tav and astarion and boundaries each of them would set with each other—ness got dragged alone into the illithid oubliette, sent to chult, and then sucked into the djinni's lamp in lorroakan's tower and astarion is Very Done with his glass canon sorcerer gf being imperiled while he's helpless about it—and i remembered your fic "this lethal light falls softly", where astarion sets kind of a similar boundary when tavish comes back from being in avernus way longer than intended. my question is kind of twofold, firstly what is it with astarion and girlfriends who disappear on him, and then more seriously, what are some other boundaries tavish and astarion have to set with each other? is it easy for them to draw those lines, or is it always a kind of fraught conversation, like it was in the fic where astarion was threatening to leave tavish? do those boundary-drawing conversations change after the netherbrain is defeated and they're not constantly fighting for their lives? i imagine you can swallow some things easier when you're mostly just worried your partner could die at any minute, lol

LOVE THIS. Poor Ness. Poor Astarion! In a meta sense, I think it's just great to see someone who explicitly avoided caring about people for a couple of centuries be forced to confront that he actually cares about someone...a lot now, and all the wonder & horror that comes with that. There's a certain kind of impotence that comes with that level of waiting & being able to do exactly nothing to mitigate it, and I like seeing Astarion grapple with it & decide: yes, it's worth the pain to stick around anyway, that the love matters more. It sucks for him, for sure, but man is it a good time for me! :D

In terms of boundaries, I think both Astarion & Tavish are extremely terrible at both articulating, implementing, and occasionally respecting them. Tav had a healthy upbringing until she was about twelve, and then her entire teenage & young adult life was built around getting close enough to people to rob them, first under the direction of her horrible aunt, and then on her own after she killed her. Even the Thieves' Guild, where she wanted desperately to be, didn't find her appealing enough to accept, so she very quickly learned that absolutely no one cared if she lived or died, that family, friends, & lovers would take off the moment she couldn't give them what they wanted, and that the only way to guarantee someone would stick up for her would be if she brought some sort of unique utility to the table. I don't think she ever broke any major boundaries for anyone because she never got close enough for them to matter.

Likewise, Astarion's entire known history is messily tied to utility and what (who) he could provide for Cazador. However, his job, for lack of a better word, explicitly relied on him pushing boundaries at every opportunity. He must get the person who's hesitant to follow him into a dark alley to come with him anyway. He must get someone so drunk that they make incredibly stupid decisions & sleep with him despite their better judgement. He must find the person already having a terrible day and be that listening ear, manipulating them so much in the process that they lean on his opinion and recommendations over their own. The luxury of a healthy relationship is so far outside his realm of experience, I don't think he has the faintest idea what do with it when he finds himself in one, like a dog who's actually caught a car.

The turn for him, therefore, must be the realization that he cares for Tav's wellbeing above his own. He's at last found something to care about and protect besides himself, something he'd die to save, and that means that after two hundred years, his own needs and wants must come secondary to his desire to make Tav happy.

For Tav, it's the opposite. She's spent so long believing herself unlovable that I don't think she really understands how much Astarion cares until very late in the endgame. She isn't trying to make things hard for him; she just genuinely doesn't realize she's hurting him. That would require her to understand that she has intrinsic value as a person to him, even outside of what utility she can provide, & she's bad at understanding that.

In that vein, I don't think Tav is capable of articulating hard boundaries for herself for a long time. She has things she likes & dislikes, of course, but for someone so used to desperately reshaping herself to be small, to be easy, to be lovable in the hopes that someone would want to stick around eventually, her go-to response is not to ask someone to stop doing something, it's to literally retrain herself to find that thing not that bad in the first place. It's only because Astarion is extremely good at quick-reading people that he picks up on it after a while & realizes this is what she's doing.

I do think at some point post-game he has a very clear sit-down with her where he makes her clearly state some things he's doing that seriously bother her, not just so he can stop doing them but so she can get used to putting voice to her wants in the first place. However, because he's him, I do think he's snippy and catty about it the whole time. They aren't serious complaints; he just knows his cattiness makes Tav laugh & he wants her to trust him--to trust that he loves her, sure, but also to trust him to stay even when she's irritated at him. He needs her to understand she's not going to chase him off by asking him to change his behavior. (Also a novel thing for him: that he is willing to change his own behavior for someone else, just because they ask. Because her happiness matters more to him than him "winning" an argument by being sarcastic & cutting, and it turns out that hurting her to win makes the win sour and bitter anyway & he doesn't enjoy it.)

Astarion is just the opposite. I think for a while he can't help but react every time he butts up against something he doesn't like, both from the novelty of being able to say no & as part of his attempts to figure out exactly what denials are worth the effort. In this way I think Tav is very well-suited to him; she's very patient regarding this kind of thing thanks to her own flaws (especially since she understands what he's doing, even if he doesn't). She doesn't mind at all kind of contorting herself around his changeable boundaries while he figures out what he actually does & doesn't want, and since they don't have the end of the world hanging over their heads anymore, there's no time pressure aside from her own mortality. Besides, she can tell which ones he really cares a lot about (her leaving without warning, her endangering herself on his behalf without his knowing, the period where they're not sleeping together in Act 2/3) vs. the ones he doesn't really care about & are really just unconscious tests (her leaving her shoes all over the floor, the way she fiddles with things all the time when she's bored, the way too many sweets makes her blood less tasty, etc.). It's not a way I think she could live forever, but because he does change over time and he does get better and he does clearly learn from his mistakes, she's willing to be patient on her part while he figures things out.

Eventually, as they settle into a routine and become more comfortable navigating each other's needs as well as their own, he learns he doesn't have to say no to everything and she learns she can say no at all. It's a lot of work for both of them, but they both care deeply about the other's success and happiness, and they're both willing to put in the effort to make something that'll last.

Ahh, this was wonderful to get to ramble on about. Thank you so much for asking! <3<3<3

[plasticfangtastic]

Can we be lonely Together?

A Homelander x Stalker!Reader fan fiction

This is my first fic for this fandom (and in a decade lol) this is a bit of a slow burner and will have about 8 to 9 chapters.

This is a Gender Neutral reader (but honestly is just me shipping Homelander with Joe Goldberg... so feel free to see it as a crossover, just not going to make it clear at all in the fic.)

Summary: We were two mouses pretending to be cats, weren't we?

We didn't expect to find ourselves in this situation, but John... Homelander... you were perfect... none of this was a lie, these feelings I got are genuine! So I don't know why you're using such words like: Stalker, Psychotic bitch, Insane, liar! To describe me... after all I've done? To help you!?

You were wrong.

I just yearned to get closer to you. So what if I did my homework? After all it was you who played along.

I knew you knew... you were so loud.

R18+ (there will be smut, drug abuse and gore in later chapters) gore, stalking, killing.

Chapter One

Apologies

It pains me to say this… I'm genuinely ashamed, embarrassed more like it! To admit that I genuinely wasn’t impressed by you. 

        Your face had been painted on every surface to death... It has grown boring.

       Nothing but an overbearing presence to the common man, but the average citizen didn’t loathe you, fear you, hate you or even found you pastiche! They simply adored you. 

        Your face was plastered on everything one could imagine and then some– I’m not just talking mugs by the Target checkout area or birthday cards, and keychains, but sausage packages in the supermarket! Your face wasn’t all that special to me… I used to think of you as nothing more than an aged jock from a John Hughes movie, the tights didn’t fool me, you wore the varsity jacket underneath the foam-- I had bets that you were going to be the worst the world could’ve manufactured if I ever met you.

Now… Now I see… I was wrong… contrite is the word that describes this social faux-paux of mine. 

Now I see… just how… unique you were-- the whole world didn’t have the faintest idea of just the sheer amount of bullcrap you had to endure everyday. Gosh I couldn’t even fathom being in your shoes, the fantasy alone proved heavy, and you had to do it all while looking more well adjusted and prim than Princess Diana during her divorce.

I’m sure you’ll be so divine in that revenge dress too.

I mean… you sort of knew you looked good in women's clothes, Is okay I like adventurous men… I’ll admit  I might've dressed you a couple times in my head… but don’t worry! It was all flattering.

Which in terms of flattering things… it's a shame that this is how you catch me, how we end this farce, this game of pretends... today you could be the cat… I wish at least I had the time to wrap up the plastic sheets, or wash all this off me.

I feel the weight hit my foot directly, I barely wince, but I’m not taking my eyes off of you, feeling wet bubbles and gurgles tickling my bare toes– all I want is to give you decades worth of misplaced attention to those red eyes of yours… I seen your face in a million different ways, but never had I seen it in such vivid technicolor-- There’s no red that can quite match your eyes… as they watch me from this eighteen story window, inside an apartment smaller than your closet (that’s New York city for you kids). I can admit to having fantasized being on the receiving end, it would be fitting for me, us.

This building is so loud, it overwhelms us both, but unlike you right now I don’t have to listen to the upstairs neighbors petty grievances, the next door lady wondering where her kid is at these ungodly hours, the stoner in the elevator, or the homeless man wondering if his dollar store hooch was tainted with something because right now there was the freaking Homelander hovering above him! So I listen to her… right at my feet… gargling… hacking… I didn’t cut deep enough, and we both can hear it… knife still in my hand, her mind is nothing but the flashing lights of a faraway train, it’s ever so silent as the train drives off, all she can think off is a trip to europe when she was a child, and the snow devoured the sun and the music, it was just her, the train, the snow and us now.

“‘Is not what it looks like?’ Is that what you want to say?”

yeah. I mean… Can I? I licked the knife clean as if it was residuals from an apple, trying not to roll my eyes at you.

“Evening… John… Homelander.” My hand is on the window latch letting the cold breeze in, your eyes suffocating me just like the bitch behind us…  I almost whimpered as they lost their candor giving me back blue moons– What brings you here?”

You points behind me, unable to believe I just said that, I give way for you.

Always staring at me– I want to hear your thoughts… for the first time in all my years of life I am yearning to listen, feeling every particle of my being falling apart as they're begging me to listen to your thoughts once more… but I can’t… Right now I’m in Finland, is winter, is cold-- everything you aren’t… because I am sorry… I pry so much.

The way you watch me isn’t undressing me further, I am mostly bare, just underwear and sweat and my soul too tainted for you to want to seek, I can’t make sense of that smirk on your lips that has only now begun to reach your eyes… this somehow has amused The Homelander, your laugh scares me far more than your ray-guns– are you mocking me!? No you…you wouldn't be, you’re gentleman after all, if you wanted to mock me… you would treat me like Miss Barrett, or Kevin.

I mean… I don’t want you to hate me. We are perfect for each other. We would be perfect… so just… let me… explain.

“Where do you like me to start?”

Your foot crushed the skull leaving it nothing but a gummy, clumpy pancake under your booth, sick of hearing it mope and cry for any longer it seems, you immediately threw your cracked phone at my feet.

“The beginning.” The Homelander growled.

[joz-yyh]

Acta Est Fabula - Ch. 10

SUMMARY: Crimson Court AU. The boy's spar turns hot and heavy No Beta. Read at your own risk.

PAIRING: Flagellant x Bounty Hunter

RATING: M (violence/ sexual themes / blood magic)

WORD COUNT: 3,756

READ ON Ao3: -> HERE!!

A/N: This whole chapter is gratuitous smut, but they'll need it for the journey that lies ahead. Hope you like a begging bottom!Tardif~

——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

“Should we really do this so close to camp,” Damian protests, worried for the state they would leave it in, their pets getting caught in the fray.

“Not like we’ll have perfect conditions in a real fight,” Tardif vollies, preferring realistic expectations over pristine hypotheticals.

“As you say, vampire hunter,” Damian acquiesces, exhausted and they hadn't even started yet.

He waits on his side of the tall grass, assuming a slimmer stance, a claw at the ready to defend himself.

“Well,” Tardif prompts.

“Well, what?”

“Aren't ye gunna choose a weapon,” the human all but demands, waiting for him to do just that.

“Do you really think I need one,” Damian replies, looking at a loss, ill prepared.

