#;; whispers beneath the earth {ooc}

[threadxsteel]

tag masterpost

general ;; answered ;; promo ;; self promo ;; starters and prompts ;; wishlist

lywc ;; asleep and in waking {lost history} ;; bones and string i will keep forever {gifts} ;; it echoes in the bones and hollows {that which is sung} ;; listen close to the nightsongs of birds {meme} ;; rain against the window {musings} ;; suede and ink stains {journal} ;; sweet hay and apples {Annwn} ;; to run with the horses and hares {aesthetic} ;; the house of Aylis {the lessons of herbs} ;; the house of Iona {the lessons of shadows} ;; under strange stars utterly and irrevocably lost {to be invested} ;; wildsongs of the valley {about} ;; which is heavier the weight of the blade or the betrayal {Bryn} ;; whispers beneath the earth {ooc}

verses ;; and i will ride with you to the end of the world {inquisition} ;; here my heavy boots find rest {modern} ;; the shadow of the cat {witcher}

companions ;; the lion of the mountains {cullen | sharp teeth and wide grins}

relationships

[lamentationsofalonelypotato]

You Call It Madness But I Call It Love

Chapter 23: Extreme Makeover Backyard Edition

Pairing: Soldier Boy x f!reader, Reader POV, Soldier Boy POV

Summary: When the reader left Payback 40 years ago after a falling out with her childhood best friend she never looked back, but when two men show up to her apartment and start asking her questions about the past, the reader begins to think those things can’t stay hidden and starts to question what’s real and what’s fantasy.  This is a re-telling of The Boys Season 3, where the reader is a supe who's known Soldier Boy since 1927. The chapters will fluctuate between past and present. This is chapter twenty three of my "You Call It Madness But I Call It Love" series. (I'm so bad at summaries please forgive me!)

Word Count: 9.1K

Warnings: I'm going to label this one 18+ because it handles some heavy subjects!  Angst, Cursing, Nudity, Mentions of Abuse (sort of- it's more the reader being used without knowledge of it and I'm not sure what to call that), Numbness, Depression, Mental Health, Brief mentions of graphic death, Brief mentions of graphic torture, Mention of gore, Mention of death, Mentions of character going through some HEAVY EMOTIONS and INTERNAL TRAUMA, Fluff, Sexual References, Family Problems. Soldier Boy might be, is, really, absolutely, completely a little OOC. Soldier Boy is really all you need as a warning.

Note: This is told from the Reader's perspective. Any references to the reader is made using you or your. There is minimal use of y/n. I tried my best to proofread, but nobody's perfect. Reader is described as "curvy" occasionally. If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite!

Internal Monologue is in first person and is in italics

Series Masterlist

Masterlist

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Reader POV

You fall on your hands and knees in the soft grass of Legend's front yard, falling from the sky like a comet as it's glow fades and burns for the last time before striking the earth. You don't remember how you left Stan's apartment, don't remember flying here, don't feel anything, not the humidity that comes with the rising sun, not the cold kiss of dew against your skin, all you feel is the cold creeping numbness that trickles through your veins.

The memories of what you did come in flashes, but they do nothing. They do not evoke remorse nor pain, they haunt you, but do not bring tears to your eyes.

You open and close your hands, letting the blades of grass crush beneath your fingertips, but you don’t completely comprehend where you are, or how the hell you got here. All you feel is weakness tugging at your every muscle, threatening to drag you under the rising tide. You felt electrified, but so tied at the same time, everything and nothing. What happened seemed centuries ago and also seconds ago.

There was no anger, no remorse, no pain, no horror, no shock, there was nothing, only the chill that clung to your skin on the warm summer morning. You could see Stan’s death in your mind, watch his body collapse in on itself under your power and yet it did nothing to you.

You're not sure of anything anymore. Who you are, who Rosemary is- everything you knew is gone and you're not sure what's left behind, not sure what will come crawling out of the shell you were now. You knew you should be afraid, but another voice in your ear whispered so should they.

Someone grabs you by the shoulders, hauls you up off the ground, raising your gaze from the wet grass.

Ben looks furious, mind you, he always seemed to be angry when it came to you. You wondered if that was because he loved you or if it was because the two of you were fated to kill each other one day.

Or maybe it's a healthy combination of both.

He's wearing his jeans again, his dark hair falling forward into his eyes that burn with the force of his rage, but as soon as he sees the dried blood coating your cheeks, hair, and body, you watch worry begin to spark behind his glowing green eyes.

You register that deep down his anger and worry comes from a place that he'd hidden from you for eighty years, his love for you, the love that he was no longer hiding. But the chill still rose in your chest like the first frost of winter.

"Fuck." Ben mutters, moving his hands along your body, boldly looking for injuries, but he doesn't find any. "What the fuck happened? Why did you leave?"

You don't answer him, instead you take in a shallow breath, filled with the smell of fresh cut grass and Ben's musk. You're trying to find your voice, but it's difficult for you.

"Y/n are you alright?" He asks it, firmly gripping you by the shoulders, trying to shake you back into reality. You can hear the way the anger in his voice has shifted to something else.

"It's not mine Ben." Your voice is no more than a whisper as you stare blankly at him.

"Whose is it?"

You can't answer him, the only thing in your mind is Stan's words to you, the secrets he kept for forty years coming to light, the terrible things that he and Vogelbaum did. You want to tell him, tell him about what you know, but you can't find the words, can't find the thoughts to follow them.

"Sweetheart?" Ben furrows his eyebrows together, tilting your face to look at him. His hand softly strokes against your cheeks not understanding why you’re acting like this. “Are you alright?” 

His voices sound like you’re underwater, a murmur, a buzz, just a shadow of the deep rumble you love so much, the voice you thought you'd never hear every again.

Ben says your name again, with such urgency that it snaps you out of it for only a moment. The smoke clears, but what’s left barely has the strength to cling to him as you collapse into his chest. Your body shakes uncontrollably, tears soaking through his thin t-shirt, unable to do anything else, but clutch him tighter against you.

"He's our son Ben. They stole my-" You can't find the words, can't find your voice, it sounds hollow. "Stan he and Vogel-." But your voice breaks again and you shudder against Ben's chest, the numbness coming back to drag you under.

Ben doesn't hesitate, he picks you up as if you weigh nothing, tucking your head under his chin as he goes and turns back towards the house. You barely register his picking you up, can’t seem to focus on anything, breath coming in shallow gasps, body still shaking. Ben tightens his arms around you as if trying to comfort you as he walks through the front doors.

“Is she alright?” Rosemary’s voice is close, but you don't raise your head from Ben's body.

“Fuck, there’s so much blood.“ Hughie adds and you can imagine him standing beside her, his eyes wide.

Guess that means he survived Mindstorm.

Your only hope was that Lou was already in bed, that she wasn't watching Ben carry you soaked in blood through Legend's house.

“It’s not hers.” Ben replies gruffly, still moving towards the staircase. He wasn't stopping and you were thankful for that, you didn’t want to talk to anyone and didn’t want to have it out with Rosemary. You were so tired, tired of fighting and of trying. You didn’t want to yell at her, didn’t want her to yell at you, all you wanted was to slip deeper into the darkness.

"Shit, she's just as fucking unhinged as Soldier Boy is." Butcher mutters under his breath wherever it is he's standing.

“Wait mom talk to me-“ Rosemary tries again.

“No.” You murmur into Ben’s neck. Stan’s revelation rings in your ears once more, betrayal momentarily clawing its way from the pit before the cold feeling comes back to drag you under.

Because it felt like she had betrayed you. All these years you thought that Vought left the two of you alone, but no, it was a lie. And if she'd done that, what else had she done to ensure your freedom?

“Please-“ She sounds broken, and it strikes something inside, because she's never sounded like that before. Rosemary was strong, stronger than you ever were.

But then the word makes the memory of Stan’s body snapping and twisting beneath your control come roaring back, his pleas for the mercy he didn’t deserve exhaled on his dying breath, as you turned him into nothing more than a lump of flesh.

You gasp, another shudder shaking through your body and you don’t answer and don't raise your head.

"Wait Ben-" She says his name, but Ben doesn't stop.

"She doesn't want to talk right now." Ben's tone is controlled, but you can hear the trickle of his rage just on the edge of his inflection. "And I'm not going to make her." He continues walking down the stairs and Rosemary does not follow.

Ben doesn’t put you down on the bed, instead he takes you to the adjoining bathroom. It’s bigger than your bedroom back at your apartment with a walk in shower big enough for five people to stand in, a giant vanity with two sinks, a jacuzzi, and a bathtub big enough for three. Legend never spared any expense when it came to that sort of thing.

Ben slowly places you on the vanity but when he pulls back you grab the front of his shirt. “No.” You breathe suddenly terrified. The terror of Ben leaving cuts through it all, followed by a wave of horror and fear.

If he leaves they’ll come for me again. They’ll come take me or Lou.

You were afraid to be alone, didn’t want him to go, not after everything that happened.

“Shhh.” Ben soothes you, brushing your hair back, “It’s alright sweetheart I’m just getting a washcloth.”

You relent, hand unfurling from his shirt, and he comes back with it, wetting it with warm water before he begins to drag it over your face as gently as possible. His eyebrows are furrowed with concentration, but you don’t move, you only stare at a point over his left shoulder not really comprehending what’s happening.

What happened to Stan comes back in flashes, black and white photographs followed by the bits of conversation that unmade you, the revelations that would haunt you for the rest of your life.

Ben sighs. “Well. I don’t think this is helping at all.” He throws the washcloth into the sink and gently cups your chin, turning your gaze on him.

You blink a few times to focus your eyes.

“Look sweetheart I know you don’t want me to leave, but you gotta get in the shower. I can’t get it all with this washcloth and the last thing I want is to put you in bed covered in blood.” He searches your gaze trying to make you understand what he was asking but you don’t respond.

He leans his forehead against yours. “Honey please you gotta say something. You’re scaring me.” Ben’s eyes meet yours, wide and for the first time in years you see genuine fear.

You let out a shallow breath, but don’t say anything. You can’t find your voice. Instead you gently touch his chest just over his heart. It’s a small gesture, but it’s enough for Ben.

Ben closes his eyes for a minute as if trying to make sense of it all. “Okay.” He breathes, opening his eyes again to look at you, care and concern charging the air between the two of you. “Can I take off your clothes?”

You nod once, eyes still focused on the white tiled wall behind him.

“Okay.” Ben gently pushes the leather jacket back from your body. It falls back on the counter in a bloody heap, staining the white countertops with flecks of dried reddish-black blood. “I need you to stand up for me sweetheart.” Ben says, holding you firmly by the waist and pulling you off the counter.

You stand there for a moment, unsteady on your feet, staring blankly ahead of you.

“Arms up.” Ben whispers.

You raise them above you head and Ben removes your shirt and bra before moving to your pants. “Hold on to me.” He places your arms around his shoulders as you step out of your shoes, pants, and panties.

If you’d been in your right mind maybe you would have worried about this moment, worried about Ben seeing you naked again after all these years. He’d only ever seen you the one time, but somewhere deep down registered that this was different. It wasn’t sexual. There weren't any expectations and there was nothing to be embarrassed about. This was Ben keeping his promise and taking care of you the way that he always had.

He steps over to the bathtub, running his hand under the stream of water to check the temperature.

"Come on.” Ben gently leads you over, your small hand in his and helps you step over the side of the tub and into the warm water.

Steam rises around your body, but the water feels lukewarm. Your gaze levels at the water that streams from the spout on the edge of the tub, not looking up at Ben as he switches the water to the handheld shower head.

"Tilt your head back for me honey." Ben murmurs, touching your chin with your free hand to tilt it back. "Eyes closed."

You do as he says and feel the water trickle through your hair and down your back, followed by the gentle scrub of Ben beginning to work shampoo through the strands. He works quietly, catching the suds that threaten to fall into your eyes. Your hands are folded in your lap, eyes still closed, feeling the steady way he cleans your hair and then your face.

As you sit there the memory of everything that happened with Stan begins to trickle in, causing an uncontrollable shudder to shake through your body. Ben's ministrations were doing little to make the cold feeling dissipate, if anything you could feel it sinking into your bones.

"It's alright sweetheart, I'm almost done." Ben says, and you feel his thumb stroke against your cheek for a moment before he continues to wash your hair.

"Sit here for a second. I'm going to go get you some clean clothes."

You open your eyes and watch him go. The water in the tub is red now, the last remnants of Stan's blood scrubbed clean from your body.

The fire would destroy any evidence that you'd been there and washing the clothes that you killed him in should take care of any other problems.

When you're dried off and in your own clothes, you stand in the bathroom and catch a glance of yourself in the mirror. You look hollow, broken, eyes miles away, skin a little paler than normal. You don't look like yourself, but you also don't feel like yourself.

"Come on, let's get you to bed." Ben says and you feel him pick you up again, carrying you to the bed as if you weigh nothing.

You mechanically go through the motions of getting under the covers, pulling them up almost over your head as you curl in on yourself, making yourself as small as possible. You shut your eyes to try and make the images of what happened go away, but you can't fight the ebbing darkness that comes to welcome you home. It's familiar. The same one that you fell into when Ben broke your heart and you thought he died. The pit was opening beneath your feet once again, and you wondered if you'd be able to pull yourself out this time.

Ben changes into a pair of faded sweatpants, before he crawls into the bed behind you under the covers, putting his arm up over your waist to pull you into him. You turn in his arms so that you're chest to chest and can bury your face into his shirt, inhaling the familiar scent, trying to rid yourself of the images and of the things you learned a few hours ago.

"It's alright Sweetheart, I'm right here." You can feel the rumble of Ben's voice in the palms of your hands where they curl against his soft shirt. The weight of his arm over your waist is familiar as is the heat of his body, the warmth you expected to wipe away the cold feeling that crept along your spine drowning everything else out of your head.

It's quiet for a few moments. Ben's hand is gently trailing up and down your spine, but sleep is miles away for you.

"I'm trying real hard not to be mad at you Sweetheart, especially when you're like this but-" Ben sighs, rubbing his hand up and down your back. "You lied to me. What were you thinking going off alone and-" His tone has shifted into more of a growl, the one he gets when he's about to yell at you.

If he had yelled at you, you wouldn't have reacted, you were just so tired of everything, couldn't focus on anything.

Ben's body tenses. It was as If he was physically trying to hold himself back from being upset, but you couldn't answer him. It had seemed like a good idea when you went, seemed right, but now you weren't sure.

What you had learned changed you, and you weren't sure if you'd ever be able to go back to the way you were.

He's quiet for a minute, before finally he presses a kiss to your forehead, and you bury yourself further into his chest. "I love you." He murmurs. "I promise I'm not going to go anywhere."

But you barely hear him, the only thing you hear is the low buzz of fluorescent lights and Vogelbaum's voice telling his staff to keep you quiet.

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

Soldier Boy POV

He didn’t know what to do. In all the years he’d known you, Ben had never seen you like this. He’d seen you upset, angry, sad, but never this.

It had been three days since you came back covered in blood, three days of you laying in bed refusing to speak, curled up into his chest.

Ben had tried to get you to eat something, but when you wouldn’t do it by yourself he had to spoon feed it to you, as if you couldn’t remember how to eat.

It scared him.

Ben hadn’t ever felt fear like this before in his entire life, but now, seeing you so distant and cold, he was terrified. He worried that you’d never come back.

Mindstorm had told him the truth about Homelander and as angry as Ben was about that, he couldn’t understand how Homelander was also your son. He’d never heard you say anything about them taking something from you for genetic testing, never spoken about willingly giving up your genetic material.

So then how the fuck did they get it?

There was something sinister that danced on the edge of his mind, something that seemed too horrible to consider, something that meant that Ben had failed to protect you, had failed to keep the promise he made eighty years ago.

But deep down Ben wondered if it was true, because as much as he knew you hated killing people, this seemed different than you usual reaction.

He held you closer to him, curving his body around your back as you slept soundlessly. You were holding on to his hand while you did, fingers entwined with his, holding it against your chest while you found some peace.

Ben was honestly waiting for another nightmare. Each time you’d fallen asleep over the past three days you’d woken up gasping for air, shaking uncontrollably, with tears rolling down your cheeks. Ben did what he could, brought you into his lap and held you tight, reassuring you that it was okay, that it was only a dream.

He was trying not to be angry, but he was. He was furious when he got back to Legend’s two days ago and discovered that you were gone, that you’d left to go off and do God knows what with Homelander flying around. Rosemary refused to tell him where you were only told him that you left but that you’d be back. Ben hated that you made him wait around like a fucking woman waiting for her husband to come home.

He had intended on yelling at you, at making sure you knew how pissed off he was that you did the one thing he told you not to do, but then he saw you land in Legend’s front yard looking like you had taken a shower in someone’s blood and he couldn’t. Not when he feared that the blood was yours and not when he saw how broken you were.

Ben had loved you for a long time, understood you, saw how strong you were, saw that you always spoke your mind no matter what, and to see you like this was… petrifying. He didn’t know what had happened, didn’t understand how something you learned could effect you this much.

He too was still reeling from the revelation that Homelander was his son, felt an even greater sense of betrayal because Vought should have let him give the team to his son, pass it off like a king giving up his throne. And after the night that he had spent with you all those years ago, Ben was ready to give it up, to walk away and give you the life that you always wanted away from the spotlight.

Ben figured that Stan had told you Homelander was your son, and maybe that’s what this was. Ben had been dreading the conversation with you when he got back to Legends, the conversation in which he was going to have to tell you that Homelander was your son too. He didn’t want to hurt you all over again with news like that.

I guess I don’t have to.

Ben thinks to himself listening to the soft beat of your heart, pushing his face further into your hair where it hangs over your shoulders. But he's not sure that this is better.

When he wakes the bed is empty.

“Sweetheart?” Ben says looking around the bedroom. He strains his hearing to see if you’re in the bathroom or upstairs but he doesn’t hear you. Fear grips his heart.

Fuck. Where did she go?

Thunder shakes the house, rattling the windows as Ben looks around the room, brief flashes of lightning illuminates the vintage furniture, but you aren't sitting on anything. The sliding glass doors on the back wall of the bedroom are open, allowing rain to sweep through onto the carpets, water flooding towards your now cold side of the bed.

Shit.

Ben all but jumps out of the bed and rushes to the sliding glass doors, looking beyond into the darkness of Legend’s backyard. Lightning skates across the night flashing bright white, and catching where you stand in the grass. You’re looking up at the sky, soaked to the bone, but seemingly unnerved by the weather.

“Sweetheart?” Ben shouts over the sound of the thunder, but you don’t move. “Are you okay? Did you have another nightmare?”

“It’s not a nightmare.” You murmur into the storm, your eyes still focused on the sky, looking up at something that he can't see.

“What do you mean?” Ben gets closer to you, his feet sinking into the wet grass, rain saturating his clothes every second he stands out there with you. Ben was trying to understand, was trying his best to do what you needed, but he was worried that he was failing, that maybe he needed to take you to a hospital. He wasn't sure how to explain that to anyone if he did take you to one.

If anything he thought that you'd want to talk things out with Rosemary, but you hadn't wanted anything to do with her at all. That was the most surprising, that you didn't want to speak to her, didn't want her around. She had tried to come down to the bedroom, but you hadn't looked at her, you'd only clung tighter to Ben and said no. He wanted to know why, what Stan had told you to make you not want anything to do with her.

He was happy that Lou hadn't come down with her, he didn't want Lou to see you like this, didn't want it to haunt her the same way it was haunting him. He had heard Lou ask about you when he was laying in the basement beside you, and she had found him in the kitchen getting you something to eat and had hugged him tight and asked where you were. There were tears in her eyes when she did so and Ben told her that you weren't feeling well, but that he was taking care of you. There was a hand-drawn card on your bedside table from her filled with a picture of Lou holding out a bouquet of lavender to you that she asked him to give you.

“It really happened.” You close your eyes, head tilted up at the sky.

Lightning crackles across it, striking close to where you're standing, but you don't move an inch.

Ben stops mid-step. Your words sink into his soul, burn against his ribcage, anger surging up to replace the chill of the rain that clings to his skin. Because it meant he failed. It meant that the promise Ben made to you all those years ago was worthless, that he'd failed to protect you.

He thinks about all the time he wasted with other women, chasing after them, ignoring you. He thinks about all the moments he should have spent with you instead.

Maybe I would have figured it out if I wasn't so damn selfish. If I hadn't fucking cared about those stupid movies, or commercials, or the shitty interviews. I failed because I didn't put her first and I allowed this to happen.

“Stan told me.” You continue. "I wasn’t supposed to remember, but my mind knew. It was trying to tell me all these years but I just ignored it. Fucking pushed it away because I thought my mind was messed up from living this long. But it really happened."

“When?”

“I don’t know. All I know is that he said they did it when you were on location shooting a film. That they were too afraid to take me when you were still there.”  You're still not quite looking at him.

Ben felt the words like a punch to the gut. Why did I ever shoot any of those stupid films? Why didn't I take her with me? Why didn't I make up some stupid reason why I needed her there with me? Why didn't I tell her sooner how much she meant to me?

Ben remembered the first time you had the nightmare in front of him, he had just gotten back from shooting a film overseas, one that he could barely remember only that he literally had sand in every crevice of his body after each day of shooting. He remembered how happy he was to see you when you answered the door of your small apartment, how you smiled at him, but you seemed more tired than usual. Ben had missed you more than he knew, he had tried to call while he was away, but you hadn't picked up. He remember thinking that was odd. You always picked up the phone or at least always called him back, but you hadn't.

“They knew I’d say no. Knew that I wouldn’t want to raise a child under Vought’s watchful eye and instead of respecting that, they-" You stop mid sentence, your body has begun to glow bright purple, not just your eyes, there's a thin film of purple radiating out from your body, tracing your outline with a heavy hand, glowing brighter than the lightning that flashes across the sky. "Stan wasn't even ashamed. He was proud of what they made. Proud of what they did to our son."

As soon as you utter the word 'son', the ground begins to shake under Ben's feet, grass shreds in the air all around him, and the storm grows worse by the second. There's a terrible cracking sound and the trees on the edge of Legend's property snap, loosing their limbs to flashes of purple energy that wash away into the darkness with the force of your power.

Ben could feel the same power trying to push him back from you, push him inside the house, but he fought it, continuing to take more steps towards you.

“After all these years he wasn’t afraid of me. He was afraid that you would show up and make him pay.” Ben can see your body shake. “Everyone was always just afraid of you. All those years I worked so hard to make sure you didn’t kill anyone and for what? So they could take advantage of me?”

Your body begins to rise off the ground, glowing brighter and brighter. Until Ben almost has to look away, his body still being forced backwards. In all his years of watching you use your powers, he's never seen you do anything remotely like this. This didn't seem like just telekinesis and Ben wondered who else had killed you over the years, if it had happened before and you just hadn't cared to tell him, or if it had happened in the years he'd been away.

"Sweetheart please." Ben tries to say again, but it's swallowed up in the howling of the wind.

"All those years I gave Vought everything. I let them dress me, tell me what to say, inject me with that shit. I was everything they wanted me to be, and they used me just like I was a fucking doll for them to play with!" Ben can hear your teeth clenching together in rage, your powers spiking again so that now there is shredded earth, grass, and trees, whirling around the two of you swirling together in a vortex that flashes with purple energy. "But no more. They're all going to pay."

"Y/n-"

You were still rising off the ground getting further and further from Ben's reach and he was scared. He'd never seen you like this before, never seen you lose control or seen you this angry. Sure he pissed you off and you'd occasionally throw a couch around the room, but this was almost insane.

Fuck I should stop pissing her off.

Ben could feel his own rage surging in his chest when he understood exactly what Vought took away from you, when he understood exactly what Vogelbaum had done. But at the same time he was ashamed that he hadn't been there for you, that he hadn't been able to protect you from them, and that he hadn't known the first time you had that fucking nightmare and woke up screaming when he was in bed beside you.

"Sweetheart!" Ben finally shouts, grabbing your hand. As soon as his skin touches yours he feels like he's stuck his finger in an electrical socket,  as if the energy from your body jumping into his is almost painful, but he doesn't let go. He couldn't lose you to this, whatever the hell this was, wouldn't allow himself to lose you again.

Your glowing purple eyes flick to his. "Are you going to tell me that I shouldn't do that?" Your voice is cold. "That my revenge isn't as important as yours?"

"No." Ben shakes his head. "It's important. It's justified. I hate that they did that to you, that I wasn't there to stop them. That I didn't understand until now."

"It's not your fault what happened to me." You shout back, eyes flashing bright purple. "This isn't about you. This isn't your fight!" The vortex swirls faster around the two of you now, blurring everything beyond. "This is about what I need to do!"

"Yes it is!" His hand tightens in yours. "It is my fight if it involves you. I love you and that's what it means. It means us working together-"

"I don't need you to protect me! I am strong enough to do this on my own. I am so sick of people underestimating me and what I can do."

"Y/n please, listen to me!" Ben pleads. He could feel you slipping away and it scared him more than anything he'd been through in his entire life. He wasn't afraid to admit that. The look on your face and the display of power was so different than the person he knew.

You watch him silently, body glowing brightly in the night, floating off the ground as you stare down at him.

"I don't want you to do this alone." Ben says. The storm was still raging, thunder shaking the ground, lightning surging all around him. "I'm asking you to let me help you. Please."

"What?"

"You say that I hide what I'm really feeling, but you do too. You still hide things away from me. You think that you have to be perfect, controlled, some version of yourself that has everything together all the time, but you don't." Ben gently tries to pull you down an inch from the sky. "You've done that since we were kids, always done what you think is expected of you. That's why you almost married that asshole, because you were afraid to just let it go. So I'm asking you to do that now, to let go of all of it, because I promise that I will be right here for through every step of it."

"But-"

"I know I made promises when you chose me, and I'm sorry I let you down, I'm sorry that I let this happen, that I wasn't able to protect you from them." Ben's voice breaks and for a moment he sees a flash of the two of you in your bedroom the night that he asked you to come with him, how young and innocent you were, how much you cared for him reflected in your eyes. "So I'm promising you this now. That I will protect you, that I won't let anything happen to you and that you never have to be alone ever again. Because I love you. So please, just let go and let me in.

The whirlwind slows around the two of you, still ripping up the ground and the grass in the backyard.

"I have to be in control." You say in almost whisper.

"Why?" Ben asks.

"Because if I'm not I don't know what will happen!" You snap. "Someone dies, or you leave again, or they come to take Rosie or Lou away and I can't-" You shake your head, the glow on your body fading for a moment. "I'm not strong enough-"

"Sweetheart, you don't have to be." Ben says, and this time he pulls you from the air so that your bare feet swish in the grass again. His hand falls under your chin to raise your face to his. "That's why I'm here. You don't have to do this alone anymore, you don't have to carry this all on your shoulders. I am here and I am not going anywhere."

"But-"

"Please. I'm asking you to give me your pain, your anger, your burdens, your sorrows. Give me all of you. It's not going to scare me away." Ben whispers, taking your face between his hands. "I know that in the past I haven't been as dependable, but nothing is going to scare me away. I love all of you, even the pieces of yourself you keep from me, that you think you have to, to keep me here with you."

Fuck I sound like a pussy, but it's true. She's all I have and all I've ever wanted. And why shouldn't I say this to her? It's what she says to me. It's what she tells me and I believe her. I believe her when she says that I can rely on her, that I don't have to be strong all the time, that I can break.

He searches your face, brushes his thumbs across your rain soaked cheeks. I just want her to know that she can too and trust that I'll be here for her.

The vortex stops, the pieces of earth, trees, and grass falling to earth, the purple fading from your eyes as they do. You're no longer glowing, no longer a beacon in the night, you're just you, the woman that Ben loves more than life itself, and the woman that he thought he would never have ever again.

"I love you too." You whisper leaning into him, wrapping your arms around the back of his neck to lean your forehead against his.

He can feel the curves of your body against him, your wet clothes sticking like a second skin, hair stuck to your head, but you're just as beautiful as you always have been. And Ben understands that this time, he's not going anywhere, that he's going to stay with you for the rest of his life, and nothing can keep him away.

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

Reader POV

"Mindstorm told me." Ben says dragging his hand up your arm. You were laying on his chest in the bedroom, hair still wet, but now wearing dry clothes.

The residual thrum from your use of power was still charging through your cells, but lessened. Honestly you didn't remember going outside, didn’t remember standing in the storm, didn't know how long you were out there before Ben came out.

You were glad he did. You weren't in your right mind when you were out there, and if he hadn't come out you were sure that you were going to charge Vought yourself, tear it down and send it to hell where it belonged. You still wanted to, but you wanted Ben to do it with you. He was right, you didn't have to do it alone, and you didn't want to.

You nestled further into him, remembering what he shouted outside, remember how he held your face with the storm raging around him. He looked so afraid. You had only seen him look scared a handful of times in your life, but out there in the storm was different. It shocked you back into reality, brought you back from the pit, made you feel like you again for the first time in days.

And what he said hauled you further out of the darkness. You had said it to him countless times since he came back, that he didn't have to hide away what he was feeling from you, but for him to say it to you meant that he was listening. To you, Ben saying that made all of this more real, that he really wanted every part of you, that he loved you as much as he said.

The storm still raged outside, thunder occasionally shaking the windows, and lightning flashing behind the closed curtains, but you stayed curled up against Ben. Your head was tucked under his chin, arm wrapped over his bare chest. He hadn't put a shirt back on after the two of you changed, but you weren't complaining about that, there wasn't anything to complain about when it came to that. He was just so wonderfully warm, that you didn’t think you would get used to it. You also hoped that you didn't turn radioactive because of him, but you being here with him, laying on his warm chest made it worth it.

"Did he know about what Vogelbaum did?" You whisper.

Ben's muscles tense beneath your body when you ask that question. You knew that it hurt him, that it made him feel like he'd failed to protect you, but you didn't blame him for that. Even if he had been around, you knew that Vogelbaum would have figured out a way to do it, to get around him. And you didn't like it when Ben felt like he failed, it made you think about all the terrible things that his father used to yell at him when he was a kid. Ben had told you bits and pieces, over the years, and it was enough to make you want to travel back in time and kill his father yourself.

Honestly, you thought about killing him all the time when you weren't a supe as well.

"No. He didn't know that. All he knew was that Homelander was our son." When Ben says the word son he hesitates as if it's difficult for him.

It was also difficult for you, understanding that you had another kid and one that you didn't have anything to do with for forty years was hard. You suddenly understood how Ben felt about Rosemary.

"I should have known." You mutter into his chest.

"What do you mean?"

You sigh loudly. "At the premiere, Vogelbaum was pushing for me to come to the lab, said he was working on raising the "next generation of heroes" or whatever. And then Stan tried to come by and get me to do the same thing after you died, but I broke his nose."

"I remember." Ben mutters.

"What do you mean you remember?" You sit up to stare at him.

Ben raises an eyebrow. "I might have been there with Countess, but do you really think I wasn't listening to everything that was happening around you? He was dancing with you, I was making sure that everything was okay." Ben clears his throat awkwardly. "I mean I know that there was a lot happening that night, but I still wanted to make sure that you were okay."

"I wasn't."

"Yeah I-um- I know." His eyes flick away in shame.

"Ben?"

"Yeah?" He murmurs.

You gently turn his face back to look at you, fingertips under his chin. His green eyes are downcast, brows furrowed, lips pulled down into a frown. You knew how much he was still beating himself up for everything that happened in the past, and it was difficult for you to pretend that you didn't still feel the sting. But you knew he wasn't going to do it again, you believed that.

"It's okay. We're starting over. Just you and me." You brush your thumb over his bearded cheek. "No one else. This time what we're doing, it's different, it all feels different. Don't you think so? I mean I still love you just as much as I always have, but I-" You could feel yourself blush just a little, you weren't sure if Ben could feel that too.