“Might come in handy. Better to have one than not.”

“And what weapon would you have me use, vampire hunter?”

Tardif reaches for the first thing that comes to mind, taking a dagger from his boot (one of several “treasures” he brought from the cave), tossing it in Damian's direction.

It lands in the dirt by his feet, the nobleman stepping forward to retrieve it.

“A dagger,” the flagellant muses, assessing the slender shape, “against your axe? And they say size doesn't matter.”

“Even somethin' small can be deadly if it's applied well enough. Even better if it's hidden. It's all ‘bout how ye use it.”

Funny coming from a man that harps on the very opposite.

“Dear hunter, my body is my weapon. I’d scarcely know how to work this as well as my claws.”

“Ye stab people wit’ it. Wot's more to know?”

Damian does everything he can to hold in his laugh, but he can't, too amused by his partner's curt explanation.

“Thank you, I hadn't the faintest idea that's what it was for.”

He's dripping sarcasm of course, throwing the blade at Tardif in retaliation, the hunter deflecting it with ease as if it was second nature, the mark of a professional.

“So much fer yer weapon,” he snorts, balking as it lands somewhere off kilter, lost in the reeds.

“Yes, it appears I am completely helpless. Whatever shall you do.”

“Fine,” Tardif growls, brows knitted in opposition, stance dipping low, “have it yer way.”

He takes off, sprinting forwards, assaulting his partner with a flurry of blows, the vampire side-stepping circles around him thanks to his impressive speed.

“Ye gunna be flighty the whole time? Attack me already.”

“I did, didn't I,” the vampire counters, referring to his dagger throw, weaving past another swing, Tardif aiming for his throat.

“Attack again,” Tardif asserts, dealing a particularly powerful undercut.

“Fine,” the vampire growls back, swiping at him with his sharp nails, targeting the head just as the hunter had done, the nicks he lands too superficial for the hunter to acknowledge the sting of.

Damian clearly doesn't have his heart in it, not as invested in their duel as his partner is, but at least this was starting to feel like an actual skirmish and if pissing him off was the only way to get the vampire to take this more seriously, then Tardif was about to use a whole bag of underhanded tricks.

It's crazy to think they've fucked before crossing blades, Damian marveling at how focused the human is, that he's putting his entire being into every strike, calculating the physics in a span of seconds.

“You really enjoy fighting, don't you?”

Tardif barks out a laugh. “Wot was yer first clue?”

His muscles have loosened up now, getting back into the groove after days of indulgence, slicing at Damian, cutting into his shoulder.

The vampire stills at the lucidity of pain, not a mere scratch, but a deep tear, one that the vampire is shocked his human made against him.

“So, that's how you want it,” the nobleman seethes, a hateful wrinkle in his red eyes.

Blood has seeped through his clothes, a gaping hole ripped through the fabric, enough reason for him to remove his jacket along with his hat, throwing them somewhere off in the distance.

Tardif delights in seeing the shift in Damian’s demeanor, to see that bloodlust that struck him so deeply the first time returning now as a dark glimmer.

“Wot? Did ye think I'd go easy on ye?”

“No, I just didn't think this was a fight to the death.”

“Might be the only time I can fight ye seriously. ‘Course I am going all in,” Tardif scoffs, gripping his weapon tightly.

“So, you want us to kill each other before the viscount will get a chance? Weakening ourselves in battle is a most insipid approach.”

“Neither of us knows wots gunna happen tomorrow. Injured or not. Besides, wots the big deal? Ye can just heal me and yerself.”

“It may increase our chances,” Damian counters, “but if you insist on continuing, I think we both know how this fight of ours will end.”

“Prove it,” Tardif spits, insulted that Damian didn't think he stood more of a chance when he was first and foremost a vampire hunter.

“If memory serves, l've already bested you once before.”

His oral recounting is too calm, cool, and superior for Tardifs liking, reminiscent of when they first met.

“Doesn't count. Sicked yer damn pet on me,” Tardif growls, discrediting the victory.

Sebastian gurgles in offense, watching from the sidelines, Pierre perched upon the croc’s head, prime seating for the duel taking place.

“You say that as if you're not a pet yourself,” Damian snaps.

The insult burns, Tardif's own tricks thrown back at him, a super effective blow.

“Oh, did I hit a nerve? Perhaps you should apologize to Sebastian and Pierre. Afterall, you have a lot in common.”

Tardif is stewing with anger, trying to get his head on straight, think clearly, but it's not going so well.

“In case you're wondering,” the vampire says, “I know what you're trying to do. Provoke me all you like, I won't use my full strength against you.”

Tardif's heard enough.

“That's yer problem, not mine,” the human growls, attacking him head on.

Damian pulls from his open wound, using the blood there, the stuff waving around like magic ink and Tardif never expected it would harden, be strong enough to stop his blade. It looks as fragile as glass and yet it's as hard as stone, his axe unable to crack it now matter how hard he swings.

“What say you now, vampire hunter,” Damian snarls, “impressed?”

Tardif only has a moment to reflect on his frustration before flashes of red invade his vision, what feels like razor blades slice into the back of his legs, the length of his arms, weakening him slowly.

How is he doing this? Did Damian truly have such mastery over his blood that he could morph it into a weapon, use it as a booby trap of shurikens?

“Has it sunk in yet? Do you see how outmatched you are, little fly?”

They are both too good at getting under each other's skin, but Tardif isn't about to give up, if anything it just leads him to his next move: kicking Damian in the crotch.

As soon as the hit connects, the barrage of cuts stop, the flagellant staggering backwards, his aegis of blood splattering onto the ground, useless.

“That was dirty.”

“Ye think our enemies will be playing fair?”

“Is that what you want, vampire hunter,” Damian growls, practically feral, “For me to be your enemy? To forget everything between us?”

The vampire's eyes turn dark obsidian, fangs doubling in number, growing long, pointy, such raw fury all aimed at him.

Sebastian steps forward, about to intervene when his master stops him, an arm outstretched.

“Down boy, daddy's working right now.”

Pierre gives a shudder, feeling the change in atmosphere, fearing for them both.

“There it is! That look! Where nothin' else matters, but destroyin' the thing in front of ye. Liberatin’ isn’t it?”

The nobleman doesn't answer; he's too busy flying forward, so fast that it takes all of Tardif’s strength just to defend himself.

What he doesn't account for is an insect leg (make that several), one to stab him in the foot, the others to target his weapon, knocking the axe out of hands.

Well, this is becoming a theme. Now he sees where Sebastian inherits his fighting style from.

The human is losing blood, growing slower, foot still pinned down, and while he could resort to basic punches and kicks, his undead opponent would more than likely dodge every move he made.

There is one resource he hasn't tried yet, a little bottle he picked up from the swamp, throwing it's blessed contents now, wondering how effective it will be.

Damian seems surprised, a hand brought to the paleness of his face, feeling the skin blister, sizzle with smoke, practically melting off bone.

“Holy water, you used holy water on me?”

He's laughing, delighting in the burn as if he's been baptized by it.

“I can't remember the last time someone's done that.”

Seems Damian has woken up from his bloodlust, his limbs receding, eyes returning to normal, apparently starting to have fun himself with this turn of events.

Maybe the bloodsuckers vision has gone awry, a drawback of his face peeling off because his attacks have become less poised, bordering on inebriated, the brute managing as best he can with his gimp foot.

“Ye tryin’ to rip my heart out,” he taunts, his shirt practically in tatters with the number of times Damian slashed at it.

“Why waste the effort, when it already belongs to me?”

Claws dig into his chest, making it ache, forcing him back into the mud, body sunk and sticking to it. Blood magic locks around Tardifs left wrist, holding it down, cutting into flesh.

Damian has him pinned, there’s no denying that, kneeling over him with another claw pulled back, notched like an arrow should his prey struggle against his binds.

“Do you yield,” the vampire snarls, words bitter, antagonized, angered that Tardif had made him this, “or must I destroy you completely?”

“Ye ain’t gunna kill me,” the human grumbles, unphased, jaded, as if there was never any danger of that.

“Oh no, much worse,” the flagellant warns, targeting the stubborn warrior’s pride, knowing it would hurt him more than mortal wounds ever could, “I claim your defeat.”

“Ha! Ye sure ‘bout that,” he barks, truly amused, “Could get ye right here if I wanted,” the brute indicates, gently bumping his knee against the flagellant’s liver, a move that would no doubt incapacitate and provide a window of escape.

“Yes, you could have,” the vampire sighs, feeling the injury even without his partner inflicting it, yearning for the pain, “why didn't you?”

“Think I like havin’ ye on top,” he says, a dry utterance, grinning to himself.

The vampire hadn't noticed it before (silly him), but it seems their spar has sent the hunter’s blood racing, riled up, ready to fuck.

“You would permit me such an honor,” Damian badgers, throwing insult for insult.

“Yeah, just this once.”

He pulls the flagellant down to his lips with the one free hand he has, holding him with a surefast grip. It's a messy clash, full of desperation, one that’s hard and eager, but nonetheless leaves him breathless.

“We shouldn't tire ourselves out,” Damian reminds him, a voice of reason.

“Don't know ‘bout ye, but not sittin’ around the rest of the night playin’ it safe,” he argues, burning hot and heavy, “gunna make every second count.”

It's not Damian's usual way of doing things, having spent so many years wasting away in the solitude of the swamp, loathing his existence, but Tardif had given him hope, a purpose, even redemption.

His human can be quite inspiring when he wants to be, living fast and free, fearlessly without regret, and Damian doesn’t see the harm in trying things his way, if only for tonight. Tardif’s right, they may not get another chance.

“So … ye gunna uncuff me now,” the huntsman asks, raising a brow to the shackled wrist above his head.

“It's tempting,” the nobleman muses, mitigating his options, “Or I could leave you here and let you tend to yourself.”

“Don't ye dare,” Tardif warns, mortified by the thought, “or I really will kill ye.”

Damian chuckles, breaking the bloody snare with a crystalline snap, the magic dissolving into thin air and the moment that Tardif’s hand is free, he’s using them both to grab at his lover again.

They're kissing like maniacs, Tardif arching up into him, wet clothing grating against their skin, the vampire’s hand wrapped around his neck, the other caught between his chest, splayed against the incisions they bore.

“Aren't ye worried ‘bout the kids watchin’,” the brute teases, a blush beaming bright against his dark skin.

Damian’s eyes blow wide, attention snapping toward their audience, almost forgetting. Sebastian has since slid his bulk back towards camp, taking Pierre with him, the two setting off on a voyage, drifting through the canal.

“Seems they know better than we do,” the vampire says, gaze returning to Tardif just as hands lodge themselves into the waistband of his tights.

“Then, fuck me, already,” Tardif coos, pulling the fabric down, gripping at his lover’s ass the moment it's exposed.

Damian stutters, face a brilliant scarlet, never expecting such a demand to sprout from his human’s mouth, lewd pillow talk a heady drug that strokes directly at his core.

“You're hardly prepared,” the nobleman argues, gathering his wits.

“Don't need to be. Just do it,” Tardif huffs, leaning up to bite at a pale neck, thinking he wants to try vampirism for himself.

He doesn’t stop until he breaks skin, and it becomes clear now that Tardif is just as scared of what's to come tomorrow, clinging to thrill, distracting himself with it, and that makes Damian feel a little more at ease.

“You’re ready when I say you are,” the flagellant insists, putting his partner in his place, “Now, would you kindly remove your hands,” he asks more politely, involuntarily bucking his hips because the human’s finger has wandered in, fondling him, an action he most certainly should be performing on his counterpart.

Tardif does as he's asked, but only after giving a cheeky little swipe to his hole, smirking about his own petty attempt at defiance.

Still, Damian is nonetheless grateful, speaking a, “Thank you,” aloud.

The human doesn't keep his hands to himself for long. He slides them up, towards the front, over the flagellant's waist, feeling the bulge of his dick, trapped by the conventions of clothing.