"I know. It does." Ben whispers gazing at you. His fingers push back the strands of your hair that have fallen forward into your face. The way he's looking at you is the same way he did the morning you woke up on his chest after you slept together for the firs time. "I love you too Sweetheart." His lips find yours, gently pulling you up further on his chest so he can kiss you deeply, show you how much you mean to him, and you can’t help but smile into his mouth, feeling warm and happy for the first time in ages. His love dragging you out of the darkness that loomed over you and consumed your heart when Stan told you the truth about Homelander's heritage. 

You sit up, folding your legs beneath you, pulling Ben's right hand into your lap, gently tracing the lines with a finger tip, noting the rough callouses that he'd developed over the years. You weren't really sure what to say next.

Ben sits up so that he's leaning towards you. "Are you feeling better?"

"A little." You continue to trace the lines. His hands were so much bigger than yours, everything about Ben was big, but you liked his hands, mostly because how small yours were when you held his. "I think destroying Legend's backyard was just the right amount of therapy."

"That was a little much, but I'm glad you're feeling better. I was-" Ben swallows. "I was really worried about you."

"I know." You whisper. "It's never been that bad before. The last time I got close was-" You stop mid-sentence.

"Forty years ago?" Ben asks quietly.

You nod.

"I figured." Ben scoots closer towards you so that his thigh is brushing against yours. "I'm-"

"No." You squeeze his cheeks, eyes narrowing. "No more saying sorry. Not again."

"Okay." Ben's gaze is still apologetic. He waits for a minute, watching you in the silence. "What are we going to do about Homelander?"

"I don't know."

It was the truth, you had no idea what to do with your supposed son. You had seen the coldness in his eyes, heard about the horrible things that he was doing to other people, the horrible things he had threatened to do, and you'd seen the way he didn’t seem to care about human life.

Then again maybe I can't judge him, not after what I did to Stan. You think, your frown deepening. Stan deserved what I did to him and my only wish is that Vogelbaum somehow survived getting his head fucking blown off so I can make him pay.

"Do you think we should try to talk to him?" Ben asks.

"I don't think that's possible."

"Why not? He's our son, somewhere deep down he's got to be willing to do that." Ben's voice rumbles up through his chest. "Maybe they brainwashed him into the person we saw at Herogasm, maybe he's just being controlled and told what to do just like we were."

"I don't think that’s possible."

"Why not?" There's an urgency in his eyes that is unfamiliar to you, almost as if he's pleading for you to understand.

But why? Yes he's our son by blood but we don't know anything about him. We haven’t been in his life for forty years, we don't have any connections to him.

"You saw how he was at Herogasm. How he was almost happy to kill Butcher, how he was happy when he tried to kill you and me. I don't know what kind of person is okay with that. I mean you and I have killed people and we feel remorse after, or there's some kind of justification, but there was something in his eyes, it's almost not human. It's predatory, it's-" You shake your head trying to comprehend it. "I don't know what the fuck Vogelbaum did to him, but there's something inside Homelander that's not able to be saved."

"You don't know that."

"Ben, do you think that I want to believe that? To believe that our son is not a good person?" You drop his hand from your lap. "It's taking everything I am not to go to him, not to try and work this out. I keep trying to tell myself that maybe all he needs is family, but I don't know."

"My old man said that blood mattered. That it was the only thing that defined family-"

"Now you want to listen to your dad?" You sigh looking at Ben who is frowning at you. "We both know that he's not exactly the best role model."

"Well neither am I okay?" Ben snaps, his eyes flashing. "Maybe he just needed someone and there was no one there. I mean I wasn't there for Rosemary, but she had you and she turned out fine!"

"That's not your fault Ben. It's not your fault that you weren't there. You can't forget that they sent you to Russia to replace you with him."

"I'm not forgetting I'm just saying that they did the same fucking thing to me!"

Your next thought fizzes to a stop in your brain. What is he talking about?

"What are you talking about?" You try to reach for him, but he pulls back from your touch.

"They force fed him all that shit about what it was to be an American, they made him a supe, they brainwashed him with all my old fucking films." He spits. "But in the lab when we got the serum the first time, they did the same thing to me. They told me that I was going to be a god, that I was going to be the symbol that America needed to get through the war, that I was everything that would save America from destruction."

"Ben." You say again, this time taking his hands and he doesn't pull away. "Ben listen to me. You were older when you became a supe, we both were. You knew what reality was, you knew what the world was like when the scientists started spouting all their crap. You were old enough to understand. Homelander was raised in a lab, he didn't have a family, he didn't have friends. He was told that he was a god every day and he's not. He was raised to believe that he was something more than human, something unbeatable."

"But-"

"They told me that too." You push his hair back out of his eyes, trailing your fingers against his forehead. "That I was a god, that everyone would want me, would look at me and understand that I was beyond human. And at the beginning maybe I believed it for a few years, but that doesn't make him anything like you or like me. He's twisted, his mind is gone, any semblance of humanity he had has been warped away into something dark. He never had any light to begin with."

"You don't know that."

"I do. I can see it in his eyes. I saw it when I fought him at the Herogasm. There's nothing left to save. He's done terrible things."

"I have too." Ben mutters.

"No. You lost control, we all do. It's unrealistic to think that it won't happen, especially not for people like us who have lived this long, but him? He did those things of his own volition, because he believed that he should or maybe it was because he believed that no one could stop him." You cup his cheek, pulling his face forward into the space between the two of you. "The things you've done you feel remorse for. I was there for you every time you messed up. I saw what it did to you, saw how broken you were when you hurt someone."

"Because I'm a hero." Ben sighs. 

"Messing up once or twice does not make you less of a hero Ben, it makes you human." You lean your forehead against his, cupping his cheeks with your palms, feeling the way his beard tickles against your skin. "But Homelander, I don't think that there's anything human left."

Ben's hand comes up to hold on to your left wrist. "Then what do we do?"

"I don't know." You sigh. "I wish I did. If you really want to try to talk to him, we can, but I don't think that it's a good idea."

"He's still our son."

"He's our blood, but I don't think that makes him our son." You murmur.

You really didn't know how to deal with any of this. You wanted to believe that there was some semblance of humanity left in Homelander, but you didn't think that there was. You hated that Ben believed that he was like his son. Maybe that was some weird misogynist thing and Ben kept thinking like father like son in his head, but there wasn't any way that Homelander could be anything like Ben. Ben wasn't around for him, wasn't in his life, but maybe.

Ben pulls you back down on his chest once more, and you nestle into him once more, your head directly over his heart, the warmth of his skin comforting against your cheek.

"I think Noir knew." You breathe, tracing your hand over Ben's right pec.

"Really?"

"Yeah. Stan kinda hinted that he did, said that Noir was obsessed with me after I saved his life-"

"When did you save his- oh." Ben sighs.

"I think I should have seen that coming, given how much he kept showing up to my sparring sessions, the interviews, even some of the commercial shoots I had he seemed to always be around." You frown with a sigh. "I can't believe that I didn't know he was stalking me."

"What?"

"Stan said he kept breaking in to my apartment when I wasn't there, that he stole my necklace, you know? The one my dad got me for my birthday-"

Ben sits back so he can look you in the eye. "You're shitting me right?"

"No. That's what Stan said." You shrug. "Might have been just Stan trying to take some of the heat off, but that's what he said."

"That piece of shit." Ben almost growls. You can see the flash of jealousy and possession in his eyes that makes your heart thud a little faster in your chest. He clears his throat. "You-um- you never liked him right?"

"What?"

"The two of you were never that close?"

"Why are you asking me that?"

"Well you did save his life."

"Ben I've saved plenty of people from your temper. But no, I never liked him that way. Irving was sweet, but he was always so eager to prove himself to Stan it was just sad."

"Good."

"Why?" You sit up further, smirking at him. "Does that make you jealous? For you to think that Noir and I were together?"

Ben's eyes darken. "Watch it Sweetheart."

"Watch what?" You bat your eyes innocently. "I'm just asking a simple question."

"You keep poking the bear and you're not gonna like what happens."

"Poking the bear?" You snort sitting up and poke him in the ribs. "Are you the bear in that scenario?" You poke him again with a wicked smirk.

"Yes."

"Hmm. Well I think you're all talk. Because I have definitely poked you several-"

You're on your back in a second with Ben hovering over you, his green eyes shining as he flashes a roughish grin at you. One of his hands is pressed into the pillow next to your head, the other is at your waist, slipping beneath your t-shirt to rub circles over your hip bone with his thumb. "You were saying?" His voice is the low rumble that makes it hard for you to think.

You clear your throat. "I was saying that," You thread your hands behind the back of his head, working your fingers into his hair. "You have nothing to be jealous about."

"Really?"

"Mhhmm." You smile sheepishly. "Because it's always been you. No one else. Not Howard, Not Noir, just you." His hair is soft between your fingertips, his gaze unbreakable.

Ben returns your smile and collapses on top of you. You gasp out a breath, in a loud 'oof' sound as he does. His arms go around your waist and he buries his head in your chest breathing deeply. "I like it when you say that." He murmurs, turning his head so he can look up at you from your chest, with a smile that catches you in your heart.

"I know." You continue to scratch your fingertips through his hair.

"Sweetheart?"

"Yeah?" You breathe as you close your eyes, comforted by the weight of his body on top of yours. It was familiar, almost like he was a weighted blanket that took all your anxiety away. You felt safe with his arms wrapped around your waist, as if no one could touch you. You needed that now, needed that after you learned that without Ben someone had taken you from your home.

"I know that I can't say that there hasn't been anyone else." He whispers. "But you're the only one who mattered. You're the only woman that I've ever loved, and I swear that as long as I live I'll never love anyone else. You are all I've ever wanted and everything I thought I'd never have."

"You have me Ben." You whisper, beginning to fall asleep. "You always have, you always will."

And with those words you drift into the first fulfilling sleep you'd had in days, wrapped in the warm cocoon of Ben's love, allowing it to send you under into oblivion.

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

A/N: I know this one was mostly fluff and talking, but I thought that the reader deserved that after everything with Stan, and also after she well -you know- made a tornado in Legend's backyard. We're going to pretend that no one else heard it. 😂

As always thank you so much for reading! If you'd like to be added to my taglist please let me know :)

And if you'd like to read something a little more bantery then try my series: Take A Chance On Me

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[neo-novaa]

purity

*ੈ✩ 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: jake sully x na'vi!reader *ੈ✩ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: fingering, clit stimulation, overstim? thigh riding? if you squint? not proofread, just raw dogging it fr *ੈ✩ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.6k *ੈ✩ 𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: this is both my First Post on tumblr and the first smut i've written (in over a year) so !! i am so sorry. if this is straight ass. i feel like this is reaaalllyy ooc for jake but...just pretend it's not. just pretend like this is Normal. also, please send reqs ! i rlly need to work off of something other than My Mind,, reblogs and feedback are greatly appreciated :)

The soft moss on your knees is a sharp contrast from the firm grip that Jake has planted on your hips. You’re hovering over him, your hands holding his face as he kisses you, all tooth and tongue. His rough palms run up the bend of your waist down to the curve of your hips. He’s silently begging you for more, begging you for permission.

But, suddenly, he pulls away, his eyes quickly scanning your face as if he was searching for something. 

“What is it?” You ask him, voice dry from the depravity of air. 

“I want to show you something.” He says, his voice sharing the same grate, both of his hands running down your waist. 

“What do you want to show me?” You reply, curiosity inching you closer to him. One of his hands snakes around to support your back as he lays you down on the forest floor, his loose braids tickling your face. 

“Something that I learned back on Earth,” he hovers over you, his lips pressed gently against your skin, the unexpected calm before the storm. “I think you’ll like it.”

“And if I don’t?” You quip, and he pauses his lips against your jaw, sighing gently against it. 

“You’re asking too many questions,” Jake mutters as he pulls away, his eyes darting between yours. From here, you can tell how greatly his dark pupils have dilated, leaving only a fraction of his iris visible. “Besides, you’re a big girl, you can use your words.”

Jake’s words steal your breath, leaving you completely incapacitated. You pride yourself on your ability to be able to keep up with his quips. But now? Now, you’ve got nothing. 

He’s towering over you, leaving strategically placed kisses all over your neck and chest. Your hands are lost in his hair, carefully avoiding his longest braid, but grabbing at everything you can to bring him closer to you. You’re relish in the feeling of his lips dancing over your skin, as his hand trails down your chest, along your waist, towards the apex of your thighs--

“Jake!” You yelp, nails digging into his biceps. The feeling of his calloused thumb along your slit sends shockwaves down your spine, and as he continues to stimulate you, you can’t help but innately buck into his touch.

“Jake,” It’s more of a whine the second time around. He moves his thumb deliberately, almost lazily, running up and down and through your slick-- every time he moves you arch into his touch. The feeling is so foreign, but, oh Eywa, you want this to last forever.  His lips are locked onto your neck, leaving marks that will undoubtedly stay for the upcoming days. 

You can feel him grin into your skin as you wither beneath him. “Yeah?” He responds, his voice raspy. You arch into him once his thumb reaches your clit, rubbing slow circles into you. Your breath is getting caught in your throat, over and over again-- 

It’s a different sensation; instead of a slow heat pooling in your abdomen, it feels like a tightening coil. You buck your hips into his hand, your chest pressing against his, and you can feel how fast his heart is beating. 

“Yeah? ‘S that good? My good girl, doing so well,” he whispers it against your ear, a whimper in the back of his throat making you mewl. He quickens his jagged pace and you keen, your hands on his shoulders pulling him impossibly closer to you.

You nearly shriek when he prods one of his fingers inside of you, your nails digging deep into his shoulders, thighs instinctively clamping around his hand. 

“Ja--Jake! Pleasepleaseplase…” You don’t know what your pleading for, all you know is that even with these simple movements, it’s all too little, yet so, so much.

“What is it?” He’s concerned for a moment, his fingers coming to a stop, and that is when you really scream.

“No! No Jake please don’t stop-- please, please don’t--” You bring your hand down to his wrist, trying desperately to move it in the same way he was. You can feel him chuckle against your chest, and if you weren’t literally on the verge of tears from your sudden lack of stimulation, you would’ve hit him.

“Knew you’d like it.” Jake mutters, and his finger is inside you again. You gasp at the familiar sensation, throwing your head back, relishing in the stimulation. You slip a thigh between his legs, gently pushing up and against him, feeling just how hard he is.

“Gonna put another one in, okay?” With how breathless he is, you’d think Jake was the one getting fucked-out right now. But you barely have time to process that though before he presses another digit inside of you, bringing a moan from the both of you.

When he starts moving again, you can feel that euphoric burn in your abdomen, and you try anything you can to chase that high-- bringing your thighs to his arm and squeezing around it, clawing desperately at his back, anything to get yourself over the edge.

“Jake,” You murmur his name like a prayer. “Please--” “What is it babygirl? C’mon, use your words.” You whine at his response, and from the brief smirk you catch, you know that he knows what you want.

“More,” you whisper, but his silence is an answer enough. “Please, I need more. Jake, I ca-- please!”

“That’s my girl.” Is all he says.

All too suddenly, one of your thighs is up against your chest, bringing in a new angle that has you seeing stars. Before you can even begin to process that, Jake slips a third finger into you, his thumb starting to roll against your clit once again.

You can’t even form words, drowning in the dual stimulation he’s giving you. His forehead is against your chest, and you can hear him whining.

“So good, soso good. You sound so good, you smell fucking incredible too.” His breath tickles your ear, and you can feel him start rutting against your thigh. The thought that just your noises have him this worked up is sending you so, so close to the edge.

“M’close…don’t stop, don’t stop,” You’re whispering, you’re not even sure he can hear you, so it must be a sign from Eywa when he gives you a response.

'Wouldn't dream of it.” He’s whimpering, you can feel how hard he’s grinding against your leg, like an animal in heat. You’re rubbing his thigh against him, and you can feel his fingers stutter for a moment inside of you.