“If you refuse to behave I could simply cuff you again, but perhaps you’d enjoy it more if I used my legs.”

“Heh, ye threatenin’ me wit’ a good time?”

“It won’t be, at least not for you.”

Tardif thinks otherwise.

“Do you still have that vial of oil?”

Ah. He nearly forgot all about that.

“Not much left.”

The hunter reaches into his pocket, showing him the few amber colored drops that remain.

“Very well,” the vampire laments, “blood it is.”

While Tardif dwells on how ominous that sounds, the nobleman pulls at his partner's belt buckle, having an awful time actually getting his pants off, a task made harder when they were sticking to every inch of his skin.

“This would be so much easier if I could just rip these off you.”

Who knew that such a simple thing as undressing could drive the bloody saint’s aggravation to the point of no return?

“Ye could,” the hunter prompts, eyebrow raised because he likes the idea of an impatient Damian shredding his trousers to ribbons just to fuck him faster. At least then it would match the state of his shirt.

“Then, you'd have nothing to wear.”

“I am alright wit’ that.

Tardif wriggles his hips, his hands joining in the cause, helping to get the meddlesome garment out of the way, tossing them aside while Damian cuts a line down his palm, ruby red blood dripping down to coat his fingers.

Tardif isn't taking the stretch too well, feeling the sting of a sharpened nail as the pointed edge penetrates him.

“Damn those fuckin’ claws of yers,” he grumbles.

“You seemed not to complain about them before.”

“Complainin’ now.”

“Why don't you try begging instead?”

The retort dies in the hunter's throat, groaning in resistance, but the more Damian presses inside, the more he shivers, throwing his head back, fingers curling inside him, finding his sweet spot.

“There you are, my pet,” the nobleman smirks, enjoying his lover’s reactions.

“Will ye just get on wit’ it?"

“Surely, you can beg better than that.”

The brute arches, the nobleman gaining the upper hand almost effortlessly and Tardif can't take it, he reaches down to jerk himself off.

“Ah shit, shit, shit, fuck me.”

“That’s precisely what I am doing.”

Damian withdraws, biting at his own wrist, letting it trickle down onto his dick, coating himself in rose red.

The human watches this, slowing in his hedonistic strokes as his partner positions himself against his prize.

It's sticky, almost painful as he slides inside, Tardif wincing, gripping his cock in a stifling grip and then in an instant, it all turns euphoric.

“Wot the hell,” he huffs, noticing the difference.

“You feel it don’t you? Warming you, filling you up.”

“Nrgh,” the brute grunts, awash in it, “yeah.”

“My gift to you,” the flagellant smirks, kissing his partner, letting the effects of his blood take hold.

Tardif has felt this sensation before, back when the vampire had healed him, but this dose was much more potent, body alight with pinpricks and dizzy spells.

His wounds are healed, Damian's face mending itself too and Tardif forgoes his masturbation in favor of holding his partner instead, letting him set the pace as he trips further into a narcotic haze.

Maybe having a more experienced lover wasn't so bad, there's a finesse of rhythm that could only come from exploring another's body and the more he lets Damian take control, the more his pleasure intensifies.

The cock inside him swells, becoming inches thicker, the human grunting as he adjusts to the change, trying to make sense of it because the idea sounds just as crazy in his head.

“Did ye just make yer cock grow bigger?”

“Yes, another perk of my blood. Do you like it?”

The blush on his cheeks should be evidence enough, but he wasn't going to give the vampire any more clout.

“Don't care. As long as I cum.”

Well, he'll just have to find a way to help him appreciate his powers more.

Damian hovers a hand over his lover's length, blood magic swirling around the base, solidifying crimson into a tangible ring.

“Wot did ye do to me,” Tardif grunts, feeling it's suffocating influence almost immediately

“Isn't it obvious? It's a tool to help you learn the virtue of patience.”

Damian traces a finger around it, then up the dark veins of his hardness, watching it twitch, head beading with pills of arousal.

“Take it off.”

Seems Tardif has an issue with being told when and how he can orgasm, but Damian won't be intimidated by his demands.

“I will, when you’re ready.”

The vampire holds nothing back as he pounds into him, a heated pace unlike the steady one he carried before, driving him to the brink only for his release to be denied by that damned cock ring.

Tardif endures this, thinking he can withstand it, but he wants to cum, he wants to come so badly, making his punishment worse.

“Damian, please … wot do I gotta say?”

“I want you to say how much you love me.”

The vampire hunter only hesitates a second before answering, having admitted as much to himself not so long ago.

“I love ye.”

Damian stills but a moment, never thinking the stubborn warrior would say it, but now that he had, the flagellant rewards his obedience, shoving in, hard and deep, blood magic changing the dynamic of his erection, making it longer, ribbed and studded.

“Say that I am the only one.”

He tugs at Damian’s shirt sleeves, sensation overwhelming him, his lover hitting that spot over and over again without mercy.

“Yer … the only one.”

Tardif gasps, the feeling so akin to release and yet it's stifled, only a tease of what he’s been begging for.

“You're mine.”

“I am – ah fuck– I am y-yers.”

Damian chuckles, his huntsman mistaking his possessive dulcet as a wish that needed to be granted, pushing for one final vow.

“Tell me I won. That I am right.”

Adorable how his human struggles to fulfill this demand out of all the rest, taking the context too seriously.

“Right ‘bout wot?”

“About you being my pet of course.”

Another short contemplation, the warrior about to break from the strain on his body.

“If I do, ye'll take this offa me?”

“If you say it sweetly enough,” Damian promises, dripping with anticipation.

Tardif yanks at him by the collar, pulling him close, the only two souls that can bear witness to what he's about to say, speaking it against his lips.

“Yes, master, I am yer pet.”

Oh, like music to his ears, the most beautiful sonata to ever exist, rewarding his obedient human with kisses, thrusting in with as much strength as he can muster, showing him how much he truly enjoyed it.

Tardif is whining, shuddering, gripping, biting, whatever he can to hold on when Damian breaks the snare holding his release at bay, the brute exploding the moment he does, cum spilling from him in a never ending parade of white.

Every time he delves past the swathe of thick thighs, more ivory pearls join the sea of others like it, Tardif’s voice unrestrained, calling out to him, sweaty, lewd delicacies he savors and it's between all those lewd grunts and groans that Damian finds his own release.

Their breaths are haggard, bodies shuddering, at their limit, when they finally allow each other to rest.

“I may have been too rough with you,” Damian frets, red eyes assessing his lover’s wounds, a hand holding his face, lips close.

“It's only blood,” Tardif shrugs, more than content with how things turned out.

“We're both bleeding,” the vampire chuckles, abound with scratch marks from his precious human, souvenirs left by throws of passion.

“Heh,” the human smirks, meeting his gaze, foreheads pressed together, “we'll call it a draw.”

[mistrdctr]

“Hey… you need a hand? Don’t want you hurting yourself.” (Tony, for the lil idea we were talking about; @mxrvelouscreations

Stephen's hands are trembling, badly so; Heat is pulsing through his digits, burning itself through tissue and bone, causing lips to purse and brows to knit - the faintest hint of liquid to appear at the corners of a gaze that's much less bright than it usually is.

It hurts. Fuck it hurts so, so badly. And even though these days happen from time to time, his destroyed nerve-endings going crazy, sending a thousand mixed signals into a brain that tries to cope, Strange will never get used to how intense the pain is, how much it causes him to struggle...

The worst thing is that his hands are completely useless for as long as it takes them to calm back down - for hours, sometimes days, Strange isn't able to do most things on his own, needing to use his magic for the most mundane every day tasks a human faces while being awake. But even doing that - using magic - almost feels impossible at times, with his fingers cramping, skin stretching, bones feeling as if they get shattered into pieces over and over again---

Tony is here today, though. Has spend the night at the Sanctum, together with the sorcerer---

Shit, Stephen truly did not expect the following day - which is today - to be one of the fucked up ones. Now Tony sees him like this, struggling with the razor, trying to shave away the few hairs that have started to grow along his cheeks, where they're not supposed to be...

But he can't. It hurts too much.

"---Fuck.", is what Strange hisses, squeezing his eyes shut as he drops the stupid razor into the sink, hands resting on the edge as they continue to tremble, shaking violently. "Sorry, Tony, it's just--- today is one of those days..."

[bluiex]

Ask and you shall (eventually) receive. More on my 'Magic and Memory loss' mumscarian idea, this time with some more angst.

~~~~

As Grian begins to wake, he can feel his body getting shaken in almost every direction. It's a sharp jolting and jerking motion, very reminiscent of a horse or a carriage. He can almost hear the clopping of the horse's hooves…And he even begins to think about how sore he was after all the times he has ridden on a horse.

Slowly opening his eyes, he tries to see what is shaking him so much. His vision is still rather blurry, but he can vaguely see a blur of red and a human-shaped blob seemingly sitting on it. 

There is the faintest sound of breathing that he can hear. But other than that, there seems to be no other sounds of note. Strange…One would think that kidnappers would be talking about something after they were successful. Unless they already talked and are just waiting in silence now that the job is so close to being done.

"You waking up, sunbeam?" A voice asks, with a hand touching his head soon after. "I guess that's to be expected, that little trick was only supposed to keep you calm as we got you away after all."

As the hand starts to pet his head, he becomes aware that he's laying down with his cheek pressed against something. Or rather, someone's leg. Which only makes this situation even more weird.

He tries to move away, but the hand gently pushes him back down.

"Easy now, Gri, don't move so much. Coming back from that spell can be a little difficult. It'll be best if you rest as much as possible"

"Where are you people taking me?" He asks rather slowly. "Why are you taking me?"

In all honesty, he really wanted to make some quip about them being the reason he's in this difficult position in the first place, but he knows he has to hold back. He can tell they are all already in a carriage, going somewhere and possibly already far away from the lord's village. This is the worst time he could make them angry. They could hurt him and as far as he knows, the carriage driver could be in cahoots with these people. 

His screams for help would go unanswered out here.

"We're taking you back home," The stranger says calmly. "Where there's people who care about you and would be really happy to see you again."

"And the why?"

A tutting sound comes from somewhere above him. "That wasn't enough, hmm? I don't understand where your distrust comes from…We're just trying to do the right thing."

He turns so he is lying on his back, slightly regretting doing so because a rather sharp pain pulses through his head. He quickly raises a hand up to his face, massaging the area between his eyes with his index finger and his thumb.

"Told you not to move."

"Just explain yourself. Why did you grab me out of anyone else?"

"Because it's rather unfair for you to have to live such a poor life in comparison to the one you had before. Because no one should have to dance around like a puppet on a sting for the amusement of those who want to ridicule them. Because you mean something to the both of us with you now and the people who are waiting for you at this journey's end. Are any of those reasons one you will accept?"

"Talk a lot like you care, for someone who put a spell over me…" He says rather bitterly. "That trick of yours makes me wish I was kicked in the face by a horse. And I had to bind a cold wet cloth to my face for a week after I was."

"Like you would come with us if we walked up to you and politely asked?" The stranger huffs. "With saying something like 'Hey, we are people from a life you don't remember, who have been searching for you for years, and we would like to take you back to that life.' Would you not scream for the city guards and try to get away?"

"Guess you'll never know, huh? I could have very well gone with you if you had asked. Hasn't anyone told you there are some rather crazy people out there?"

They hmph, but they don't actually sound annoyed. "Glad to see they could get rid of your quick wit and smart mouth…I would go back and burn that village to the ground if you were made into a shell of what you used to be."

He moves hand down, resting it on his chest, and finally gets a look at the stranger whose lap he's resting on. Their hair is brown like it was in his dream, and their face is quite similar to the picture on the bounty board. But the picture put the scar across their nose higher up than it is. And their smile in that picture can't capture the same amount of charm when opposed to seeing it in person…

The beginning of a scream catches in his throat. No, he is not going to be doing this! The last thing he should be doing is thinking of how charming one of his kidnappers is! What the heck is wrong with him?!

He doesn't have much more time to really sort through that thought, because the carriage jerks to a halt, which causes the other stranger on the other seat to let out a shocked noise. The man with black hair quickly looks around the carriage before looking forward and at them. He can hear them faintly sigh, and can see their shoulders lower as their body relaxes.

"You two okay?" The stranger with black hair asks, leaning back against the wood behind their seat.

"I'm fine, but our sunbeam is still rather exhausted." The man he's laying on gently pats his head. "They're probably going to need some help getting out and maybe even help walking."

"I hate you."

"Aww, you don't mean that, sunbeam. You're just saying that because everything hurts and it's hard for you to move at the moment."

"Scar, you really shouldn't be saying that like…that. Grian doesn't know who we are at the moment. For all they know, we're just weird creepy stalkers."

"Like you two aren't…" He says under his breath.

If the two heard him, they don't say anything. Not like they had the chance, because a knock at the carriage door and the door being opened slightly takes everyone's attention. 

"We're at the border, sir," A voice, he assumes the driver's, says through the gap. "This is as far as our carriage service goes. You can collect your bags when you're ready. I wish you safe passage, and that the clerk here at the control post is quick with your paperwork."

"The border?" He asks quietly to no one in particular, confusion plaguing his mind.

The black haired stranger keeps looking at the driver through the gap, paying him little mind. "Thank you. We'll be out in a bit, just having some minor troubles with one of our party members."

"Let me guess, one of you took a nap during the journey?" A chuckle sounds from behind the door. "I don't know how one could possibly sleep when getting tossed back and forth, but it doesn't surprise me. Long journey, boredom, maybe even a mix of the two, can probably make anyone fall asleep. Happens really often. Take your time, I'm in no rush. Y'all paid me when we started. And more than most others I take out here too."

The door of the carriage closes, and the reality of the situation sets in, as does panic in his heart. Why are they at the border?! There's no way some foreigners from a different kingdom went into a neighboring kingdom to kidnap some random mage. There is no way. Impossible. That is too much work. 

There's no way these two think they can get him across the kingdom's border. He doesn't have a travel pass from the king, or theirs for that matter, if they want to pass him off as just another resident like them. Unless…

An arm moving under his legs and him being lifted up makes his heart jump to his throat. He quickly starts squirming, trying to get out of their grip even though he is still in a very weak state.

"Grian, sunbeam, please don't-"

"Shut up! Let go of me! I won't let you take me!" 

"Gri, it's okay," The black haired stranger says, reaching towards him. 

He squirms more, trying to get away from their approaching hand, even as the stranger holding him tightens their grip on him and begins to 'shh' at him. What he really wants to use his hands to push them both away, but his arms are trapped under an arm the one holding him wrapped around his torso. 

"It's alright, you're okay…"

"Let me-Let me go."

"We aren't going to hurt you, darling. You're safe."

"No, I'm not…"

The hand reaches him, gently touching his shoulder and rubbing a small circle into it.

"You are, Grian…" The black haired stranger says softly. "I promise."

"How…How can I trust you two? I don't even know your names…"

"My name is Mumbo. And the one holding you is Scar. Is there anything else you want to know?"

"Are those really your names?" He asks, with genuine curiosity. "And…What am I to you? Since you have been searching for me for a while now."

'Mumbo' laughs. "Yes, those are our actual names. A little, aren't they?"

"I'm pretty sure my parents weren't expecting me to become a mage back when they were naming me…" 'Scar' says, sounding just a tad bitter about it. "I think they were expecting me to be a soldier or something. No one who hears the name 'Scar' is going to think 'OH, that person must be really kind and make good cookies.' Everyone thinks I'm really mean…"

"And for your question of what you are to us…You're someone we care about a lot. The day we lost you was the worst day of our lives. And everyday we hope we would find you again."

He's not sure if he believes them…But something in him wants to. And he doesn't understand why. Mumbo seems to be talking sincerely, but it could just be a trick. There's no way someone could possibly care about him that much. There has to be another reason…

But maybe it wouldn't hurt to pretend to believe them for a bit…Live a comfortable lie for a while. He can always try to sneak away when they finally get tired of pretending…

Three sharp knocks on the carriage door takes everyone's attention yet again.

"You three alright in there?" The driver's concerned voice asks. "I heard shouting."

Mumbo glances at Scar, who shrugs back at them, leaving Mumbo looking rather unamused.

"Yes, uh, we're fine. We just woke up our sleeping member and they apparently were having a bit of a nightmare. Sorry about that…"

"Alright…Do you need me to call for someone?"

"Oh no, no we do not need anyone! We're fine."

"Okay…"

The driver stops the conversion, probably walking away and thinking they're all crazy, wondering if they should have let them in the carriage in the first place. Everyone lets the silence sit for a bit, him and probably the other two think that any noise will get the driver's attention again.

"This is turning out to be a lot of trouble…" Scar says tiredly. "Grian. Sunbeam. Our little darling…Are you calm now?"

"I won't…I won't fight you two in this anymore." He ignores the bitter taste those words leave in his mouth. "I won't…prevent you from taking me across the border. But I don't believe you can trick the clerk here."

Mumbo hums, patting his shoulder. "We shall see then. I promise you'll understand this eventually. And I would like to let you know you can ask us anything you need to know to make this easier, and that when we reach our destination, you can ask for any items that could make you feel more comfortable."

I don't believe you…

"Sure. I'll do that, I guess."

"Okay then. Come on now, let's not waste any more of the driver's time and get going."

"Everything will be fine, Grian. You'll be okay." 

Scar pats his arm, using the hand of the arm that's holding him, and gives him a smile. He gives them a small one in return, though his probably looks more bitter.

"People keep telling me that. But so far, everyone who has ended up dead, so I don't like your odds."

AAAA SO WORTH THE WAIT DUDE I LOVE IT SM

Ough Grian please let them help you- let them show you they love you an mean we and you use to know em qoq

[blackacre13]

Have you read The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo? can you make a loubbie verison please?

This book had me bawling and singing its praises, so this is an HONOR❤️✨ I will never do TJR’s novel Justice, but here is a poor attempt:

There had been a lot of press about me over the years. Scandalous headlines. Award nominations. Rumors. Pity parades. But no one truly knew my story. No one truly knew who Deborah Ocean was. Because well, Debbie Ocean wasn’t real. She was really Devorah Mayim. But I didn’t want to be restricted to a culture or a religion or a family or a background. I wanted to be famous. And I wanted to be famous for being me.

It was inappropriate and a bit rash I’m sure to go about an interview knowing I was going to give a story that was anything but what the magazine was looking for, but even if the magazine was mad, I was going to change this reporter’s damn life. Not that auctioning my gowns to raise money for cancer wasn’t a worthy cause. It was. Most certainly so. After all, cancer had taken my reason for living away not once. But twice. But it was no story. My life. That was the story.

The young girl seems intimidated. And hell, most people would be. But I’m not most people. She has no idea that I’m about to change her life. And she hasn’t the faintest clue that she will be the first human in the world to truly learn the story of Debbie Ocean, starlet and celebrity turned recluse.

It’s easy enough to begin. The smaller parts of my story are the ones that don’t affect me so. They don’t matter as much. They helped shape who I am, of course, but they don’t weigh as heavy on or torture my soul. They’re just artifacts.

My first husband is like that. Linus Caldwell. He was nice enough. A baby face. A boring but stable job. Chivalrous. He knew he was getting more than he bargained for in more ways than one. But he had enough income that he could help me run. And that’s what was important to me at the time.

Dennis Mayim was the devil. He was volatile. He abused my mother. He abused me. And I vowed every night that I would make my way out of Hell’s Kitchen and flee the city for a life that was better. Different.

I was upfront with Linus about this. We had our fun, and I showed him plenty of it, but he was my escape hatch. My safety valve. He wasn’t the love of my life. And that made it easier than ever for me to walk away.

Linus told me he always knew I’d leave him for another man, and that was true. But it wasn’t for love. It was for fame. And I’d never been dishonest about my goals. Robert Ryan, or Rusty, as the industry knew him, was an up and coming producer at Sunset Studios and we became fast friends. He wanted to produce films with stars and I wanted to be a star. He told me I had what it takes.

Linus was done. And Devorah was good as dead. I didn’t want my father trying to convince anyone he was owed any of my money anyway.

Claude was Rusty’s idea. Having a beau on my arm who was already a famous actor would only boost my star and help me on the road to fame. And I won’t lie, he was good…in the kitchen. What started as a publicity stunt turned into something real. It happened when you spent as much time together as we did. We had a lavish wedding. It was a gorgeous affair. A steamy honeymoon. And a Heaven of a homecoming. On camera at least. Hollywood doesn’t pay much attention to what truly happens behind closed doors. Especially when they can’t see the bruises or hear the yelling.

With a scotch in hand and a cigar in his mouth as he cursed at me, I realized my mistake. I’d married my father. I’d been blinded by the potential for fame and success. I hadn’t seen the yield signs.