“Beautiful, so beautiful,” He’s kissing the side of your head, his fingers slowly curling inside of you. Any attempts of silence were futile; with the way that you were whining so noisily, and the deep moans spilling out of him-- anyone within a mile of you two would be able to hear.

“Sweet girl, my sweet girl, taking me so well,” He doesn’t stop for a second. His lips move all over your face, your neck, your chest-- nearly every part of his body is showering you with affection, it’s all so overwhelming.

“Jake, I--” You cut yourself off with a mewl as his thumb pushes harder against your clit, pressing firm circles into the bud. His fingers are moving faster inside of you, curling against your walls, sending shockwaves down your spine every time he does.“‘M close, sosososo close please--” Your hands are clamoring, gripping onto anything possible. “C’mon sweet girl,” He says, keeping his slow pace. “Just hold out for a little bit longer, ’m almost there too,” Your back is arching off the ground, thighs squeezing against his hand, a cacophony of whines and moans spilling from you. “I ca-- Jake pleasepl-mghmh, please!!” Tears are spilling from the corners of your eyes. It’s a miracle you’ve lasted this long, but only a few seconds longer of his fingers against your clit, curling inside of you--

“Please--!” You nearly sob, a hand digging into the soil beneath you, the other aimlessly grabbing Jake. 

“Okay-- fuck, yeah m’there-- I’m there--” His hips stutter against your leg, and when you can feel him finish against your thigh, you let out a true, deep sob of relief. “Come on baby, finish for me, make me happy.” 

Your vision goes black as you finally release all over his fingers, your back lifting from the ground, and your ears are ringing so loudly that you can’t even hear the obscene noises you’re making. 

Just as you’re regaining your vision, you can see (and only partially feel) Jake pull his fingers out of you, and with your blurry vision, you can see him slowly run them over his tongue, sighing deliriously at the taste of you. 

Once Jake locks eyes with you, his hands are immediately cupping your jaw, spreading soft kisses all over your face. 

“You did so well,” He praises, smoothing your hair away from your face.“I didn’t go too hard on you, did I?”

“You did… a little bit,” Now the worry sets in, with his ears folded against his head. “But,” you quickly add. “I liked it. A lot, a lot.”

Jake keeps smoothing down your hair, his thumb running over to brush the tears from your cheeks.

He can’t help but laugh. “That good, huh?”

You noticeably look down at your thigh, noting the glistening spot right above your knee, slipping down your thigh. When your eyes return back to him, his ears are pinned against his head.

“That good, hm?” You mimic, as he gently pushes your face away from his, muttering quietly.

“Nga skxawng.”

[thetumarchive]

A/n: Just some random thoughts yall. This will only appeal to a very specific group of people.

⚠️ TW: Feederism, Degrading Name, ooc takes, subject to edits

Feeder/Feedee Sukuna Headcanons

Sukuna as a Feeder

He’s extremely possessive. Doesn’t want anyone else feeding you, not even yourself unless he specifically tells you so.

Can cook and does a flawless job at it. Very skilled with a knife inside and outside of the malevolent kitchen.

Always makes you a balanced variety but tends to lean towards carbs like pasta and rice.

Very strategic with his feedings, guaranteed to keep you stuffed around the clock. (Especially if you’re into weight gain.) Will not hesitate to wake you up for food in the middle of the night.

Won’t tolerate obstacles between you and food, i.e. waiting lines. You’re his special pet, you get served first. Anyone who disagrees will become acquainted with cleave and dismantle.

Shameless out in public. Will grope you whenever he pleases and just won’t give a damn.

If people whisper degrading names about you, he’ll take it as a compliment. ‘Fat bitch? Yeah, that’s my fat bitch <3’

Even though he finds it extremely hot when you bust out of your clothes, he prefers it when you eat in the nude. He wants to be able to grab and feel every inch of your body. Thinks you’re absolutely gorgeous.

He encourages you as you eat, says what a good job you’re doing and calls you pet names and such.

‘Open up. …Yes, good little pet. Almost done.’

He’s very observant and notices when you’re hitting your limits. He coaxes you to try and eat a bit more but won’t force you.

True form!Sukuna has four arms for a reason. One pair is holding and caressing your belly. Another hand is gently spoon feeding you. And the last hand is swiping up anything that catches on your lips.

After a good stuffing, aftercare is always included. He’ll dote on you with massages and get mad if you try to get up for whatever reason. Just let him handle it.

His favorite body part would be your tummy rolls and love handles.

Sukuna as a Feedee

He’s very bossy and demanding of you, especially if he’s hungry, which is almost all the time. You’re aware of how needy he is and always plan ahead.

He loves your cooking and isn’t afraid to say so. He’d be honest if something needed improvement, but so far, he’s never had an issue.

He insists that you’re not the one in charge, that he’s not your pet, you’re his servant. But he’s just in denial. It’s so easy to tease him when he’s too full to do anything about it.

You can tell when he’s full because he becomes a bit more docile and stops ordering you around. He’ll start using ‘please’ and ‘thank you’.

His belly rounds out into this cute little dome beneath his kimono. If it becomes too restrictive he’ll probably take it off.

He’s prideful so he’ll try to stifle his burps into his fist, or adjust his position to make it harder for you to tell that he’s reached his limit. He doesn’t want to admit defeat.

He’ll keep eating, and will get mad if you decide to stop feeding him preemptively. ‘I never said I was done.’ (He’s done)

He used to cure his tummyaches with reversed curse techniques until he learned that you were into them. Now he’s especially vocal when it hurts and he needs you.

Gets jealous when your attention is anywhere but him. ‘Your only job is to serve me, understand?’ You usually ignore him when he gets like that, but you’ll make up for it later by feeding him lots of treats.

Too many treats will show up in his waistline, and he’ll deny it even when he can’t properly close his kimono or tie his waist belt.

You’ve shown him how far food has come since he last roamed the earth. He can’t get enough of hot chips and ramen, and loves when you make savory dishes.

Maybe since he’s addicted to your food maybe you’ll be able to keep him away from cannibalism.

[kissami]

I CAN'T BE YOUR LOVE

part one

summary: he misses you so much, but he knows he'll never be yours again.

warnings: ooc katsuki, cursing obvi, super short whoops

femreader! with she/her pronouns

series masterlist

‎ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ 𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊

⠀⠀‎ ⠀⠀⠀‎ ⠀⠀⠀seasons - waves to earth

⠀⠀‎ ⠀⠀⠀‎ ⠀⠀⠀ ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

⠀⠀‎ ⠀⠀⠀‎ ⠀ VOLUME: ▁▂▃▄▅▆▇ 100%

‎ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ 𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊

THE BRIGHT LIGHT from the sun illuminated the many people that walked passed one another down below.

Sometimes it was weird when you think that so many people lived their own lives. They had different people that they loved, hated, cared for.

Everyone had unique experiences and stories that were different than everyone else, and we only see them for just a second in our lives, maybe never seeing them again.

It brought a sense of sadness if you really think about. Maybe you're scrolling through social media and seeing comments from people you may never see again.

It might've seemed dramatic, but the feeling of just wanting to make sure that everyone would find their happiness soon lingered into the girl's brain.

Everyone deserves to be happy, for some who caused other's pain or absolute hurt, didn't deserve a second chance, but majority deserved nothing but happiness.

"Can you stop yanking me so much? You're gonna rip my arm!"

The blond huffed as he felt an ache in his arm as he glared at the back of his friend's head, wanting to just rip his arm away from their hold and tell them off.

She ignored his whine and continued to hold his hand tightly as she passed by many people on the street.

"Yeah yeah, the more you whine, the longer I'm gonna hold your hand."

She spoke back as she turned the corner quickly, almost making the boy hit the side of the building with his shoulder.

"WE'RE HERE!!" She yelled, letting go of his hand and running off.

‘Since when does this b*tch run?’

He stared at her form disappearing around the corner, making him even more annoyed than before.

Sure, he thought it was annoying how she dragged him like a rag doll, but now that she was gone and leaving him all alone, he didn't like it one bit.

"AT LEAST WAIT FOR ME, A*SH*LE!"

He ran and pushed by the people that were in his way towards the direction the girl went as he said curse words beneath his breath.

"BAKUBRO!" Another blond and a red head ran towards him, tackling in a tight hug.

"GET OFF ME, IDIOTS! YOUR FUCKING SWEAT WILL GET ALL OVER ME NOW!!"

"Says the one who needs sweat to work his quirk."

Another boy chuckled from beside them, playing around with the guitar strings that need some adjustments.

"Shut it, flat face."

"Well someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed, huh?" Mina rested her head on the giggling girl's shoulder as they watched their friend complain, trying to get the two boys off of him.

The two girls began to talk amongst themselves, completely unaware of the boys whispering to each other.

"You like her, huh” Kirishima smirked as he nudged his best friend.

"The f*ck?!"

"When are you gonna tell her?! It's clear that the two of you like one another, just get it over with already!

"It's not that simple."

Katsuki gave a small glance over to the girls, feeling a rush of happiness flow through in his veins as he saw how cute she looked.

"Well sooner or later someone will come in and ask her out!"

The group of boys looked over to see the famous Todoroki Shoto giving a clear look at Y/N with a small smile on his perfect face.

"I'll f**king murder him!"

"Shush idiot, they'll hear you!"

Katsuki rolled his eyes angrily as he looked back at the pretty girl across the room.

Only to be met with her beautiful eyes. She looked so perfect.

Giving him a small wave, Y/N gave a bright smile towards the blond as he flipped her off in return.

‘How cute.’

They both thought of the other at the same time as they watched one another from different sides of the room.

✿ ✿ ✿

"Katsuki, baby, wake up!"

Groaning as he rubbed his eyes, he glanced over the clock and sighed.

8:30AM

"I'm coming,baby."

His husky morning voice responded back as he took off the blanket off his form.

He stretched his muscles and yawned, looking at the many tattoos lingering on both of his arms.

He rubbed his ears, feeling his piercings on his ears and huffed.

He didn't even think about putting on a shirt as he made his way towards where his wife was standing.

She could feel a deep blush grow on her cheeks as she admired her husband's physique the more he got closer to her.

He neared her, gripping both sides of her face in his hands and leaned down, kissing her plump lips.

He bent down on his knees and gave a tender kiss on her tummy, feeling the joyful kicks of his son.

"Good morning, Katsu."

"Good morning, Yuko...and good morning to you, Natsumi."

-

-

author's note: yes this is heavy angst, there is no happy ending with katsuki and y/n so leave while your heart is still intact!!!

[littlekohai77]

Hi again 👁👁🍵

I got a request for yah kno who arthur may i request for a comfort fic for arthur set during chapter 240 when yah kno....that thing happened 👁👁

𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝙸 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍. 𝚃𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗, 𝙸'𝚖 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢. (Also I hope you mean him losing his arm because I have absolutely no recollection of what happened)

🅆🄰🅁🄽🄸🄽🄶🅂: not proofread, bad writing, physical violence, verbal abuse, might be ooc.

*･ﾟﾟ･*:.｡..｡.:*ﾟ:*:✼✿　　✿✼:*ﾟ:.｡..｡.:*･ﾟﾟ･*

He wished that he'd died back there. He really did. At least then he won't have to be put through this hell.

Maybe this is what that bastard, scum of the earth Duke wanted, for him to be tortured.

He had lost. He had lost his arm. The fight. His dignity. His position. His glory.

He had no use now. No value. He was 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙩𝙝𝙡𝙚𝙨𝙨.

What's the point of living on? When he can't even do the things that were his sole purpose.

Nobody has come to talk to him. Nobody. Not his mother. His father. His so called 'friends', the weaklings he lead around. Not even you.

Where were you? Why weren't you there to hold him? When he was all alone, standing with every ounce of strength in his body. Where were you when he was trying not to fall onto his knees in front of his entire family.

All he wanted at that moment was to be in your arms. To be comforted by you. To have you whisper sweet nothings to him. To reassure him. To tell him that he wasn't worthless anymore. That you still loved him.

But you weren't there.

And he's too drunk in rage to want to listen to reason.

He can feel the stares of the staff. Eyes full of pity bearing into him. He feels sick. He wants to claw them out. Prove to them that he isn't useless yet.

But it all boils down to his sole desire. His family's love. Their approval, their acknowledgement. Even after how he's been thrown to the side.

And that angers him even more.

He hears the sound of ripping fabric, pulling him out of his pit of despair but a bitterness remains. Looking down at his side, he unclenches his hand, letting go off the bed sheets.

And that's when you walk in. Beautiful as ever, hair swaying in the wind, a pretty smile on your---------- wait! Why were you smiling? Do you pity him now? Are you trying to mock him? Is this the point where you laugh and abandon him?

But his thoughts get cut off at the brush of your fingers against his cheek. And when he looks up, it's the same smile, but now it's somewhat quelling his worries.

He tries to smile back but it turns into more of a grimace as you look away.

He watches as you speak to him softly. Why were you treating him like a child?

You set down the lunch box you brought with yourself on his bedside table and open it to reveal sometype of soup he's too preoccupied to notice.

He can feel his worries coming back. His thoughts slowly starting consume him again. The monsters just beneath his skin, looking for way out.

He can't hear a thing you say, all he hears is the blood rushing in his ears, the voices of his family, his father. He vision becomes blurred and he fails to see your gentle gaze. Everywhere his eyes take him, there are eyes, full of pity, mockery, disappointment, anger.

And then he feels a chill run down his spine as the cold edge of a metal spoon touches his lips. He looks up and see you with your mouth open wide as if to say 'aaa' with bright gentle eyes. And something in him snaps.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

His silence made you nervous. He's never this quiet. He hasn't responded to you even once. Even his smile seemed fake.

But you remain understanding. He just went through something devastating, you shouldn't push him too much.

You even made his favorite soup. It always cheers him up!

But he doesn't even seem to notice. He's lost in his own world. His brows furrowed, jaw clenched and veins bulging, looking off into the distance.

But you push your nerves down and try to remain hopeful as you speak in a cheery voice, "Say ahhhh! "

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

You're laying on the floor, clutching your cheek, tears brimming your lower lashes. The soup you cooked splattered everywhere. The window shattered. The lunch box somewhere outside. And Arthur, standing over you.

"I'M NOT COMPLETELY USELESS! I STILL HAVE ONE ARM LEFT! I CAN STILL FIGHT YOU FUCKING 𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐂𝐇! DON'T YOU DARE UNDERESTIMATE ME YOU 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐇𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒 PIECE OF SHIT! WHAT MORE DO YOU WANT FROM ME NOW?!??? HAVEN'T YOU HAD ENOUGH ALREADY???? STOP LEECHING OFF OF ME YOU 𝐖𝐄𝐀𝐊𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆! I DON'T NEED YOU! I DON'T NEED ANYONE OR ANYTHING! GET OUT! GO! I DON'T WANT TO SEE YOUR FUCKING FACE!! IT DISGUSTS ME! "

He spits, screaming, voice booming as he looks down his nose at you. Like you were just some annoying insect and not the love of his life. Clutching the vase on his bedside table, he looks at you with hatred.

"How. Dare. You. Insinuate. That. I'm. 𝙒𝙊𝙍𝙏𝙃𝙇𝙀𝙎𝙎! "

He says before throwing the vase at you. It hits you in the head before landing on the floor and smashing into pieces.

Your lips tremble as you look up at him. Searching for words at you open your mouth but all that comes out is a sob.

You can't hold it in anymore and break down into tears and rambling apologies.

The clouds of rage dissipate and he snaps back to realize what he had done. His heart clenches painfully at the sight of you utterly sobbing, disheveled and mumbling incoherently.

He crounches down to, cooing at you soothingly with an open arm, wanting to pull you to his chest and wipe all your tears away.

It absolutely breaks his heart when you scoot away from him with a frightened look on your face.

He tries to catch you but you're faster and run to the corner of the room.