But beauty is pain. And he was only taking it out on me because I was having an affect on his career as well. Who cares about Claude Becker when he was being outshone by his stunning, glamorous wife, Debbie Ocean? Not enough people for Claude’s liking.

It’s a relief when I am offered a different sort of role. I’ve done the sex. I’ve done the romance. I am tired of playing second fiddle and arm candy to Claude on film and in life. Josephine March was a role that would change all of that. Jo was serious. Aspirational. A writer. A leader. An inspiration to her sisters. It was going to put me on a pedestal and let me be seen in a whole different light. I was ecstatic.

The trouble, you see, was something else entirely. There are four March sisters. Amy is a nuisance. Meg is kind but dull. But Beth? Poor, sweet Beth, who falls ill and is taken from the world too soon? She could steal the show. And worse, she could steal the academy award.

I didn’t know anything about Louise Miller except that she was beautiful and talented. Younger than me. Bolder than me. And that bitch was going to steal my Oscar.

I didn’t know anything about Louise Miller except that she was beautiful and talented. Younger than me. Bolder than me. And that bitch was going to steal my Oscar.

[a-regular-amount-of-spiders]

Interwoven with you Ch1

AO3

Art (and the comic that inspired this!) by the amazing AllINeedIsOneDream

Jason crouched low in the damp evening grass, his heart drumming a fast cadence in sync with the thrum of nerves running through his small frame. The cicada's scream sounds like an alarm telling everything in the night that he shouldn't be here. Their screeching filled his ears and the warm claustrophobic summer air pressed in on him, suffocating his lungs. It was late, and Dick would surely panic if he had the faintest idea what Jason was doing. Still, that worry wasn’t enough to stop him, Jason wasn't sure if anything would be enough. He wasn’t the only person out in these woods, nearly half the kingdom had spilled into the sprawling forest every night for the past year. All of them searching for the same thing, a miracle.

Jason never really believed in fairy tales or all the mystical ponderings of a bedtime story, but for once in his life he really needs to be wrong. He allows himself to foster the tiny sliver of hope, gifted to him by his only friend. That hope is the only thing that keeps him company among the grim tangle of the trees as he searches for a delicate piece of moonlight that fell from the heavens and bloomed. That hope is what trapped him as he stumbled over branches, and ignored the thorns tugging on his skin and clothes because he desperately sought that mystical flower. Jason had been hearing of it for as long as he could remember and, in all the stories he’d heard, they all had one thing in common. That this little drop of the heavens could heal anything. There was also always a price to be paid, but what did that matter when it could heal the only person who’d been willing to take a chance on him since his mother died. Prince Richard Grayson, but Jason had been calling him Dick ever since they met in a grimy back alley. When he had looked past the grubby orphan to the clever, cheerful kid that was trying to claw his way to the surface.

Initially he’d followed the guards as they searched, assuming they might have had some kind of lead, but they were moving too slowly. Jason knew what someone looked like, what his mom looked like, when they died and every day made brough Dick closer and closer to that visage. He knew the guards weren’t just slow, they were too inefficient. They carried blazing torches that ate away the darkness, which of course was reasonable, and safe, and a great way to keep yourself from noticing the faint glow of a flower in the distance. So Jason crept out on his own. Dick’s fine clothing was far too big on his malnourished frame as he soiled them with blood and dirt. He may well be the only person on his own, and the only person who would notice if he disappeared was asleep more often than he wasn’t these days. He was being stupid, reckless.

Tears welled up, and the summer air had nothing to do with the hot pain of terror and impending grief that welled closer and closer to the surface as Jason found nothing. Uselessly stumbling through the wood, he couldn’t hear anyone anymore, and the clammy sheen of sweat had cooled him enough to leave him shivering. Shaking and helpless to save the only person he had left until- He stopped, breath catching. A shock of white hair standing out in the dark, covered swiftly by a hood. A sallow green light Jason wouldn’t have even noticed if it hadn't been for the fact that it was the only source of light remotely near them. He watched in fascination as the figure removed a false covering from a flower. The petals held a sort of cosmic beauty to them, a pearly glow that no one would have ever expected to see beneath crafted leaves. Jason decided, whoever that man was, he deserved to die. He deserved an arrow between the eyes for the knowledge he chose to hide from the kingdom. He squinted, trying to memorize as many features as he could of the man who nearly prevented them from curing the prince. White hair, tall hulking body. In the distance, he heard the clamoring of the guards. The stranger’s head shot up at the cacophony of metal. He had one eye. He hid the flower so swiftly Jason hardly even saw him move. The Stranger melted into the shadows, and the guards, they were here but they didn’t see the false bush, didn’t see the flower. Jason held his breath until he was certain the soldiers were closer than the Stranger, and scrambled over to the covering. Tiny hands trembled as they lifted the dome young branches, cut and knotted together, and a pale light graced Jason’s face.

“Guards! Over here, I found it!” He yelled, his voice cracking with desperation. A sob makes its way out unbidden, his chest heaving as the events of the night catch up to him “I found it” he says, quiet, like it’s a prayer to himself.

The guards rush over, Captain Gordon at the head of them. “Jason? What are you doing out here?” Gordon asked, frown etching the lines on his face ever deeper. Jason looks up from where he kneels on the wet ground choking down his tears.

“I found it. It’ll save him, right? Dick’s gonna be okay?” He tries to keep himself together, he’s supposed to be the tough one. The strong one, but he’s tired. He’s tired, and overwhelmed, not even ten, so he unravels and cries. Jim’s face softens immediately, and he scoops up the boy despite the incoherent protests, as though the embrace might shield him from the exhaustion and intrusive thoughts soon to settle into his bones.

“Rest easy lad, you’ve done well.” He then instructed his soldiers to retrieve the flower and deliver it to Alfred immediately. He mounted his horse, keeping Jason tucked against his chest as they hastened back to the castle. Jason had only been in the palace a few times. He hadn’t even known Dick was the prince until a guard snatched him up by the cloak and Jason tried to fight them. Dick had laughed, in that bright and unburdened way Jason hadn’t heard him do in months, and then thanked him for being his knight in shining armor. Jason would never tell him the way the words taken hold in his heart. The way that being important, being wanted, had kept him warm when the cold streets of Gotham could not. The palace was cold and intimidating, gothic architecture as intricate as it was overbearing. He felt like a dirty rat scuttling across a clean kitchen, contaminating everything he touched. He shivered, the air felt cold and sterile, and followed after Gordon.The man had been reluctant to put him down at first, more so upon seeing his wobbly stride, but Jason skittered away as best he could when the captain seemed to get too close. He was glad they were on stone, because he’d seen some of the fine carpet the palace had and doesn’t even want to imagine the way leaving muddy footprints on them would make him feel. The way that shame would curl in his belly like an old friend. There’s a vice on his lungs, keeping him from breathing right and filling his lungs with cotton as he wonders if Dick will actually get better. He’d seen a lot of people get that sick before. He’d seen his mother get sick just like this. He’d never seen any of them last very long.

In the heart of the palace, they brought the flower to Alfred, the king’s advisor, personal doctor, and closest friend. Also, the only adult Jason trusted. He scurried over to Alfred’s side, watching the old man take the plant, and clean it ever so carefully. Weathered hands deftly separating roots, and stripping away the years laid upon it. He was preparing some sort of brew, using unlabeled bottles that filled the room with a nearly suffocating herbal smell. Jason swallowed the need to cough, and failed to find reassurance in the old man’s calmness due to the worry creasing his gray brows.

“Will it really help him?” Jason hated how weak he sounded, a vulnerability that revealed how easily he could shatter any moment. Alfred’s shoulders slump, he felt his long years weighing down on him as wizened blue eyes meet a young and steely gaze. He delicately lifts the prepared blossom, placing it into the carefully made tea. The pearlescent glow seeps into solution, a mellow calmness that contrasts the tightly wound tension threaded into the entire country.

“I believe that it will. This is magic more powerful than I have ever seen, but not dissimilar to much of my previous research. I can only hope that the price will not be too much to pay.” He explains, prim and forthright in the way he always was, in the way that made a jaded kid like Jason trust him.

“The price? Like the stories?” Jason asks, hesitant, staring at the steeping concoction, unable to look away from their last resort.

“Magic always has a price, be it one’s memory, their beauty, or perhaps a burden to bear. In this case I believe it is his memory that will be most affected.” Alfred answers, as he lifts the infusion, standing to leave, and Jason hurries after him, the dirt he tracks onto the fine carpets now forgotten.

“Memory? Dick could, forget me?” Jason started with the part he could understand and what a terrifying thought that was. Would Dick want him as he is now? Clingy and scared? Or would he send Jason away, and refuse to touch someone so beneath him.

“Perhaps, there are remedies for the mind in much the same manner as the body, but he would need to physically recover before we set to healing anything else..” Alfred’s words were wrapped in the sort of certainty that only comes from decades of experience.

“Why? Why can’t we give him all the healing sh- stuff at once?” Jason sulks, as the watchmen open the doors to the Prince’s chambers. The room was never lavish in the way most people expect from royalty. Rather his room was filled with trinkets and the beginnings of new projects and ideas that Dick flitted back and forth between when he was home instead of out and exploring. Most prominently featured was circus paraphernalia, one of Dick’s favorite things in the world to see. The ever present mess had been cleaned a long time ago, shortly after the prince’s health sharply declined.

“Many of the herbs I would use to restore his memory are primarily used to induce sleep. As weak as he is now, giving him such a thing could prevent him from waking up at all.” Alfred informs him, not stopping Jason from dogging his steps as he approaches the Prince’s bedside. Jason glanced at the King for a moment. King Bruce had always seemed like this indomitable, untouchable patriarch. That was not what he saw now, hunched over his son’s bedside with red rimmed eyes and greasy hair was a man on the verge of breaking into a million pieces. The dark look in his eyes promised to take everything with him. The King does not say anything as he helps Alfred sit Dick up. Dick’s eyes opened drowsily, the bold blue was dull and tattered. Jason tries to remember what he looked like before, and hates how blurry the image is in his mind.

“Jay” Dick’s voice crackled, his lungs rattling with each difficult breath. He still smiles, it’s nothing like it used to be, which was a knife in Jason’s chest.

“Dad, this is.” Dick coughs, it’s wet and red and horrid. “This is Jason. We should…” He blinked slowly, his face was so very gaunt then. “We should keep him” Dick forces out the words, like they’re so important. Like Jason matters right now, like Dick will be around long enough for any of that. The King looks like he’s just swallowed broken glass.

“Of course Chum. He can stay as long as you want.” The King's voice is a low rumble full of gravel. “Now, can you drink this for me?” He presses the rim of the cup to Dick’s lips, Jason guides the Prince’s hands to hold the warm ceramic.

“It hurts t’ swallow Dad” Dick mutters, a whine that ghosts the overdramatic complaints of the past. Jason ignored the way everyone else’s expression cracked open with fresh concern and sorrow. “I know chum, just. Try for me, okay?” Bruce insists, fingers brushing aside once soft curls that now felt like brittle straw. The melodic baritone was rough, but comforting. A subtle strength that ran deep and untouchable, supporting everyone around him.

“Mmkay” Dick hums, sipping sluggishly and tentatively at the tea, every simple action sapping more and more of him away.. Watching him feels like it takes an eternity, but the more he has, the faster he drinks. The death rattle of his lungs goes away, and his breathing evens out. His head starts to droop, but he’s not so pallid now any longer. “Can I sleep now?” Dick yawns, leaning back into his plush pillows. “I’m tired” His head lolls to the side, frail body sinking into the downy bedding.

“No!” Jason yelps, unable to stop himself. His fear rose to the surface ferociously. If Dick sleeps now, when they’re so very close, and doesn’t wake up, Jason doesn’t know what he’ll do. It feels like losing everything all over again, like watching his mom die on their rickety bed as his dad screams and hollers through the locked door. He slumps over the arm that he can reach, holding onto it as though Jason alone can tether his friend to the mortal coil.

“It’s alright lad, this is normal. I believe the cure is working. It’s alright. This is not dissimilar to the healings I have seen in the past. He will wake from this, I know it.” Alfred reassures, patting Jason on the shoulder as Dick grins at him. It’s closer to what once was, what once was his, and the jagged edges of Jason’s heart start to smooth.

“See? I’ll be okay Jay. Just like I said…” Dick muttered as he fell into a heavy sleep, always putting everyone else above himself. Jason stays resolutely by his side, him and the King forming an unspoken bond in their shared vigil.

“Why hasn’t he woken up yet?” Jason gritted out, pacing up and down the length of the room. The soft carpet pressed into the bandages covering his feet, and he could feel the dried clumps of mud he had tracked in crunch underneath his heavy step. It had been two days, but Dick hadn’t fully woken up yet. There had been brief moments of wakefulness, but all lacked coherence. Jason stroked the green feathers of Robin, the little bird that Dick had raised, and worried his lip between his teeth as he stared at the still body of his friend. Well, brother now. Bruce had adopted him just yesterday. Officially due to his contribution in saving the life of the prince, but realistically it was because Dick had wanted him to.