At this point he's also crying. A crazed look in his eyes as begs you, "Babe please don't leave. Don't leave. Please. Please. Please. Don't. Leave. Me. "

He repeats it like a mantra, hoping it'll somehow stop you from wanting to run away from him. He chases you around the room, pouncing on you and capturing you right as you reached the door.

As you keep clawing at him, he holds you close, as close as humanly possible, pressing his face into the crook of your neck as he keeps on rambling. His tears staining your cardigan and his snot sticking to your skin. Putting all his weight on you.

"Babe I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm 𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺. 𝘐'𝘮 𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘐'𝘮 𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘐'𝘮 𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘐'𝘮𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺𝘐'𝘮𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘐'𝘮𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺𝘐'𝘮𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺----𝘐 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶. 𝘉𝘢𝘣𝘦 𝘪 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶. 𝘐 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶. 𝘗𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦. 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯'𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶. 𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘦 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘨𝘰 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘗𝘓𝘌𝘈𝘚𝘌. "

The longer he went on the more delirious he got. Clutching your face tightly as he straddled you, your back against the door.

You only looked back at him confused before it clicked and you smiled.

He blinked in confusion as you tapped your palm against his cheek, sniffling and smiling at his tear drenched face. "Now we're even. "

You gently whispered before pulling him into your arms, pushing his face in the crook of your neck rubbing slow circles on his back.

"Don't be afraid baby. "

"I'm no-"

You shoved his face deeper into the crook of your neck.

"Shhhh. Baby I'll always love you no matter what. I'll always love you. Even if you can't use your powers anymore. Even if you're not the heir anymore. Even if you're completely stripped of your status. Even if you're abandoned by everyone else. I will still love you. I have, I do and I will always love you. "

He sobbed even harder, clutching onto your cardigan. what had he ever done to deserve you?

[theredofoctober]

Midnight Mass DARK AU Fic— GOD HAS MANY HANDS

Cross posted from AO3

Pairing: Dark!Father Paul Hill x OC

Synopsis: A nun moves to Crockett Island for mysterious reasons. Father Paul succumbs to new and wicked whims

TW/CW: non con, religious trauma, blood

Father Paul is a darker, somewhat OOC version of himself, though as close to Hamish's portrayal as I could make him in those parameters

Read beneath the cut

-

The nun had been avoiding Father Paul Hill since she'd first arrived from the mainland, sequestered, a cloister of one, in a cottage at the furthest edge of Crockett Island.

How she loved that house, in its cultivated solitude. Sometimes, when the nun played hymns on the piano over the draughts that jimmied the windows at night, she imagined herself the sole living person in existence, a single pulse—a single breath—in the dark.

But it wasn't enough; her thoughts were always with her, constant tenants that had followed her for thirty miles across open water, and would follow her under the earth, in time. As a good Catholic, the nun was meant to believe in the washing away of one's sins by God's will, that to repent was to be reborn.

Yet she had repented, and it only felt like running away.

The nun left her new home very little, only to collect her scant groceries from the single store, or as deliveries from the mainland, at the port. Still she hadn't entered the church, although it—the Lord's voice—called to her often, its song undulating through her in a constant wave. Yet the thought of the many eyes and whispering mouths attending each sermon repelled her with a strength she'd felt only at the precipice of night terrors— no, she couldn't go there. Not yet.

And no matter: the nun had her own fashions of private worship, leftovers from the convent of St. Aurelia. She could worship in her home, for now, and remain devout.

Father Paul, the priest on the island, did not seem to agree. Several times the nun had bumped into him whilst running errands, a surprisingly youthful figure in blue jeans and tousled hair, ignorant, it seemed, of his own dark good looks. He'd struck her as both quaintly awkward and charismatic, an artful combination that had likely won over the congregation as much as outward appearances.

The man seemed to spring up from grassy hillocks and rugged shoreline like a Shakespearian ghost, ever-ready with a warm greeting and, inevitably, a gentle enquiry as to when the nun would be attending mass. Did he know that she was coming, or was it mere chance that brought them together, again and again? God's will, Father Paul would likely declare, but the nun was less certain of that.

She'd noticed a particular darkness in the priest's eyes, a furtive stirring of old, untended pain, and new.

The priest had suffered in his life; that, or he was hiding something. The nun had no interest in exposing herself to such volatility, intriguing a man though life's ills had forged. She'd vowed to engage nothing and no-one that might disrupt her peace, and thus she'd nodded her way through every interaction, eyes lowered, thrumming desperately for some gap in the conversation to take her leave.

After that came the phonecalls. Most, after the first, went unanswered; the nun got into the habit of disconnecting the line when she began her day's work—the editing of religious texts for publication—and considered having the telephone uninstalled altogether when she was disturbed in the evening, as well.

It was a blessing that the nun rarely dreamed, for she was sure that the priest would find his way there, too, as he had her daily ruminations.

Thought after thought came in their torrents, all of Father Paul, all of him. He coiled inside her as if with many fingers, many hands opening every hole she had, making them his possessions. The image was sin and sickness, boiling at the perimeters of her mind, irrepressible. But the nun would repress it, she told herself, she would not fold under the fancied urgings of a man that didn't know her.

And he did not know her, no matter what he'd heard from the mouths of gossips, nor from enquiries with the tight-lipped secretaries of St. Aurelia, who would give not an inch, holding grimly to self-preserving discretion.

A few days after the priest's calls ceased there came a knock at the door, an imperious rap that seemed to invite itself in. Bev Keene, the unofficial church administrator, stood about the house for half an hour, wrinkling her nose at the living room decor, and smiling blandly over a cup of tea.

"I don't believe we've seen your face at Mass yet, Sister. Honestly, the whole flock has been expecting you. You don't want to disappoint them, do you? They're all so eager to welcome you to the congregation. Following God's own lessons, after all. 'The Lord watches over the sojourners; he upholds the widow and the fatherless, but the way of the wicked he brings to ruin'— Psalm 146:9'. Words to think on."

There was a clammy sense of shame in the air around Beverly, a bitterness she herself seemed indifferent to. One couldn't stand beside her and not feel unclean, riddled with the squirming discomfort of a child pulled up before their teacher. The nun made quiet attempts to usher the woman from the house, which Bev coolly evaded.

"You do know Father Paul has been trying to flag you down? You'd do well to visit the man. His hands are very full at the moment and he's still so keen to make time for you!"

Too much time, the nun thought, but she felt so harassed that it occured to her that if she acquiesced just once this campaign of polite coercion might come to an end.

So it was that she left her house, one night, and made the long walk to the church, turning around on herself several times as her resolve wavered, then ultimately trudging on.

The air was pale with silence, unstirred but for the crunch of the nun's sensible shoes on unturned stones, her feathered breathing. How easily the walking put her out of breath; perhaps it was the incessant choir of nerves she felt, not the journey, that so tired her.

The wind tugged, insistent, at the nun's veil, and she heard, on that breeze, a strange, sharp cry from far off. A scream, or the shriek of an owl— neither were so savage as this noise, as it seemed to her, a yell of killing triumph.

The nun drew a cross against the dark. Likely it had been nothing, but she'd always feared the unpredictability of nature, the omen of it. There was a certain paganism to the Catholic faith that nurtured superstition, and with the nun's anxieties already at their static heights, her walk took on the feeling of folk horror.

At last the church rose into view, as modest a structure as expected for such a small community. Still the nun stopped in the middle of the grass, taken, again, by a great surge of disquiet. Lights were on in the church, which was not unusual; there were late services that dragged on, and the priest or Bev Keene would sometimes linger afterwards to clean, or rearrange the pews.

But the yellow windows were of such an arid, malevolent hue, like sulphur in a bell jar, that by the time the nun reached the church doors she was trembling, her shadow a cave drawing on the wall.

Slowly, she opened the doors, sighing at the familiar scents of dust and incense. Home was in the smell of this building, more so even than in her own precious space; the nun stepped into the church, between the rows, and closed her eyes a moment, taking comfort where she could before dread quenched the feeling again.

"Ah, Sister! I wasn't sure you'd come by."

The nun sprung to her left, hands seizing the top of nearest bench. Father Paul Hill was coming down the aisle towards her, his lined face breaking into a smile that would have disarmed the Devil himself with its warmth.

"I'd hoped, Sister— prayed, I, ah, I even prayed on it, just a little. I hope you don't mind; I know that can seem a little off-putting, unanticipated goodwill after hardship, but there it is. Does that sound conceited? Maybe it does, unintentionally, of course, but the road to Hell, you know—"

The sudden flow of low, mildly stammering chatter arrested the nun, it being so benign that she could do nothing but stand limply in its swell. There was no flitting away through the doors again now, not when those soft, dark eyes were clipped to her face, now the priest's hand was reaching out to envelop her own. Cold, so cold, that hand, and yet somehow feverish at once.

Was he sick, this Father Paul, or was he, too, felled by trepidation?

"Would you like some tea?" asked the priest. "Or coffee, although it is getting late. There's a kettle and some clean cups somewhere in the backroom, I believe. I always make one, for meetings like this. Something about a hot beverage calms the soul."

Helpless, the nun let herself be ushered to a pew at the front of the church, bound in a swaddle of talk. She knew that there would be purpose beneath the niceties, and sure enough when Father Paul at last sat beside her, drinks in hand, the nun felt as if the jaws of some unseen trap had closed barbed teeth around her.

"I get the feeling you're not one hundred percent comfortable in God's house yet," said the priest. "I understand that. I do. All people of strong faith, we're tested daily, for the bettering of our souls. 'Blessed is the man who remains steadfast under trial, for when he has stood the test he will receive the crown of life, which God has promised to those who love him'— James 1:2. All the more reason to seek support, to seek support and guidance, from those who offer it with open arms."

It was nothing the nun hadn't heard before. She sipped her tea with a quiet agony as still the priest yammered on, his voice hypnotic in its depth and repetition.

"I know you must feel rejected, just now. Cast down, like Lucifer himself was, by his father, and likely hurt by the fall in more ways than one; just imagine, consumed though he was by wickedness, the Devil felt, as we all have, as we all do, the spurns and judgement of a loved one."

The priest reached out and touched the nun's arm lightly, making her splash tea over the rim of her cup in surprise.

"The convent of St. Aurelia. It was the only family you had, the community there, wasn't it? I understand your parents died when you were young, a tragic accident. My condolences. Though they know peace now it's never easy, a loss, losing, sometimes, the only people you cared to know. Gone, in a second, and suddenly you find yourself breaking bread with strangers. It's a strength, getting through it alone. I commend you for that."

The sheer compassion in the man's voice made the nun's eyes mist, but she merely blinked until Father Paul came sharply into view again. The nun stared down at his jeans, at a loose white thread she itched to pull free. Her eyes remained there as the priest talked, urging her towards the inescapable question.

"But then, there was another upheaval," he said. "You were asked to leave the convent, abruptly— suddenly, so unexpected. You'd lived there for so long, nearly ten years. It must feel like a betrayal— this, this departure, Eve out of Eden—"

A cool hand touched the nun's jaw, tipped her chin so that she was forced to gaze into the tunnelling black of Father Paul's stare. There was something ruthless in those eyes, the zeal of a man turned to madness by his own preaching. Yet soft, still, as salted butter, and the nun floated in that molten darkness.

"Tell me, Sister. Why were you asked to leave the convent of St. Aurelia?"

The nun broke free of the look, the encroaching hand, and the priest blinked, seeming, for a moment, embarrassed.

"This isn't confession, I know. I know that, but, uh, this opportunity, us meeting like this. It feels like time for truths—fears—to be addressed."

Attempting to rise, the nun shook her head, but it only took a meek gesture of Father Paul's hand for her to sink down again, her limbs hewn of iron weights. He looked at her with a sorrowed fascination, his tea going cold, barely touched.

Still he spoke in that low, lulling tone, still seemed so very amenable.

"I've watched you run away from me like a frightened lamb," said the priest. "Well, from everyone, but me, most of all. At first, I'll admit, I was a little hurt. Wondered what I'd done to scare you away when we'd barely spoken two words to each other. But I reflected on it, the puzzle of whatever was keeping a young woman like yourself—a woman of faith, with so much to give—in such isolation."

Father Paul set his cup down on the floor and folded his hands over his knees. Every motion, every gesture was compelling, as if conducting some strain of terrible music. The words were dangerous, he was, somehow. The nun wanted to stand up, make some clumsy excuse to leave, but she knew that she'd be drawn back, a helpless wave called in by the moon.

She didn't know why. All men were an obscurity to her, this one more than most.

"I thought about dropping in, at the cottage," said Father Paul. "But I didn't want to overwhelm you. Bev Keene did that on my behalf, I fear— sorry about that. Well-intentioned, but heavy-handed. I think she frightened you, her intensity—"

It was yours, the nun itched to say, your intensity, you wouldn't leave me alone—

But she couldn't open her mouth, could only listen as the priest burbled on.

"—Anyway, now you're here, I understand. God has allowed me that. Yes, God, I believe that, I really do. Your guilt, your shame is paralysing you, Sister. Shame that you were sent away from St. Aurelia's, so strong you came all the way to Crockett Island to hide from it. But you don't have to hide it, Sister, not with me."

Sunken into a cringing-self revulsion, the nun shifted back across the pew, putting space between herself and the priest. He inched towards her, his smile the pitying grimace of a doctor with a vicious syringe.

"You'll lose nothing by talking, if anything, you'll gain something. If you remember Psalm 32:5: 'I said, “I will confess my transgressions to the Lord.” And you forgave the guilt of my sin.' Your silence, your turmoil. You could be rid of it today, uh, tonight, this very hour, if you wanted to be. It's in your hands, Sister. That freedom. To feel clean again."

Father Paul was close enough that the nun could taste his breath on her face, make out every crease and furrow in his skin. She sensed, under his relaxed confidence, a tension, as before a cat springs. She saw it in the way his head turned too sharply, in the incline of his body over hers.

The priest's eyes were gelid, sinkholes in a slate pit. Coldly, the nun understood that she was being given no choice, that she must speak, feed whatever hunger for contrition stirred in the man's heart, or else sate some other appetite. Or another, still—

Father Paul's hand closed over the nun's thigh, and this time it didn’t tremble away from her. There was something sure, animal, in his touch, the way his fingers latched over warm flesh through the habit, seeking her skin like a caiman crawls to water.

"Please, Father," the nun began, her voice a tremulous whisper.

She stammered over those two words until they guttered to ash.

"What was it, Sister?" asked the priest, his tone rough with a broken kindness. "What did you do at St. Aurelia's that you're so ashamed of?"

His hand slipped the nun's skirt up her thigh with a tender ceremony, and she cried out, a juddering crow-caw of anguish. Father Paul's head tilted slightly, and for a moment there was a luminescence to that stare, the milky white of things seen only in caverns, deep underground.

"I wish things could be different," said the Priest, mournfully. "The telling of secrets. The unburdening of the soul. It's never easy. I wish that it could be. But the nature of growth, Sister, it's painful. Growing pains, they hurt, they always do."

The skirt was up, over the nun's knee, and she wanted achingly to run, to strike the man that touched her with such mercy, but instead she let him push her back onto the pew. The nun gazed up at him, seized by a dread of the inevitable, of the thing she'd known would come when a scent had been caught of her great sin.

"Father," she whimpered, and again could say no more; her mouth was as dry as wafer, her voice drier still.

This time, the priest made no answer. His fingers brushed the bare skin of the nun's thigh, the place behind her knee where a pulse beat with the miserable violence of the Deus irae. The black-silver eyes were fixed there, almost lidless in their lack of blinking, and the nun realised that the priest had bent down, bent in the mode of praying over the exposed limb, his sharp nose almost touching her skin.

Gone, suddenly, was the quizzical arch of those dark brows, all bumbling affability extinguished. Fronds of black hair sprung down onto the priest's forehead, and as he lifted the nun's leg high to press his face to her pulsepoint she saw a creature unhinged, not a man at all, or not entirely.

Pain broke like a cheap mirror across the nun's thigh, and she tried to scream, tried, and failed. The sound was thieved from her lungs as though by the hand of a ghost, as was her strength as she tried to kick, and did no more than dislodge, from her foot, the plain little shoe.

It hit the floor with a resounding thud, like a closed book, but the nun did not hear it, her focus narrowed on the keen, ruby artery of suffering the priest plucked out of her thigh.

His other hand was at her hip, not tight enough to hurt, but enough to hold her to him as he drank from the wound he'd bitten open as though she were a flask in a desert. Blood ran down her leg in sumptuous plenty, soaking her underwear, redding the white.

The nun's body was so stiff with pain and terror that her back and neck ached with the tautness of it. She clutched the side of the pew and muttered faintly to an ear she was abruptly certain did not exist.

"Spirit of our God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit, Most Holy Trinity, Immaculate Virgin Mary..."

"Yes," said Father Paul, his lips still touching the cut behind the pale knee. "If you won't confess, then pray, pray. There's absolution for us all, in one way or another."

His face was a slick of carmine, dripping its excess onto the nun's calf. As his stare met hers she saw, slowly, the intelligence come back to that primal hollow, something of humanity, although not much of it.

"We all sin, Sister, all of us, even I. God will forgive us, as he'll forgive us again, and again. This isn't the first time someone has touched you; now, at least, we'll be cleansed together, as one."

Was this how he justified his monstrous want, a forgivable sin? Or else the stepping stone to a greater good, the regeneration of a soul? He was lying to himself, as the nun had, in taking flight from her past; no wonder there were holes in her wings.

The priest crawled up her trembling body, shushed her, murmured nothings of consolation as his bloodied hands pushed the useless feather of her underwear aside, as he laid his face alongside hers, anointing her with cloying scarlet.

"I won't judge you, Sister," he said, "if you find pleasure in this. It's normal, in fact, quite normal, the exhilaration of meeting the Lord with the truth bared—"

"Please, God, help me," said the nun, and the priest's irises shifted with that bestial madness, the sheen of lust and religion and killing made one in those terrible eyes.

He kissed her mouth as his fingers breeched her tightness, chaste, at first, then with the passion of a hunter in the night, the covenant of the unholy. His thumb danced her clitoris with the skill of knowing, and the nun had enough presence of mind to be surprised by that before her thoughts were dashed to cinders.

"They tried to cleanse you of this need, in St Aurelia's, didn't they, Sister?" asked Father Paul. "Tried, and failed with the futility of man to erase the very need of man to trespass. I saw it in your eyes: you're young, and on fire with it. I'll burn, with you, a while."

The nun lay under him like a saint carved into marble, as though his touch didn't move her at all. Presently the fingers left, and as fabric rustled another hardness, another piercing thing struck deep, the nail in Christ's palm, the suffering of Job—

"God," she screamed out, and there was so much love in Father Paul's eyes as he moved upon her that she could see scarcely believe that he was within, his cock the spear in the side of Christ, tearing the red scraps of her faith asunder.

It seemed to last the length of three great days, each thrust a thundering violence. Yet still the priest muttered his prayers and maddened sweetness, still kissed her brow with an angel's pure lips as she suffered beneath him. He wanted to bite her again, she felt it; he was starved of that which he had taken.

But it was as if he didn't dare, as if this carnality was the closest he could allow himself to taking such communion again.

"God, forgive us our sins," breathed the priest, against the nun's ruined veil, its wimple crushed and smeared with garnet death. "That we might begin again tomorrow anew. Amen."

He stilled, arcing away from the nun, his groans deep and low. She wished to feel nothing, only the agonies of unhappiness, but even in this God had no mercy; as the hated organ pulsed within there was an answering ripple through her own flesh, the spasms of a joy thrust upon her.

They lay together, a moment, clinging, the devout before some terrible miracle. Then, slowly, the priest gathered himself upright, looked at the blood on his hands and upon the woman. Abashed, he helped her sit; she didn't stop him, allowed him to smooth down her habit, give back the fallen shoe.

"I— I apologise, Sister," said Father Paul, in tones of genuine regret. "I seem to have forgotten myself. God moves me in strange ways, as of late, and I don't dare question His might and wisdom. I'd advise you against that, too. Questioning, I mean. He placed you here for a reason, I feel that completely."

Dully, the nun let him speak, the impossibility of answering a colossus between them.

"It's a pity you feel this way," the priest murmured. "I'd hoped to salvage your trust in God's plan, but I see that will take time. That's okay. We've got plenty of that, on Crockett Island."

He helped the nun to her feet, both of them unsteady in the waning crisis of frenzy. There was a lunacy in the moment, how a kind of performance fell into place between them, a play of being decent and ordinary people.

"Come to the rec center, if there's anything else you need to work through," said the priest. "I'm thinking of offering counselling there, in the evenings. Might, ah, could do you some good."

The nun beheld him with an abstract, distant terror, thinking—a sin, another sin—that she would rather carve out her own throat than be alone with this man once more. But rather than say so she only nodded, a coward's sort of kneeling.

"Yes, Father," she whispered, and stumbled out of the church, down to the beach.

She wanted to keep walking, into the ocean, under the cleansing black of the waves. But again the nun failed her resolve, and tottered on, a broken seabird trailing the shoreline, until the lonely cottage emerged in the distance.

[luvinghanni]

Good day｡⁠◕⁠‿⁠◕⁠｡

Can I request another from the fandom of fable? ⁄⁠(⁠⁄⁠ ⁠⁄⁠•⁠⁄⁠-⁠⁄⁠•⁠⁄⁠ ⁠⁄⁠)⁠⁄

the scenario was like, Akira seeing his s/o (fem-reader) wearing a skirt for the first time. And it turned him on! (Smut please), If not it's ok...

Hey Anon ofc u can! Sorry if this gets released late I'm so sick at the time of writing this so my motivation is way down 🤧

I hope you enjoy and sorry if this is OOC for Akira (Ive never read the manga or watched the anime)

!!!NOT PROOFREAD!!!

Tags: p0rn with plot, pet name usage, creampie, no protection, p in v, consensual groping, slight hair pulling, smut, afab, Akira Satou, OOC

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Lips like sugar

Satou Akira x Fem!Reader smut

Summer had finally come after months of chilly weather and you couldn't be more excited about it.

To you, spring meant many things- a few being pretty bouquets, sakura blooms, park dates, pretty sunsets but most of all? Cute outfits. You liked to look good in your day-to-day life, I mean who doesn't? But the colder the weather the more you struggled to find the will to care instead resulting in comfy knit sweaters and sweatpants being the go-to throughout the colder months.

Flicking through the many pieces of colourful fabric hung up neatly in your wardrobe you couldn't help but skip back and forth trying to find the perfect outfit, it was the weekend and you breathed a sigh of relief when you realised you FINALLY had a day off. How did you choose to spend this day? A sweet picnic with Akira obviously. As to be expected Akira found you gorgeous in any item of clothing but you wanted to look as cute as possible for yourself (and a little bit for him). Deciding on a ditsy floral blouse and a cream mini skirt you felt happy with your fashion choices and began to get ready for the day ahead.

You strolled through the semi-crowded park surrounded by gentle splashes of pink and white cherry blossoms paired with a mixture of tourists and locals alike appreciating the natural Japanese beauty before it faded away. Getting a day off wasn't usual for you so spending it doing something you actually wanted to do was practically Heaven on Earth and the weather only made it better.

Finding a free tree to rest beneath you began to scan the range of faces in the surrounding area searching intently for your lover, even starting to feel slight concern sink your stomach when your search came up empty "Kira where are you..." you began to bite at your nails nervously before a pair of hands were placed over your eyes "Hello gorgeous" soft lips placed gentle kisses down the side of your neck as a familiar voice whispered into your ear. Whipping around to face him a smile spread across your face as your eyes met his mesmerising black ones.

Conversation flowed between you as it always did but you couldn't help but notice your boyfriend appeared slightly distracted whenever you spoke, his eyes continuously dipped down seemingly entranced by a certain something..."Kira? Baby? You seem distracted, what are you even looking at?" Clearly snapped out of his daydream your lover smiled before moving closer to speak into your ear. "I was just thinking this is the first time you've worn a skirt around me.." he started "you look good baby, especially these" Akira moved his hand to caress your thighs immediately feeling them clench together, at his presence.

Swallowing hard you couldn't help but suddenly burn with want for him, you wanted him, every single part of him. Smiling he seemed to get the hint and grabbed the picnic basket before pulling your smaller frame up into his chest "I'm gonna have so much fun with you baby."

Both feet were hardly through the door before you were pushed against the back of it, lips flush against yours Akira's hands wasted no time exploring all that was concealed beneath your skirt nudging your panties to the side and pushing his fingers into you emitting a soft whine from your pretty lips. "Fuck Akira please I need you, need more than this" you begged against his neck praying he'd give in to your plees, fortunately for you he did carrying you to the sofa practically ripping both of your clothes off as soon as he could; all except for your mini skirt "I wanna see you all fucked out in it" Akira spoke up clearly noticing your puzzled look.

Flipping your skirt up you felt his cock prod your wet entrance before pushing inside gently allowing your walls to adjust around his considerable size and girth before speeding up his thrusts, groaning at your warmth "God Y/N you always feel so- fuck- so good around me" clenching at his words your back arched against the plush fabric of the couch enabling his tip to hit a spot that made you see stars. "Fuck Kira! There right there don't stop i'm begging you" Akira had never seen you this messy and desperate beneath him before and he couldn't get enough of it, rolling his hips to hit the perfect spot your moans only increased in volume hands reaching up to tug on his now messy black locs.

Before you could even think you felt a wave of pleasure rush over your entire body, liquid splashing onto the both of you as you cried out your lover's name his hips failing to cease as you rode out your orgasm. Not long after his thrusts began to speed up as his grip on your body tightened "Baby i'm so close..gon- gonna fill you up yeah? So so pretty for me.." forcing himself as deep as he could go he poured into you whining 'I love yous' and panting into your neck as he felt himself overcome his orgasm.

Too tired to move to the bedroom the two of you drifted off where you finished- sweaty and flushed as Akira trailed kisses down your chest, sharing you one last "I love you" before falling asleep in each others arms.

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I'm sorry this is so shit I am so unbelievably burnt out I did NOT know how to write this 😮‍💨 I hope it's to your liking though anon.

As always submissions and requests are always welcome 🫶🏽

[vievecorcityevents]

The VIEVECOR CITY GAZETTE (VCG) is Vievecor City’s supernaturals-only news bulletin. It is a publication that has been magically tailored by the city’s techno-pagans to keep the supernatural population of Vievecor City up to date with what is going on in the city. These publications are usually sent out at the beginning of each month in the form of highly encrypted e-mail blasts that will be automatically deleted from an inbox after 48hours.

MAY 2024 EDITION

This year’s Earth Day event was spectacular! The supernatural community would like to thank the elves for hosting such a wondrous event. It is always nice to spend time in nature and getting to know the new flora in our magical park is such a blessing.

The elves would like to announce that Grayalder has officially found their spot to take root in Vievecor City Park! As such, this part of the park will be closed to the public and wider supernatural community until further notice to ensure that no one disturbs Grayalder while they settle in.

This month’s full moon will be at its peak on the night of May 23rd. It will last for three nights and the Lycaon pack has opened the forests of Chissob Hills to all other packs and lone wolves who need space to run. The supernatural community is strongly encouraged to not go near the Chissob Hills forests during this month’s full moon.

RUMOUR HAS IT…

While the supernatural community is glad of the news of Grayalder finding their place in the park, there have been whisperings that a large hole opened in the ground right next to where Grayalder chose to take root. What shocked the elves and those who were present in the park that day were the ancient elvish ruins that were unearthed beneath Vievecor City Park... This is currently being kept a secret from the wider community while those in the know deal with the situation and speculation is that this is the reason that section of the park, while usually open to the supernatural community as a whole, has been closed off for the foreseeable future.

OOC:

The ‘Rumour Has It…’ section is not printed in the VCG and is additional information that is being talked about amongst the supernatural community. Players can plot with each other to have their characters be part of anything stated in the ‘Rumour Has It’ section. Players are welcome to have their characters catch, return or even keep any magical creatures that have been introduced in this post. Players are welcome to use all the information in this post to inform their going forward. Have fun~

[hanjeongrp]

Welcome to Hanjeong, Seon. You are quite the naiad. At 10,000, you have quite a claim to surviving for so long.

Enjoy paradise.

OOC:

Name/Alias: krys            

Pronouns: she/they

Age: 26+

Timezone: cst

IC:

Biography Information:

OC Name: Seon

FC: min yoongi, Suga BTS

Species: Naiad

Occupation: living

Residence: the forest

Gender: Non-binary

Pronouns: they/them - future they/him

Age: 10,000 years old

Claim(s): none for now

Biography:

They say that time is a man-made construct. Man, constantly pursuing some sort of order in life. While the world of man tied themselves to it, tried to find meaning in it, there were some that seemed to be beyond time. Many walking the land and below the sea. Creatures that flourished the further time continued and some that seemed to be decimated by it. There were others, further still removed from the idea of measuring any sort of day or life. Ones that were born of nature itself. Some that start the very legends that man looked upon with envy.

The being now named Seon, was not a creature of time. Despite what many may think. A naiad born of a freshwater spring, long before most humans had even begun to touch the island. Their people, known as nymphs, were hidden in the forests and waters that flowed through the land. Flourishing. Prospering. Developing their own ways of things. But time ravaged most things, and it seemed that even ones meant to be forever, could find themselves victims of it.

Within a count of years, they never kept track of, his spring did not stay full and sparkling. They were the first of their mother’s children. Only to find themself as the last. The others filled with her sparkling water, born of it, seemed to sink into the ground as mother did. Seon had expected it for them as well, to disappear into the earth and never think again. Hoped and wished for it. But the earth never swallowed them whole. Instead, they were the reminder of something that was but no longer could be.

It took time for them to realize they could find what little was left of their mother. Deep in the ground. They could not simply go to her. Cease to have form and simply be where they were meant to. Even with their sparkling structure, they had to dig their way down. Claw and drag their body to the small bit of her that was left. For the first time in the many suns and moons that they had watched die, they could finally sleep.

So, they did, for years. hundreds of them, they slept. Until there was a taste on their lips that was different. Something seeped into the very earth. Like the water had done so long before…

Only when they clawed upward did they learn of pirates, and new people on the land. Gone were the ones before. Those that whispered of them as if they were someone to pray to. A god. Instead, they were a legend of once was and there was blood upon the sands. It had seeped into the earth, tainting the hidden water beneath. The reason they were awake.

They did not remain above ground long, their body barely corporeal when they brought a fury from the land that they could call upon. Mother was gone, but their connection to all the water within the island was still strong. When it surged, it could be devastating. Still, none of it lasted forever and soon enough, Seon went back to sleep among the water hidden beneath the dirt.

Next, they woke, it was to the tears of a child. One of naiad and human blood. Something they had never seen before. Never knew. Never tasted on their tongue. So, they found themself clawing their way to the world above once more. That time to comfort a child who seemed to have no one. Carefully nurturing him in ways they had their siblings of long ago. Each trick they taught the little dew drop gave them a slight hope for what they may see in the future. But their connection did not go beyond that. Simply the little boy that needed safe harbor in the world and a ghost of an elder spring answered him.

When the boy grew into a man and soon enough, left in search of the world, Seon slept once more. Wrapping themself in a blanket of darkness only to wake in what seemed to be a beat of a heart. The boy turned man called to them once more, urging them into the world. This time, they decided that maybe they  could learn from it. Enraptured by the stories of the other, the naiad was curious.

The death of a leader meant little to them. the arguments between the various individuals and peoples meant even less. Humans never made sense to them. those that pretended to be them, didn’t either. But they could not argue that they had created a world that sparkled in ways they once remembered. Different, but similar… and Seon wished to know it…

Anything else? Changes you want to make? Comments you have? Extras you want to include?:

[playlist]

[threadxsteel]

|.n a v i g a t i o n h u b.|

❧ info | c o d e x | | c o m p a n i o n | | c l a s s | ______________________________________________

❧ supplements | a n n a l s | | v e r s e s | ______________________________________________

❧ extras | r u l e s | | s o u n d t r a c k | | t a g s |

| r p b l o g h u b |

[fvrxdrm]

Hey good evening

Can you do Chamber with a non-agent fem reader who works at the cafeteria? Some fluff pls?