“He will, given time. He was exposed to a great deal of powerful magic, yet his health has improved substantially and continues to do so.” Alfred responds patiently, finishing the third and last check up of the day. He rolled down his starched sleeves, standing up carefully. “You however, Prince Jason, are deteriorating the longer you neglect your needs to stay by his side.” He arched a gray brow in that politely disapproving manner that made even an unyielding man like the King reconsider his behavior.

Jason scoffs, still bristling at the finery associated with his new title. “He needs me here.” He plops down by Dick’s bedside, grabbing his too cold hand.

“Because of the stranger you saw?” Alfred doesn’t look at Jason as he speaks, but the boy still feels as though he’s being pried at. “No. Yes. Maybe. He was using the flower for something, and whatever it is he wont have liked to lose it. Especially given he didn’t take the King up on the reward offered. Everyone knows what the flower was used for. There’s just no way he doesn’t know. What if he hurts him, what if- "Jason was cut off when a wrinkled hand squeezed his shoulder.

“There are sentries outside his doors at all times, Prince Jason. He will be alright if you sleep properly for one evening” Alfred insists, but leaves him be all the same when he does not answer. Jason stays by his side, unable to look away from the steady rise and fall of Dick’s chest. Eventually, hours after dusk, Jason falls asleep with his head resting on their linked hands. He startled awake disoriented and in someone's arms, being laid onto a silken bed. Jason is shoving himself away before he’s fully awake, realizing that he’s just pushed the King in the same moment he realizes that he can no longer see Dick. He makes a choked sound, tumbling onto the ground, deaf to Bruce trying to calm him down over the rushing in his ears as he slams the door open, looking down the endless hallway stretching out nightmarishly far, heart in his throat as he realizes he doesn’t know where to go. Bruce grabs him before he can run, grip a vice around Jason’s wrist, and interrupts him before he can start screaming.

“Down the hall, first door on the left” Bruce has barely finished speaking in that calm baritone before Jason is running, not caring if Bruce follows or not. He’ll replay this night a thousand times in his mind. Replay it with anger, with regret, with near crippling self hatred. Bruce will do the same, but it will bring neither of them solace. When Jason throws open the door to Dick’s room, he makes contact with a one eyed man, cradling his brother in his arms. He staggered after them, but slipped in the blood of the Prince’s former sentries and crashed into the warm, soaked carpet. Jason was helpless, always helpless, as he watched the stranger look down on him with disdain before he disappeared off the balcony. The currents billow in the night and Jason stared blankly, everything around him fizzing into senseless noise as his world fell apart. \

Neither Bruce nor Alfred will be able to forget the sight of Jason, covered in cooling blood, weeping quietly on the floor. They will not forget the feeling of loss that never quite went away. They will never forgive themselves for not listening, and for not being there soon enough. The search went on for months, but no one ever found a trace of the stranger. Not even the King himself, for all his genius, could come close to an answer. It took weeks for Jason to stop crying quietly, curled up in his brother’s bed, every night. Over the years Bruce took in two more sons, but every year on the first day of spring, they released lanterns for the first prince, in hopes that he might come home. Eventually though, even Jason stopped checking every face in the crowd.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Doing this in broad daylight is a terrible idea, Arsenal is sure of it. The only reason they even got this far is due to the sheer amount of people coming and going for the festival. Even then, the security is strict as it ever was in Gotham, so their little group had no chance of getting into the building by any method other than the roof. He yanks Flash back by the collar of his brown cloak to press up against another spire, to avoid the guard patrolling the roof. Both of them generally wear red, but today finds them in mottled green and brown clothes to blend into the environment. Gotham is marginally easier to break into during the day, so they cannot afford to stand out.

“Arsenal, I’ll be fine. They’ll never see me coming.” Flash reassures, even though it sounds closer to whining, and Arsenal scowls. He opens his mouth to retort but is interrupted by the interloper in their dynamic duo.

“Relax A-” Ravager says, voice always edged with bitterness “The security isn’t all that good.” He rolls his armored shoulders, ignoring the way his companions cringe at the sound of the armor clinking together.

“Dude” Flash crinkled his nose, sharing a look with Arsenal that makes it clear they’re never going to work with this guy again, and glances around the corner. “We literally have a four minute window between the distraction and getting out of here. I don’t wanna hear my getaway guy not taking this seriously.” His viridian eyes are intense, clear and focused in a way that is often unsettling when not paired with a smile.

“Come off it Flash, we’re talking about the same Gotham that lost two princes aren’t we?” Ravager smirks, not bothering to help them set up the small pulley system by the sunroof. “Seriously, they never even found the first one. I can’t imagine taking a dead kid’s crown will be any harder than butchering a prince.”

“Shut up, asshole.” Arsenal snaps, knuckles white as he grips his bow. The reminder of who the crown belonged to makes him bristle, and nearly falter. He can only hope that is has been long enough for the significance of it to have faded. He reminds himself that even if it hasn’t, the royal family will be able to find the crown right after he’s sold it off. No harm done.

“That’s messed up man” Flash swallows heavily, but he knows they need the money and thus doesn’t tell Ravager to screw himself. “I know you’re not really from here, but just looking at the princes wrong is bad news.” He secures the rope around his waist, checking the length for the tenth time. “When the second prince disappeared, it felt like the King was going to tear all of Gotham down piece by piece.” Flash shuddered at the memory. Ravager just rolled his eyes, clearly ready to bicker more.

“Enough. We need to move.” Arsenal interrupts, and ducks out from behind the spire, slinging a wire such that the rock tied to the end wraps it around the bars of a metal gate. Roy is glad he’d had the forethought to sabotage the lock early in the morning, because he doesn���t need to leave the roof to slowly pull the gate open. The collection of ducks relaxing in the gated pond squawk and waddle to the entrance of their enclosure curiously. The pond is only ever visited by the youngest prince, Damian. They’d been scouting the palace for a few weeks, and Damian always came to feed them around the same time every morning. Arsenal lets the wire fall into the grass, lighting the chain of firecrackers in hand before throwing them near the back of the pond. The bangs start just as the prince rounds the corner, and a flurry of panicked quacking and rapidly flapping wings cued Ravager to lower Flash down into the building. Arsenal listens closely to Prince Damian shouting in surprise, and the rising chaos of the palace staff chasing over twenty panicked ducks across the manicured royal gardens.

Flash for his part, sprints to the pedestal the crown was placed upon as soon as his feet touch the ground. The guards are distracted by Arsenal’s manufactured dilemma unfolding outside the opposite windows. He lifts the crown hesitantly;y, surprised when he doesn’t set off any sort of trap. He tugs the rope, relieved as he’s hoisted away unnoticed. He’s nearly to the window when the doors open, and a willowy teenager stalks in, eyes going wide as he immediately spots the Flash, stealing a crown that is only displayed for a week each year.

“Hey! Stop!” He yells, watchmen whirling around as Flash scrambles onto the roof.

“We gotta run, A, come on!” Flash darts over to his companion, grabbing the man’s arm before taking off in a dead sprint across the rooftop. Sure-footed even on the steep and uneven tiles, Flash drags Arsenal ahead, leaving Ravager to hastily catch up. Arrows fly past them as they clamor down from the high palace roofs, slipping into the cover of the alleyways that will lead them out of the country. Neither Arsenal nor Flash bother to wait for or direct Ravager, nearly leaving him behind several times. Cobblestone changed to dirt below their feet as they crossed the threshold between Gotham and the dense woods surrounding it.

They don’t stop running until Gotham is long past out of sight. Arsenal leans heavily against a tree as he catches his breath. He snickers when he sees his and the Flash’s wanted posters dispersed among the trees.

“What the hell happened?” Ravager snaps, rage twisting his face. His cheeks were a blotchy red from exertion, his chest heaved as he tried to disguise how much the mad sprint had taken out of him.

“Prince Timothy wasn’t supposed to be there at that time.” Flash quips, eyebrow raised. “There’s not really anything we could have done to prevent that.”

“We almost got caught because someone was off schedule?” He questions incredulously, hand darting towards the hilt of his sword “I thought you two were supposed to be competent.”

“And we are. He was off schedule by two hours. We still got the crown, and kept our lives. Don’t like it? Break into Wayne castle yourself next time.” Arsenal snarls “But don’t come crying to me when you realize how much work you didn’t realize we had to do.”

“Maybe I should just take the entire crown to compensate myself for putting up with you two idiots” Ravager takes a threatening step forward as Arsenal’s hand darts toward his quiver. They're interrupted by Flash’s loud groan.

“Seriously?” He yanks the wanted poster off one of the nearby trees “They never get my face right!” He shows off the newly acquired portrait, and indeed the artist had rendered him far too impishly. The drawing only represented him vaguely, face stretched too wide and features drawn too close together. The ridiculousness of the complaint sends Arsenal into a fit of laughter and Ravager just gives them both a disgusted sneer.

“Who cares Flash? Let’s just go!” Arsenal dismisses him even as he plays up his giggling, knowing that Flash had intentionally diffused the situation.

“Who cares? Like you have any right to complain, when yours looks like this!” Flash rips the much more flattering wanted poster of Arsenal off the tree, waving it in his face. Arsenal doesn’t stop laughing, and Flash takes a piece of charcoal from his belt and points it threateningly at the poster. “Maybe I should give you something to complain about-”

The brief moment is broken by the barking of guard dogs echoing as they find the scent of their prey. The trio curse and break out into a run once again. Flash takes the lead, ever the fastest, and also unfortunately takes a wrong turn. Taking the low ground to avoid arrow fire was all well and good until they came upon a sheer wall of rock blocking the path.

“What now, geniuses?” Ravager hisses.

“We’ll go up.” Arsenal smirks, wrapping an arm around Flash’s waist as he aims his wrist mounted crossbow and shoots an arrow bound to a rope that begins reeling them up into the trees. “Are we just gonna leave him?” Flash asks urgently, his sense of responsibility tugging him back. “Flash, guy’s an asshole. He deserves whatever he gets.” Arsenal grabs his partners wrist, pulling him into the underbrush.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Tim hates the weeks leading up to spring. When he was younger it was signified by an overarching sadness leeching the vigor from Gotham. Now that he’s older, and has become a prince, he hates it for what it does to his family. Tim had only met Dick Grayson once, and he certainly hadn’t known he was the prince at the time. He’d been in a circus, separated from his parents and only four years old. Dick had taken his hands and looked at him with the bluest eyes and sweetest smile Tim had ever seen. It’s the first time Tim remembers someone looking at him like he’s someone precious. Like he’s someone who can be loved. Dick had shown him a few magic tricks, and swept him up in his arms with fantastical stories spilling off his tongue. Tim remembers being disappointed when they finally found his parents, and obsessively searching for the older boy every day after. He never spoke to Dick again, but saw him fairly often. The first prince had a habit of sneaking out and talking to anyone and everyone. It made him highly popular with his people, but for Tim it became one of many things Bruce would never allow. No one knows why Dick got sick, but he may have caught it from someone he spoke to, so his sons aren’t supposed to get close to strangers at all. Jason always blamed himself for it, since the disease was so similar to the one his mom had caught, and while Tim had managed to earn his older brother’s respect, he’d never been able to say his mind after the stubbornness settled in. The whole family was like that really, even Dick. On rare occasions Bruce, or Alfred, or Jason would talk about the eldest son, his kindness or his anger. The insane things the boy chose to do around the palace before he slowed down. Despite being half the reason for Tim having the most overbearing father in existence, Tim can’t help but idolize Dick somewhat. The way Jason, with all his scars and trauma, softened as he spoke of their older brother wasn’t something Tim ever saw him do otherwise. Tim had only known Jason as an angry, hurt young man, but he often thinks of the memorable night when Alfred broke down and told him about the happy, cheerful child he had once been. How enthusiastically he tottered in the shadow of Dick Grayson. For that matter, even Damian seemed to cling to Dick’s old journals, and Tim wonders if it’s because Dick wrote them when he was about Damian’s age. Or perhaps he wanted to know what drove his father to adopt Dick in the first place. Tim wasn’t glad for the fact that Damian was old enough to be upset that the first of spring was coming. It was hard on all of them, Alfred locked himself in the apothecary, Jason would get quiet, angrier than normal, and oh so very reckless. He’d sneak out the castle and go back to the habits he had picked up when he was trying to dismember Gotham’s foundation to prove a point. Tim knows that he has a tendency to pour over the accounts from that night over and over again. As though this time there will suddenly be something new. A breakthrough he just missed before. However, the worst of them all was Bruce.

Tim remembers the senseless violence and aggression that the King fell into when Jason was assumed dead. Enough for the people to wonder if Gotham would become a place where criminals were killed, instead of being reformed. He’d had to step in to keep the kingdom from falling apart, and stayed to keep Bruce from breaking under Jason's heartbroken hands. Tim isn’t sure what Dick would have done differently, but he likes to think the man would appreciate Tim’s hard work.