:3

earth 1 report no. 1: the first light

Pairing: Chamber/Vincent Fabron x F!Reader/Existing Character(Jett type of reader)

Warning(s): mentions of reader wearing a dress (I know there are people who aren’t comfortable in wearing dresses, you can ignore that bit), foreshadowing references, Chamber may be a bit OOC but I made him softer in this fic softer than how he usually is, puns

Earth 2 reports (Courtesy of Leon Scott Kennedy):

EARTH 2 - United States Strategic Command Report No. 1: The First Light

*****

EARTH 2 – VALORANT Protocol Report No. 1:

The First Light

A birthday can be sweet without layered cakes or fanfare when you have your own super-fans, when you are confident that you are a darling who does good each day of each year as best you can with the people you think the world of the most. Then you can enjoy your day with an inner glow, the kind that will shine in your eyes. It was a celebration of another year, of another 365 days to cherish in a lifetime.

And as you were here, wearing a f/c dress, letting the smoothness of your skirt flow against the urge of the wind through the open windows of your car, you embraced the notion that such a beloved day could not have been any better when you’ve got the love of your life and your best friend driving you through cities and towns while you sing along to whatever cheesy shit was on the radio. It was like making memories in every city; once you visit each and every one of them again, you for sure wouldn’t but think of you and Vincent.

The smell of coffee shops still whiffed by your nose (passing by them, Vincent kept bragging about how their coffee can never compete with yours!), the tip still feeling a tad bit sticky from the jest of a cupcake icing. Your skin tingled from Vincent’s occasional touch on your skin, and your heart melted once you’ve found your safe haven: alone in the hills beyond the near sunset.

A meal of a couple gourmet sandwiches, wine, and a few appetizers were heaven on your tongue, a claim backed up by the feel of satisfaction in your stomach, and Vincent’s self-manufactured phone was happily shuffling through music of varying styles and genres, a mixture of emotions congregating beneath every step of a beat. When his playlist had hit bingo with a song he was certain you loved with your head and heart, he laid hold of your shy hand in his before spinning you around to the direction of the whispering breeze.

Vincent was left smitten by how one you were with the air; a sophisticated zephyr tiptoeing against the clouds with the intricacy of a gliding leaf and the fidelity of a flitting bird. In his mind perhaps, maybe you were the wind! Though it was a subjective fact, the lightness of you against him was beginning to prove his point a lot more than he thought possible.

As you palliated with the melody, Vincent’s gaze didn’t go by unnoticed by you.

“What’s got you looking at me like that, handsome?” You said as you spun around to face him before smoothly grazing your fingers at the nape of his neck. He replied, “your beauty, mademoiselle,” with a tempting smile pulling at his lips.

“Well, you need to stop at some point or else you’ll end up falling deep for me.”

“Perhaps, I would not mind it, no?” All four walls eventually gave in and everything felt hot all of a sudden. The feeling of your rising heat against his chest gave him a sense of pride knowing that a few prodding here and there could make you crumble in front of him.

“Okay, now you gotta stop. I’ll die right here, right now if you continue.” Vincent placed his chin on the crown of your head as he wrapped his arms around you, still swaying you with the music. ‘Why? Do I fluster you, mademoiselle?”

“Mmm… And you very well know that, you smooth fucker.”

“I feel very honored, my darling, but I doubt I could compete with that very sweet drawing in my coffee that you made!”

The last few hours ran like this, a few words and innuendos swinging back and forth between you two. The moon was beginning to peek in between darkening clouds along with a few evening stars teasing to support the tiny bit of light the moon was providing you with. The last of the sun, flanking right behind you, bid its interim goodbye as it made way for the reigning queen of the night.

Alas, that meant the day has come to an end. It went by too quickly in your opinion, it was like you ran through fast times without ever noticing everything dashing with you. Everything that has happened that day just felt so good it almost made you want to drown in those moments for a given second. Inevitably, you cursed the clock for the mortality of the day.

As you and Vincent were packing your things up, a circle of light began to shadow beneath you and expand to take up the whole kilometers of area. You were addled by the sudden change of brightness and when you and Chamber looked up, white was choking the entirety of the sky.

You became hypnotized by it, pacing thoughts meeting together in a rendezvous at every point in your head. The clarity of the light became a trademark in your eyes. It grew less and less mundane to you and like a strike of a lightning, the heavens pummeled a beam of light to the ground before the fog in your head ebbed away in sight; a tour de force in a far off distance.

“Y/N!”

[omgrachwrites]

Love Never Dies - Loki Laufeyson

Pairing: Loki Laufeyson x Reader

Summary: Loki never thought that his life could be any different than living in his brother’s shadow, that is until he meets a mere mortal. A mortal who shows him that she loves him and his love for her will last till the end of time.

Warnings: fluff, angst, character death, ooc Loki

Words: 2559

Disclaimer: This is set before Marvel’s Thor! This gif doesn’t belong to me, I apologise for the heart breaking gif

A/N: I hope you guys enjoy this one and I’m so sorry that Loki is ooc, it’s been too long since I’ve written for him and I haven’t seen the show! I’m sorry for the shitty summary hahahah! Also for the purpose of this fic, I made up the fact that a year on Asgard is longer on Earth but I’ve got no clue if that’s true or not! Please let me know what you think, I love you all very much! xxx

England, 1935

The day that Loki met the love of his life he grimaced at the grey stone washed street as he stalked down the road. The mortal world held none of the splendour of Asgard but he liked to get away sometimes. He loved his family but he found the realm of Asgard to be overwhelming at times, he much preferred the solitude.

A garden with huge green oak trees and an array of summer flowers – pink and red spectacles, swaying in the gentle wind – caught Loki’s eye and he felt himself smile at it’s gentle beauty. He brushed his fingers against the delicate petals as he entered the garden through the white iron gate and he walked through the sea of grass. The sun sparkled on the surface of the murky pond water, making it sparkle like cut glass. Sounds of children’s laughter filled Loki’s ears as they threw offerings of bread at the ducks and their offspring.

In the centre of the park, there was a magnificent oak tree and there she was, sitting beneath it was the most beautiful mortal – the most beautiful woman – that Loki had ever seen. She was leaning against the thick trunk of the tree, her hair fanned out behind her like a halo as she kept her eyes on her leather bound book. Loki’s feet moved of their own accord and he walked towards her, feeling a strange fluttering sensation in the pit of his stomach.

The mortal looked up at him as she heard him approach, a small smile graced her lips as she raised an inquisitive eyebrow as she squinted against the bright sun, “hello,” she greeted him as she placed the book on her lap. Her voice was light and airy with a musical note that left him enthralled.

Loki’s mouth felt dry but he managed to force the words out of his mouth, “hello, I’m sorry, I,” he began, stuttering like a fool, she was just a pretty woman. Why was he acting like this? He was feeling warm and tingly all over, what was this foreign sensation?

The mortal gave him an amused glance and giggled, it was a sweet sound, like the tinkling of bells, “would you like to sit down?” she asked, gesturing to the space next to her.

Loki chuckled, giving her a grateful smile as he fiddled with his fingers, “yes, thank you,” he sat beside her on the warm spongy grass.

“I’m Y/N.”

“Y/N,” he smiled wanly, relishing in the way that her name slipped off his tongue like fine Asgardian wine. It really was a beautiful name, “I’m Loki.”

“Loki?” she whispered, Loki had never heard anyone utter his name so beautifully before, “that’s an interesting name.”

Loki laughed, running his fingers through his raven hair almost nervously, “yes, I suppose it is.” Y/N smiled at him sweetly, her hair blowing delicately in the wind, “I didn’t mean to disturb you,” he gave her an apologetic glance, his mother had always raised him to be gracious.

“I don’t mind; I prefer a little bit of company.”

She seemed to be his opposite but there was something enthralling about her that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. He wasn’t this talkative around people he already knew, never mind a beautiful stranger – a mortal at that. But she was different, Loki just knew it.

“What are you reading?” he asked with interest, effectively changing the subject.

Y/N ran her fingers over the leather cover lovingly, “it’s Wuthering Heights, have you ever read it?”

He quirked an eyebrow, he’d never even heard of such a thing, “no, I haven’t had the chance to read it.”

She gasped mockingly, “but, you must read it! It’s my favourite,” she offered him the book.

He smiled at her as he took the heavy tome from her hands and opened the front cover to read the small summary and the introduction. Loki forced his lip not to curl, it sounded as though the book was romantic, pining nonsense. It really wasn’t his type of book.

However, when his eyes met Y/N’s sparkling ones, he couldn’t help but smile. He was about to tell her what he thought about her favourite book – he was going to sugar coat it, of course – but out of the corner of his eye, he saw a little creature crawl over the sleeve of her clothing.

“You have a spider on your sleeve, may I?” he asked, he loved the little creatures.

Y/N’s face drained of colour and she looked at Loki with great round eyes, she looked terrified, “please, Loki, can you get it off?” she whispered, her eyes nearly filling up with tears.

With a gentle smile Loki scooped up the spider and set it free in the long blades of grass, “there,” he grinned, brushing over the soft material of Y/N’s sleeve, “all gone.”

“Thank you, Loki,” she gave him an embarrassed smile as she shuddered, “I’m so scared of spiders.”

“You’re welcome, there is no need to apologise,” Loki smiled at her softly.

“What about you? What are you afraid of?” she asked, biting her bottom lip.

Loki’s blood ran cold, “nothing,” he answered too quickly and Y/N responded with a sceptical look on her face.

“Everyone’s afraid of something.”

“Not me,” he lied.

Almost a year later, you were in the same garden and you heard a rustling in the bush behind you. With a giddy smile, you turned to face the flowering bush, raising an eyebrow. When Loki emerged from the bush, disappointment marred his handsome features. He rolled his beautiful eyes but you could see that he was fighting back a smile.

“Were you trying to scare me?” you asked in amusement as you raked your eyes over the gorgeous man. He’d been coming to see you for almost a year now, always in the same place, but you didn’t really know who he was. For all you knew, Loki could be dangerous but somehow, you didn’t think so.

“I clearly wasn’t trying very hard,” he laughed, his pale cheeks flushing a delicate pink colour as you reached up on your tiptoes to kiss his cheek. How were you ever going to tell him that you loved him? He cleared his throat as he sat in your usual spot beneath the tree and you quickly followed suit.

The two of you just sat there for a while, in pleasant silence, listening to the call of the birds and the buzzing of the bees as they moved from flower to flower. You jumped ever so slightly when you felt gentle fingers in your hair, and you turned to see that Loki was braiding flowers into your hair.

He looked up at you with a cheeky smile, “they were just so beautiful, is this alright?” he asked and you smiled as you leaned into his gentle touch.

“Of course, as long as I get to braid some flowers into your hair later on,” with a giggle, you reached back to run your fingers through his thick dark curls.

You could feel the laughter vibrate from Loki’s rosebud lips as he pressed them against your cheek, “we’ll see.”

You sighed happily as you looked out onto the lake, watching the children race their handmade sailboats, “my father,” Loki muttered and you frowned, leaning back against his chest.

“What did you say?”

“Do you remember when we first met and you asked me what I was afraid of, and I said that I wasn’t afraid of anything?” when you nodded, Loki sighed, “I lied to you, I’m scared of my father, terrified to tell you the truth.”

Your heart broke for him; it must be so awful for someone to be so scared by a person who was supposed to love them the most. You pulled away from him slightly so you could look at him properly, and he refused to look you in the eye, “why?” you whispered, “why are you scared of him?”

Loki swallowed as he pulled out blades of grass, “I’m a disappointment to him, he’s never told me so but I know that I am. My brother is the golden son, he’s the one who my father truly loves. I’m scared that one day he’s going to make it so that I’m all alone.”

“Loki, look at me,” you were so close to tears, he deserved to be loved, Loki shook his head and you reached out to him, gently lifting his chin. When he looked at you, you could see his eyes brimming with tears. As a pearly tear escaped his eye and slid down his cheek you wiped it away with your thumb, “you are never going to be alone, you will always have me. You deserve to be loved, you’re worthy Loki, no matter what anyone says or thinks.”

You smiled gently, gathering the courage to lean forwards and press your lips against his gently. Loki gasped into your mouth as he lifted his hands to cup your neck as he kissed you back.

The next couple of times he came to see you, everything was different and Loki was really opening up to you. You could see yourself marrying this man one day and growing old with him. Currently, he had you in his arms beneath the oak tree, when he pulled out of the kiss, you smiled and cupped his cheeks. You were finally ready to tell him. Looking at the beautiful man before you, you couldn’t believe that you had waited this long to tell him how you felt.

“I love you, Loki.”

With a gasp, he pulled back to look at you in the eyes so he could work out whether you were lying or not, “you do? Truly?” he asked, hope shining in his pretty eyes.

You almost cried at the fact that he didn’t believe you, “truly, I love you and I’m going to keep telling you that for as long as I can, Loki.”

He smiled, his eyes twinkling with unshed tears, “I love you too, my darling, Y/N. Run away with me?” he stroked his long fingers through your hair.

You giggled, thinking that he was joking but when his facial expression didn’t change, you knew that he was being serious, “Run away with you?” you loved your family and all they wanted was for you to be happy. At this point, you would do anything for Loki and it didn’t take too much convincing, “okay, I’ll run away with you,” you smiled, feeling the excitement brew in your stomach.

Loki looked delighted, “fantastic! I just need to take care of some things, promise that you’ll wait for me?”

“I promise,” you grinned, pulling him in for a passionate kiss. You would wait forever for him if it came to that.

It would take a while for Loki to get back to his Y/N, he was giving up his immortality for a mortal, he couldn’t quite believe it. Unfortunately, when he arrived back in Asgard he discovered that the realm was in the midst of a war with Vanaheimr. As a royal Prince he had to fight alongside his brother. The war lasted for three years on Asgard, it was a brutal and bloody fight.

Loki did nothing but yearn for Y/N and when the war was over, Loki was ready to head back to Midgard. He wasn’t sure how much time on Midgard while he was in the Realm of the Gods because he’d never been away from her this long.

Loki was dead set on finding her house, he remembered Y/N telling him that it was the white one with the baby blue shutters, directly across from their beautiful garden. The young God was so distracted that he didn’t even notice that the garden looked as beautiful as ever with some new editions and he didn’t pay attention to the crowds of people looking at the strange tiny boxes in their hands. Finally, Loki arrived at the gorgeous little house and he rapidly knocked on the door. He was unable to conceal his grin; he couldn’t wait to see his love again.

The door was pulled open by a handsome young man who had Y/N’s eyes, the man gaped at the sight of Loki, almost as if he’d seen a ghost.

“Does Y/N Y/L/N still live here? Is she in?” he asked all of this very quickly, “are you her brother? You have her eyes.”

The man bit his lip, “are you Loki?” Loki nodded, feeling the sting of impatience and the man sighed, “I’m Johnathan, I suppose that you’d better come on in,” he stood aside to let Loki into the house.

Loki frowned as he stepped into the main room, he didn’t know why he was feeling like this, but something seemed to be wrong. He knitted his eyebrows at the sight of the big box in the centre of the room that was showing moving pictures. With a raised eyebrow, he turned his attention to the walls, his eyes wide when he saw a charcoal portrait of himself.

“She drew that a few years ago, she used to tell us stories of you but nobody ever believed her, she said that you were a Prince, or at least you looked like one. We all thought that she was mad but yet here you are, not looking a day older than when she last saw you,” Jonathan sighed.

Loki felt a lump in the back of his throat and tears stung at his eyes when he saw a photograph of a beautiful looking Y/N, standing beside a man in a white gown, “where is she? Please, tell me.”