Today he was running late. Normally he would have paid his respects to the crown hours ago, but he’d been up late scouring witness reports and immigration documents. Searching for anyone that matched Jason’s description of the Stranger. As Tim walked down the hall to the brightly lit room Alfred set up every year for the festival. It was the room Dick used to practice in all the time, although all the bars and acrobatics equipment had been broken by Bruce years ago in a fit of grief.

His thoughtful stroll turned into him bolting down the hall when a series of loud bangs and squawking ducks sent his heart rate through the roof. He threw the doors open in time to see the guards distracted, and really Tim might be starting to get why Jason hates them, and a red headed thief being hoisted through the window. With his brother’s crown. Tim shouts at him, but of course he doesn’t stop, and Tim turns on his heels. He heads straight to the stables without even stopping to berate the useless guards, barking out clipped commands for those he does pass. He’s on his horse and in pursuit first, leaving the guards scrambling to catch up, and passing his wide eyed kid brother. Tim thinks Damian protested his departure, or asked to come with, but Tim didn’t have time to soothe him right then.

Tim is angry, he’s incensed when he sees the trio run away, and furious when he sees the redheads grapple up from the dead end ditch they almost got cornered in. Tim doesn’t even care to examine the man they caught, because he wants each of these criminals to understand exactly what they’d taken from him, from his family. The crown isn’t the only thing they had to remember him by, but it is a symbol, it is the center of the shrine they made to mourn their loss. His heart pounds in his chest because he can’t watch his dad lose anything more. By the same hand, Tim is desperate to prove himself. Bruce has a chokehold on their comings and goings, always dictatorial and playing it safe. Tim wants to prove that if he would just let them, his sons can help. His sons can be there for him.

So when the trees thicken and his horse stalls, and the soldier’s heavy armor gets caught in the barbs and entwined oaken limbs, Tim leaps off his horse in pursuit. He darts through the thickets, lighter on his feet than anyone else in the palace, following streaks of red as they try to escape him. Tim feels a certain level of obsession creep in. He needs to know why, he needs to know what they know, do they know the stranger? His brother? He hopes he’s able to interrogate them when they’re brought in.

They come upon a cliff, and Tim can’t see the skinnier one, but the one with the bow- Arsenal, he recognizes now- is standing on a branch stretched out over the chasm with his bow pulled taught. Unfortunately for them, Tim knows Arsenal and his partner don’t kill, and has never hurt kids. Tim’s never really been grateful to look about 4 years younger than his 16 years, but he is when he sees Arsenal hesitate, and lunges for the satchel around the man’s waist. He feels the flexible wood of the bow tight against his neck as he slips the crown out of the bag. Rage fades neatly into bubbling hysteria as he realizes he may be completely over his head. He tries to slip out of Arsenal’s grasp, the same way he’s done hundreds of times before. Arsenal just adjusts his grip and eliminates what little slack there was between Tim’s neck and the bow. Tim feels his airway get cut off and he’s struggling against the hold of a man over twice his size when he hears the branch snap. His stomach lurches as the weightlessness of falling hits him, and Arsenal lets go of him to grab at the canopy and slow his descent. Tim manages to hold tight to the crown, and meets the foliage with his face. While it does slow his descent it also hurts and floods his body with a light, vague feeling. When the ground knocked his breath out of him, he barely managed to push himself to his feet, not quickly but faster than Arsenal. He feels his advantage growing for just a moment. He’s already thinking through all the questions he has as he pulls the rope from his belt, until his thoughts are cut off by something thwacking into his skull so hard his brain turns off. The last thought he manages is: oh right, Flash. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Dick wakes up the same way he does most mornings; to his bird chirping and sunlight streaming through narrow windows. The morning light bathes the stone walls in a golden hue, highlighting the deep blue of his long hair as it adorned the rafters criss-crossing over his bed. He stretches as he sits up, smiling as his little green bird lands on his shoulder and nuzzles against his cheek.

“Good morning Robin.” He greets softly, reaching to his bedside to get a handful of seeds, watching fondly as his pet carefully pecks them up. He vaults out of bed to start his morning routine, flipping down to the base of the tower along the bars and grips that his Father had installed for him. He uses his long locks as rope, to swing from beam to beam. The magic within it keeps it from breaking or getting too tangled. At least Dick thinks that’s how it works, his Father had always refused to let Dick touch his long ponytail, let alone tug on it to test the tensile strength. Instead Father had only told him that he was unique, and shouldn’t worry about it, since he’d never have to hide that from anyone here. Dick had always hated how that made it sound like he would never be anywhere else.

He lands with a near eerie level of grace, full of energy and bouncing on the balls of his feet. He goes through the motions his Father had taught him, cleaning weapons, practicing form, and training strength. Then he hefted himself onto the counter to pick the lock on the sweets cabinet. It’s a game they play, Father locks it up better and better, and Dick finds new ways to break into it. He grabs the sweet buns waiting inside, biting into the soft bread with a happy hum. All alone in the tower for most of every day, he has become an expert in finding a number of ways to occupy himself, but reading and swinging about the rafters are his favorite. Today though, he goes about the morning with more intent, double checking his charts of the stars in preparation for the discussion he’ll have to have with his Father. He finishes his breakfast, swinging between the books he’s referencing, and the charts he’s creating on a makeshift swing of hair.

He keeps an eye on the clock, taking a break every hour or two. First he runs through the forms Father had taught him, all uncanny balance and control. Then he practices his newest skill, crotchet. He’s working on a series of small birds and bats. They’re soft and cute, and Dick smiles when he glances at the basket in the corner full of the little plush creatures. Shifting tasks helps him from getting too anxious, but as the arrival of his guardian draws ever closer and closer, he finds himself running over the upcoming conversation repeatedly in his head.

Dick is pacing back and forth in front of the mirror muttering an imaginary conversation under his breath when he hears a low voice call from below.

“Let down your hair, little bird”

DIck’s head shot up from the charts, and he quickly straightened them on his desk. His Father has no patience for messes. He throws open the window, tossing his hair down the side of the tower, feeling the tug of his Father crating a foothold. Dick tries not to think of the dirt he’ll have to clean out. It never seems to catch or stick in his hair, but he dislikes the idea of it enough to clean his hair frequently regardless. He pulls his father up, using a hook as a fulcrum, straining only slightly. His Father takes up the entire opening of the window as he steps in, all muscle and imposing self control. A single blue eye darts over his features, sharp and assessing.

“Are you well? You seemed to struggle today.” He says, almost concerned, but Dick knows better than to trust it fully.

“I’m well father, it wasn’t any trouble” He chirps, bright and cheerful, and only forced a little. The way his father’s eye narrows suggests that he doesn’t buy the excuse.

“Then why are you moving so slowly?” His father asks, with an air of casualness that precedes real anger. Dick hurries to help him disarm, taking his Father’s swords, armor, and miscellaneous weapons and laying them out across the table next to the window. He bounds across the room to get his cleaning supplies, nervous under the familiar cold calculation.

“Your form is sloppy. You’ve been slacking, haven’t you, little bird?”

Dick’s jaw clenched. He wanted to retort, to snap back, but he bit his tongue.It was always easier to back down, and agree. He watches his father remove his gloves and coat, showing sluggishly bleeding cuts stretching up his arms.

“I’ll work on it, Father.” Dick mutters, hating to agree, and by the way the man’s gaze flicks to him in narrow judgment, Father has picked up on exactly what Dick is doing.

“We’ll work on it. I’ll make sure you can handle yourself.” He sighs, sitting down “Otherwise I’d just be sending you out to die”

Dick bristles at the comment. Die? He’s been preparing for the outside for as long as he can remember, without any guarantee that he’d ever see it again. He wasn’t a fragile child anymore, he knew he could handle whatever the world threw at him. But still he said nothing, because he knew better than that. Father indicates the chair in front of him, grabbing the brush on the nearby stand.

“Sit, your hair is a mess again. I’ll brush it for you.” He gestures for him to sit. Dick wants to roll his eyes and as ‘yes my hair is messy, you totally don’t want me to heal your very injured arms’ and if he hadn’t wanted something he absolutely would have done it.

He only sighs quietly, and sits down, enjoying the feeling of the brush running through his hair and the trace of fingers against his scalp as they manipulate his hair to lay correctly. Dick sings softly, an old song in a language he didn’t know, but one that felt arcane and powerful all the same. He watches in the mirror as a soft blue glow cascades through his locks. He wants to spit out the words in a rush, but Dick was tamping down every annoying impulse to avoid stoking father’s temper.

When the brushing ended, Dick saw his father relax, as much as he ever did. Dick takes a deep breath, turning around to face Father, seeing the calm, expectant look awaiting him.

“I want to go outside.” Dick is proud of how even his voice is when he speaks. His father’s brows climb in incredulity, a cold rage passing over his face before it’s covered with a false sense of casualness.

“You know, I’ve been out there Kid. It’s no fairy tale.” His voice is laced with condescension.

“I’m not a child, I know what can happen.” Dick asserts, and tries not to regret it at the stubborn set of his father’s jaw.

“Do you? Last I recall your only experience being outside was being kidnapped. You didn’t even get the chance to see the worst of it. The war, the disease, the assassin’s who’d kill you for half a coin…” His voice is low, and deliberate. He crowds into Dick’s personal space, towering over him.

“I’m not the same kid as I was, I can handle myself” Dick jutted his jaw, refusing to look away, to back down even as he had to crane his neck up.

“And how would you know that? You think a few books and some light training makes you ready for the world? Last time you were there you forgot who you were Dick, who I was. You forgot your family.” His father tucks some of his hair behind his ears.

“I know I’m not the same because I’m getting better everyday, Father all I want is to see some lights-” Dick knows he’s pleading, and worse he’s keenly aware that it never really works.

“Lights? You mean the stars? You can see those through your window” The dismissal comes quickly and full of derision.

“No” Dick turns and pulls out everything he’s been charted “This is different, I’ve charted stars and these only come once a year, and always in the same place.”

“Absolutely not. Last time I took you to see something, you were kidnapped at a circus. They attacked you, they cut your hair, they stole you from me.” His father growled, harshly folding up the carefully drawn charts. Dick tried not to flinch at the sudden movement.

“Dad, please. I’ve never asked you to go outside since then, I just want to see these lights. I feel like I need to.” Dick tried to clamp down on the desperation edging into his voice. He doesn’t think he succeeded. “I’m strong enough, you trained me yourself!”

“You think you’re strong enough?” He asks, expression darkening as he stalked towards the mounted weapons on the wall. “You think that just because I, a man who still comes how injured every week, trained you that you can survive? I get hurt because some people have heard that I know of you. If you’re actually there, what do you think they’ll do? How far will they go for your magic little bird?”

Dick flinches as Slade Father takes a bo staff from the wall, spinning it around dangerously. Dick jumps back, pulling his heavy wooden escrima sticks from the shelf near his bed, just fast enough to block the heavy down swing of the staff. Slade uses his full weight against him to bear down on his block until Dick slips away by ducking away from the blow. He keeps himself out of reach, only engaging against Slade when he absolutely has to, internally debating if hitting Slade will prove his point or piss the man off. Eventually, Dick is able to knock the bo staff away by throwing all his weight into a parry, and lands a few good blows on Slade. He’s so surprised that he misses the staff sweeping his feet out from under him, and has to cover his head when several harsh blows rain down on him. Dick had trained with him before, trained until his muscles screamed and his body ached. This was different, it wasn’t training. Slade was proving a point.

His father stops when he sees Dick start to curl up on himself, Slade always hit hard and mercilessly, and sighs heavily.

“You’re not strong enough Dick. You’ve never been strong enough, and you’re lucky I’m here to protect you” Father says with a tone that borders on kind as he helps Dick back to his feet.

Dick swallows down tears that he knows would only make father’s case for him, biting back the worn argument that it was hard for Dick to fight his father, in a way he knows it wouldn’t be to fight someone trying to hurt him.

“I’m not asking to go alone! If you came with me—” Dick tried, as he gripped his father’s hand.

“No. You think those lights mean something. But they don’t, it’s a fantasy. If not a trick of the sky, then of men who would seek to use you. “ His voice mocking, tearing into him “You’d risk everything for a fantasy?”

“It’s not a fantasy” Dick implores, all but begging his dad to just understand him, just this once but everything felt like a dead end. “I see them every year, I know they’re real. I know there’s something-” Dick cuts himself off as soon as he sees Slade raise the staff again, letting go and stumbling back into his wardrobe, wooden knobs digging into the bruises on his back.

“You don’t get it. Out there, you’re nothing. I am nothing, I will try to protect you but there is every chance that I utterly fail. Then I’d have to watch this world tear you apart, take you from me again.” His father sighs, setting the staff aside and approaching Dick to take his face in his hands. “Here, you’re safe.” He says quietly and Dick feels guilt choke out his protests, resolve crumbling under the concerned blue eye. “I already lost you once, little bird, and sometimes I wonder if I ever got you back.”

The words may as well have been a physical blow for the way they knocked Dick’s air out of his lungs. Not for the first time he wishes he could recall what he was like before, what Slade felt he had lost. A familiar doubt crushes him down. He leans into the comfort of his father’s arms, faintly shaking.

Slade strokes his hair, hugging him warmly in a way he so rarely ever does. “I cannot bear to lose you. You’re never leave this tower, Dick. Not ever again” He says, tone leaving no space for dissent.

Dick slumps against him, heart sinking into familiar depths. He wanted to scream, or fight, or even run away, but he cannot. The weight of guilt and expectation weighs heavily on him.

"I… I understand," Dick murmured, his voice hollow.

Slade’s grip on his shoulder tightened for a moment before he pulled Dick into an embrace, one that was both possessive and oppressive. "Good," Slade whispered against his hair. "I love you, little bird. I won’t let anyone else have you."

As Slade releases him, Dick clenches his hands behind his back, nodding pleasantly at the promise of return in the early afternoon. His throat feels tight as his mind races. He wonders now, if he’s doomed to spend his whole life in his tower. He can’t do that, he’ll have to figure out a way to convince his father, and failing that…

Dick needs to think of a way to get as far away as possible, even if the guilt kills him.

[marbrnv]

Writer's block

or is it?

I just can't do it. I can't. I know exactly what to write, I have made extensive notes, I have every aspect covered, but I can't put it into fucking words, let alone coherent sentences that make sense together and deliver the point. I just can't. I'm sitting here and I want to scream. And cry. And punch something.

At the same time, I can't NOT write it. It's been way too long, my advisors are waiting for this goddamn chapter. A month ago I told them I'm wrapping it up, I have the bulk written, but there are a few sections that I really struggle with. Yeah, ok, not untrue. I don't know why I struggle with them, those aren't even my own research sections - just context analysis based on the scholarship that's already there. Why is this so difficult? How can I feel like I know what to write, but at the same time like I don't have a faintest idea?

I thought to myself, ok, it's just a minor section, write it like a usual course paper, 2-3 thousand words, I've done that a hundred times, piece of cake. I didn't care if it made perfect sense, I just had to write it, so I did. I didn't frankly care about the grade that I'd get - at a doctoral level you need to really mess up to produce a B quality paper. We know our shit at that point. And even if it's not great, in the end it always does make sense. But now when it's my dissertation (god, that damn word!), I feel like the same total amateur undergrad with the only difference being that back then I did not have the awareness of being an amateur. When you're 20, every word you write seems like a stroke of genius to you. At least it did to me; but judging by 99.5 percent of my students, this is not uncommon. And you savor it - even if years down the road you shrug at the thought that you could write something so stupid.

In some less grave cases, giving it a little cry helps. This is only partly a joke. But in situations like this one today, not even tears come out. Total and complete paralysis. Texted my phd-student friends from my program to ask if this is what experience sometimes, too. Their answers were king of vague. Yes, no, not the same way.

That made me realize how little we, the grad students, share about the actual pain of doing what we do. The constant, excruciating self-doubt, very often no or very little support because nobody can really relate, especially if your family and friends have nothing to do with academia (my case), and especially if you come from abroad (also my case; don't even get me started on writing as an esl). Nobody takes you seriously, you're just an overgrown student, you don't really make a living (even though I think it's wild that we get paid anything at all for just reading a bunch of obscure stuff and writing some even more obscure stuff for 5-6-7 years). You're kind of at the very bottom. Nobody says it like that, but it does very much feel like it. Not the greatest motivator.

And among ourselves, we kind of play it cool, don't we. We joke and complain about the "hard" things - getting grants, doing research in archives around the world, connecting the dots of our narrative, editing - but not that. Not the fact that most of the time you feel like a child that was left alone in a crowded place, not knowing how they got there or how to get home. Standing there, holding a stupid pink cotton candy in one hand and thinking this is it, now you live on the streets.

Jesus Christ, will this ever get easier.

[clippedwingsmuses]

twilight has not much for reactions as her words sink in, as they delay and take ages to burrow within the taller alicorn's head. or so, that's how twilight viewed it. when she stared up into her eyes, it seemed like she were staring off somewhere in the distance. as if she were staring into the past when things were nicer, or into a future that would never come to pass. only when her eyes closed, holding back tears that inevitably rolled down her face, did twilight feel that luna was situated within the present.

it makes it all the more surprising as the mare's hoof crashes to the ground, shattering the stone beneath her. twilight stumbles, jolting from the force of the motion, extending a wing as chips of rock flare out from the impact site and scatter across the ground like pebbles. when the world falls silent again does twilight lower her wing. she hates being afraid of luna, and she shouldn't be. but, while the mare always held tightly onto her emotions, the times that the night princess did allow them to show was when they were the most intense, uncontrollable.

twilight's shaking quickly calms when the queen's voice echoes out again, shaky with pain and frustration, raspy from days, weeks, decades worth of tears. twilight's ears perk at the mention of the lullaby. of course she remembered it. the missing words that luna relayed were unfamiliar, but the melody was all the same. twilight mouthed the words alongside the familiar tune she had once been sung to sleep with in her early years. they fit so... perfectly.

twilight's heart aches seeing the mare react in these ways. even even recalling these memories does little more than widen the wounds still bleeding in the alicorn's heart. twilight's mind so readily scarred, still twinging with the occasional ache, but luna's wounds would always be open for centuries more. repeatedly twilight finds herself silent, allowing the pony to spill her thoughts, recall the events of the past, relay her feelings in little more than the occasional gesture, the tear she allows to slip by, the twitch of her wings and the glimmer of stars in her mane, many of which twilight has to stop to wonder if they are forced to shine or not, to give some essence of control to the night queen.

" suppose the guilt... i-it may never leave, " twilight stutters. " no pony blames us but ourselves, and yet it feels that way when we face the outside. you and my friends, every pony, they tell me that it wasn't my fault, i couldn't have known, that i dare not wish it had been me, that i shouldn't regret... what has transpired. but i still... "

twilight trails off. she shakes her head. oh, what does it matter? had she not already accepted.

" she was a good teacher but she was... reckless, " twilight says, the faintest sparkle of a smile barely perking at the corners of her lips, even though her head lowers with her words. " it's the only thing about her i've never envied. i... had good reason. "

and then, the question is asked. twilight's ears lift, as does her head, tilting up to stare at the mare who seems a house taller than her. she pulls herself forth a hoofstep, bathed in the shadow of queen luna's extended wings, mane sparkling brighter as the darkness engulfs her figure. she hardens her gaze, attempting to eclipse the gloom that floods her eyes.

" of course, " she answers, voice soft, but with a firmness that shined on from the first day she and her friends found the elements of harmony, to the day of king sombra's final defeat in this very room. " it would mean a lot to everypony if you could attend. perhaps... it will help to lift the weight off of your heart as well. i... do believe that she would understand why you've stood back until now. you needed time, and nopony is judging or blaming you for that. a-and, i will help you every step of the way. "

" if, um... i-if you have anything you'd like to do in particular, i'm willing to make it a priority when the day arrives. o-or if you need ideas, i'd be more than happy to come up with a few things on the spot... "

though twilight's voice is still rough from the conversation's primary subject, her ears faintly twitch with a familiar excitement, a joy that she very seldom held onto these days. though she didn't have the strength to smile, that dull sparkle in her eyes did the work for her. it is more obvious now how much twilight wished for this, how much she wanted luna to join in this day. twilight wanted nothing more than for luna to at least attempt, even if it was only this once, to join in the day's events and recall the days of old as the rest of them had. twilight knew there were many stories between the two sisters that even she had not heard of, or read of from the sisters' journal.

twilight didn't know if it would help luna at all. it was nothing but a reminder for what had occurred, the cold reality of what may have been preventable. but, perhaps recalling the good and the great would help to lessen the pain. even in the comfort of her sheets, where celestia had been forced to rest until she faded away, she had done so as well. she made the most of her final days by recalling only the good. maybe it lessened the pain. at the time, twilight only felt worse the longer the stories went on. but now, in the back of her memories, she holds onto the stories celestia recalled to her.

twilight wanted to do the same, and that was her chosen way of keeping celestia's memory alive when the day of mourning arrived. she hoped that luna would be able to follow in the footsteps of her sister, and in twilight's own, and do the same. maybe, just maybe, it would, if nothing else, dull the pain.

when was the last time she'd even seen cadance? in a dream most likely. or the funeral where luna had stood silent alongside starswirl as he spoke, head bowed under an orange sky. she faced the setting sun in her stuttering eulogy all too vulnerable even at such a private event. she attended the public one but couldn't get a word out. instead, there had been a spontaneous meteor shower over the white marble statue of celestia in all her serene grace.

luna had been aghast to learn her sister had adopted in her absence. that there had been three pupils in that time, all likely just as deserving of ascension as the next. how equestria had advanced for there to be widespread education that allowed for such a thing. language evolved, customs changed. celestia as always looked to the future. to the next day, the next dawn. she squeezes her eyes shut and tears darken blue fur.

the touch is gentle and yet so foreign. luna had never been one for hugs or cuddles. she only spent a year burrowed into celestia's side, under her wing, refusing to leave her lest it all turn out to be a dream. enveloped in warm legs, practically sat on by the elder when cold would sink unnaturally into her bones and celestia was the only one who could touch her without developing frostbite. she has no friends these days. her guards keep their distance. she doesn't speak much to twilight and few else could even come close to understanding.

she swallows dryly and extends a wing, curved soft feathers in need of preening, but still an offering. if twilight sparkle wanted someone to take her under their wing and pull her close like perhaps her mentor had done once. luna barely glances at her, wary of rejection as always. it would sting but she's used to it by now. at least ponies have stopped cowering and running from her as if they expected to be eaten alive (which was truly ridiculous and disgusting, luna had forced them to spit out what nightmare bit off that one time.)

"'twas the elements of harmony that kept the forest back. we were harmony...together." that was her rationale for it. the tree had been kept back by the elements and luna had always believed there were other ways of harmony magic. maybe if they'd fought together, if she had lent celestia some of her magic they could have rallied. she stomps a hoof in frustration and it cracks stone under shoe. it's ever so tempting to try turning back time much as she knows how disastrous such spells can be. it could be worth it. all she'd really have to do was ensure her past self followed her sister and saved her. they could figure out everfree later together.

the stained glass feels like a mockery looking down on them. why did it have to be so sad, so desperate? all the others were clear victories. "did you know that she sung to us?" her voice is scarcely more than a whisper. "when...when we were banished? and we heard her." it had been inconceivably cruel initially. hearing celestia's voice in the deafening silence, unable to see her, unable to move or breathe. still reeling with earth shattering rage. until she'd been able to listen to the words properly. "lullay moon princess, good night sister mine. i love you. i miss you, all these miles away."

again her voice cracks and vision blurs with heavy tears. "that...little rhyme she taught cadance who taught you? she left out our verse." perhaps it had been too hard, still too raw even though that was mere decades before the infamous summer sun celebration. luna shakes her head viciously, cold thick magic of her mane settling heavily on black neck. in it stars spun flickered and died. her gaze hardened like that of one going into battle. after all, she planned to.

"if it tis not our fault then it cannot be your either, twilight sparkle. our sister made her choice, foolish...selfish as it was. and we-" a falter. heavens, she's so tired. even without dream work luna had remained up researching, looking for anything to help fix things. her original plan is no longer possible but the instinct that the everfree needed harmony remains. "stars know we couldn't have stopped her if we tried. once she had an idea in her head..." luna scoffs a barely there laugh.

despite the warmth of summer, her bones ache. fetlocks crack noisily when she stretches them where rainbow stains frost bleached fur. the alicorn feels older than ever despite magic imbuing every fiber of her being that didn't allow her to age. or die easily. "i would...i would like to attend this year. she-she deserves a better sister than i have been, but i would try to atone." one hoof paws the floor nervously, ears back, posture as it had been when first approaching ponies on nightmare night. an insecure unsure mare not an all powerful immortal queen. "will you help us, twilight sparkle?"