Johnathan sighed, “my grandmother died last year, I couldn’t bear to sell the house, I’ve always loved this place,” Loki gasped as he felt his heart break and he clenched his fists on the wall as he felt his eyes sting with tears and he cursed himself for not being back sooner, “she waited for you, for a long time to hear my grandfather tell it, but after nine years she decided that you weren’t coming back for her. You’ve been away for sixty years, how is that possible? If you weren’t standing here before me, I would never believe it. She loved you, always loved you.”

Loki tried to steady his breathing as salty tears ran over his cheeks and lips, his Y/N was gone, the only things left of her were photographs and his memories. His memories of her warm laugh and her kindness. If only he had been back here sooner, but now, now it was too late.

“She was buried in the garden across the road, if you would like to go and see her.”

Loki shook his head, he wanted to go and see her, he really did but the pain he felt in his heart was just unbearable. It felt as though he couldn’t live for another second in this cursed cruel world, “thank you for your hospitality,” he mumbled, swiping at his eyes with the back of his hand.

Loki left so quickly that Johnathan would have thought his visit was a dream, the proof that it wasn’t all a fantasy was a copy of a first edition of Wuthering Heights right by Y/N’s photograph.

--------------------------

@smiithys​

[3rdgymbros]

— title; you are immortal (if only in my memory)

— pairing; zhongli x reader

— summary; in which a lonely archon visits the grave of an old friend (can be read in accompaniment to this)

— notes; this is my first time writing for genshin (i don’t play the game) so i hope it’s not too ooc !! special thanks to @degenerate-yandere and @teyvatstories​ for their support !!

Rex Lapis visits you again today.

No, that's not quite right; he hasn't been Rex Lapis in years. He walks amongst mortals now, has taken on the guise of a human man. He goes by the name Zhongli now. Though you suppose, that even if he were to change his face, or even remake his entire existence, you would still be able to pick him out from a crowd of thousands; he's always been a dominating presence. Tall, lithe, dangerously intent, with those piercing amber eyes.

"Hello, [ NAME ]." He says as always. He carries a bouquet of flowers in his arms, a frothy bouquet of blue and white flowers tied neatly together in brown string. You can feel the softness of the petals against the tips of your fingers in your imagination. You imagine Zhongli, in his room with only a candle for light, his dark head bent over the flowers as he struggles to arrange them into something more presentable. You'd tried to teach him once, a very long time ago, but his hands had been much too large and much too clumsy for one who wielded weapons with such skill. "May I come in?"

And, as always, he waits respectfully, inclining his head for the span of several heartbeats, before he opens the gates and walks through the wide expanse of lawn, broken up by ancient trees, their branches heavy with white and pink blossoms. The air is thick with the fragrance of a million flowers, the grass bright green and vibrant underfoot. It's almost as if spring exists eternally in this place. Everything seems to thrive here, as if your hands are still carefully nourishing the flowers and plants under your care.

You know his usual routine by now.

First, a white cloth appears, drawn from within the inner pocket of Zhongli's coat; he cleans and polishes the marble headstone, carefully, reverently. Once every crevice has been cleaned to his satisfaction, he moves on to the statue, modelled in your likeness. Your features have been frozen in time, made immortal in stone, though the statue does a poor job at conveying the soft kindness that had glowed in your eyes and the bright warmth of your smile, which had been able to light up a room and elicit faint smiles from Rex Lapis, even at his moodiest. Zhongli's gaze is heavy as he rests a gloved hand upon the smooth stone of the statue's face, and his bright eyes are suddenly darker than you ever remember.

Then, with a sigh, the cloth is tucked away, and a graceless hand dropping back down to his side; Zhongli steps back and places the bouquet – baby's breath and forget-me-nots – by the marble headstone. Here lies the God of Flowers. Gone, but not forgotten. Gracefully, Zhongli arranges himself and sits cross-legged on the ground.

Sometimes, he'll talk to fill the silence, speaking quietly of nothing and everything. He'll tell you about his day, a part of a story he's currently reading, or he'll reminisce about memories only both of you are privy to. Sometimes, he won't speak. He'll sit with you in a companionable silence, drowning in your presence, still lingering in the flowers and leaves.

Everyone in Liyue knows the myths; how the God of Flowers had fallen in battle, and their body had been used to nourish the land. How the crops and plants had flourished and bloomed, the soils rich and fertile, as though their very love for the country had been immortalized, lingering to this very day. More stories whisper of Rex Lapis' wrath; how he had turned into a dragon and unleashed fire and hell upon the ones who had struck the God of Flowers down, his rage driving him onwards like a cornered beast.

Fewer people in Liyue know of how the God of Flowers had approached Rex Lapis, a genuine friendship blooming from the contract. Stay with me until the end, the God of Flowers had said, and in return, I will lend you my power when you have need of it. And Rex Lapis had agreed. How, as the days went on, both had seen each other as friends, or maybe even something more, brought together by two pinkies linked together, a contract made one bright and perfectly normal afternoon.

No one in Liyue knows that the God of Flower's death had been the first, and the last time that Rex Lapis had ever broken a contract. How he hadn't been with the God of Flowers as they had drawn their last breath, how that bitter regret coats his tongue even now, and drives him to visit the place you rest every day to atone for his failures.

And you sit with him, shoulder-to-shoulder, relishing in his presence.

"I apologise." Zhongli says, an undercurrent of broken glass lurking beneath the surface of his words. "I wasn't there with you then."

"You have nothing to apologise for."

"You must have been lonely."

Zhongli draws in a quiet, shaking inhale. The idea of Zhongli crying is ludicrous. Much like his element of earth, he's always been so strong, so sure of everything. Is he thinking of you, as you are of him? You can almost feel the phantom touch of his hand entwined in yours, as the two of you had walked through your gardens together. You can almost smell the scents of lotus and sandalwood which had clung to his skin.

"No. It was a good life. And I loved being your friend." You say, soft as a whisper, pressing a featherlight kiss to his cheek. "Thank you."

It's a kiss of acceptance, for him as well as yourself. It's forgiveness and absolution for the sins weighing heavy upon Zhongli's shoulders.

Zhongli presses a tentative hand to his own cheek, to the spot you had kissed just moments before, and it's on a needle of pain that he breathes out your name.

[pomegranates-and-blood]

Love, fear, peace.

My Masterlist  

Pairing: Ivar/Reader

Summary: “I wanted to request an imagine where the reader and Ivar have a 4-5 year old daughter. And while Ivar is usually very cruel, he'll do anything for his little princess. And she asks to paint his nails and have him join her for a tea party, so he does, as long as it's a secret between them but the reader ends up seeing them and her thoughts on it? I'm in a big mood to read Ivar fluff”

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: A lil bit of angst, my best attempt at fluff, just soft stuff all around, probably ooc

A/N: My friends, may I interest you in an AU where all five sons of Ragnar are alive and happy? We call it ‘denial’ where I’m from, but yeah, in this universe they’re all alive, Sigurd married off to some Saxon Princess, Ubbe in Dublin, Ivar King of Kattegat and Hvitserk with him with a family of his own goddamit, Björn fuck-knows-where avoiding commitment like he was born to do, and that’s it. Ta-da.

Ástríðr is a name derived from the Old Norse elements áss "god" and fríðr "beautiful, beloved"

Taglist: (If you wanna be added or removed lemme know!) @youbloodymadgenius​ @xbellaxcarolinax​ @1950schick​ @ietss​   @peachyboneless​ @encounterthepast​ @maggiescarborough​   @chibisgotovalhalla​ @receptionistfromhell​​ 

Hvitserk greets you with a kiss on your cheek, and you thank the gesture with a smile, though your eyes are scanning the main hall.

“Where’s Ivar?” You ask as he walks at your side, greeting a few people with false smiles and courteous nods.

Hvitserk only shrugs, “I thought he was with you.”

“No, we were supposed to talk with one of the earls about the effect of a high tide, but he wasn’t there.”

“And how was it?”

“Dull,” You reply sincerely, “But I have an idea of where my husband is.”

The other man betrays a smile, “Can you blame him? It is hard to say no to her.”

Oh, you know that. She has him -and you- powerless to deny her anything since she first came to this world.

Try as he might to deny it, to keep the idea of the ruthless king that loves nothing alive, to mantain the façade of how nothing makes Ivar the Boneless falter; your daughter is an adorable force to be reckoned with, capable of making even the King of Kattegat surrender.

It is no secret, for you or any soul that encounters your husband, that Ivar loves his family, his wife and daughter, like nothing else.

The world will never forget the battles he’s won and lost, the wars he started, the kingdoms he reduced to ash, the lands he conquered. The world will never forget of all he did in the name of his ambition, in the name of his fame.

But the world will never forget what he did in the name of love either. Countless deals made, countless fights, countless plans devised and even more sacrifices made so that he could grant his daughter the safeties she deserved; so that he can give her the world and, when time comes, have her step sure, knowing the very earth and the very skies are hers.

You don’t know how much time has passed when you blink past the sleep that weighs on your lids. You find yourself as you were, resting comfortably on a seat that has progressively become just a pile of pillows and furs since the start of winter.

You still feel the comfortable weight of Ivar’s head on your lap, and you can make out his voice speaking quietly. Looking down you find him talking to the small bump on your stomach, the evidence of your child growing inside of you.

At the feeling of your fingers running through his hair, Ivar looks up and offers you a smile, before scooting even closer to your stomach.

“Tell your mother to go back to sleep. You and I aren’t done talking, Princess.”

A part of you is tempted to taunt him about how the might Ivar the Boneless is so smitten by a child not even born yet, but you choose instead to bask in the softness in his expression, in the happiness that curves his mouth.

Still, after a few moments, you offer, “They could be a Prince. Ivarsson.”

Your husband hums, presses a kiss against your stomach and settles again on his back with his head on your lap.

“We will have sons, I know,” He tells you, smile faint as he closes his eyes, “But first, we will have a daughter.

He speaks with such certainty that you cannot help but huff a laugh. Still, it is a nice thought, to have a Princess to call your own, a little girl, blessed by the Gods.

“She will be just like her mother, and she will be ours to spoil and take care of.”

“You speak as if you wouldn’t spoil our sons, Ivar. Someone else might believe that lie, but not me.” You tease, eyebrows lifted.

“Mhm, but a father grows jealous of his sons, and their fame, their triumphs.”

“No daughter of mine, or of yours, will be content without her own triumphs and conquests.”

“I know,” He replies without hesitation, proud smile widening and eyes opening to gaze up at you, “Like I said, she’ll be just like her mother.”

It was never a secret, a surprise, for you to witness Ivar love your child before she was even born; to feel his joy and his anticipation and his love in the way he spoke of that daughter you’d have, and all the sons and daughters that would come after.

You learned to love him years ago, and found beneath the cruelty and venom and bloodthirst a man that loves intensely, that willingly gave his heart to you to keep safe the day he made you his wife. So his love doesn’t surprise you, his devotion to his family doesn’t make you falter.

There were still many things that made you falter, that made you see everything with new eyes, during those months while you carried Ástríðr and in the years you’ve been fortunate enough to have her.

One of them was how the sons of Aslaug, much to your surprise and despite all their other failings, had been raised to be utterly devoted to their families. Hvitserk was almost giddy at the possibility of a niece or nephew that he could keep close to him, unlike Ubbe’s children all the way in Dublin. Ubbe, always the father figure, visited more than once and kept watchful eyes not only on you and his brother, but on everything, as if from Dublin he could look over all of you like he did while growing up. To your surprise, even Sigurd, past the animosity between him and Ivar -and all the disagreements he has had with you over the years, of course- sent word from Northumbria wishing you three the protection of the Gods.

Another of those discoveries, sadly not as heartwarming, was to witness the burden your husband carried and not being able to do anything about it. The more easily-soothed fears, like what your daughter would think of him, or whether she would be born healthy, were quietened by your voice promising him over and over that any child of yours would love him like no other, or by the soft kicks of your daughter against where his palm rested on your stomach, making tears shine in Ivar’s eyes every time.

There were deeper fears, and fears that plagued you too, that you couldn’t so easily soothe. The whisper in the back of his mind that happiness is nothing, that everything you love eventually you lose, that all his cruel ways and his mistakes would one day cost him what he holds dear. The blue eyes of the man you love, so used to seeing what others cannot, so used to planning ahead and seeing the world like his enemy does, seeing a world where at any time his fame and his conquests could cost him your life or your daughter’s.

For a man as cruel and vicious as Ivar, it is easy to forget he is not something otherworldly, some demon like the Christians say, some beast like your own countrymen claim. Sometimes, in all his rage and all his chaos, it is easy to forget he is a husband, a father, a man.

And like any man with a beating heart, especially a heart so wholly owned by his wife and daughter; Ivar fears.

Ástríðr blinks big and strikingly blue eyes, and you smile widely, unable to keep yourself from bringing your daughter closer and pressing a kiss on her head, delighting yourself in the familiar and comforting smell of your baby.

“Good morning, little one.” You whisper, and she coos in response, as if she understands.

“Is she…is she alright?” Ivar asks, moving closer to you and looking at her over your shoulder.

“Of course she is,” You smile down at your daughter, your finger tapping the tip of her tiny nose. “Our beautiful girl, she’s more than alright. She’s perfect.”

“She was…coughing.”

“That’s something babies do, Ivar, she’s fine.” You reassure him, only slightly bothered by the fact that he woke you up because your daughter coughed. You adjust your grip on Ástríðr, let her nuzzle against the column of your throat and find her sleep again.

Ivar drops his head to your shoulder, sighing against your skin and laying quite a bit of his weight on you. You sit there, your daughter against you and your husband letting you hold him up as he releases a tension you didn’t realize was there, and feel a pang of something in your heart.

After a few moments, you hold back a sigh, you try biting back your worry, and whisper, “You should sleep, love.”

“Mhm,” Ivar mumbles, but it is an argument, even if he doesn’t find the words to voice it yet. “Later.”

He has taken the awful habit of not sleeping at night. Each night when you settle in bed with Ástríðr nestled close to you, and Ivar holds you both close in his embrace; he remains awake, vigilant and expectant, watching the shadows for ghosts and enemies. You’ve noticed him faltering during the day, worsening his pain by not letting himself rest like should.

And it has only been worse since Hvitserk has been gone.

You know there are few people Ivar trusts fully, even fewer he entrusts the safety of his wife and daughter to. With just being here, Hvitserk granted his brother a peace nothing else can, a certainty that there was someone’s back to lean his own against, a promise that he could lower his guard and rest assured he wasn’t alone.

It is just a matter of days before Hvitserk returns, but you refuse to let Ivar run himself ragged.

So, you use your and not holding Ástrídr to wrap around his waist, and slowly move the three of you, as well as you can manage, back to lay on the bed.

With a slightly startled breath Ivar opens his eyes, focuses almost frantically on you and Ástríðr. You sigh again, but make use of the loss of his weight against you to settle against the pillows, holding your daughter better against your chest, your hand covering her back and holding her gently.

When you’re certain she’s comfortable, you lift your free arm and run your fingers through Ivar’s hair.

“You’ll rest.” You order, your eyes on your husband’s. He wants to argue, you know he does, a war between exhaustion and stubbornness, but it seems the pull is strong enough to even make him cave.

Ivar settles on your opposite shoulder from your daughter, his hand warm and rough as it settles over yours on her back. You chase tension off his back by running your hand up and down his back, and as both he and your daughter sleep safe and warm against you, you allow yourself a whisper of gratitude to the Gods.

You never knew what the Seer had meant when he told you so many years ago that ‘he can only use one hand and chooses to hold the sword, and for that you’ll need to hold the shield’, but now, as you hold your world close against you, you dare think that you understand the Ancient One’s words.

Eventually, the fear of something stealing her in the middle of the night passes. It always returns, that irrational fear he has that he will lose it all, that frantic paranoia that if he doesn’t plan, if he doesn’t prepare, they will take you both from him.

But as Ástríðr grows healthy and lively, the fears dwindle, or maybe they just change. And for a man that scorned the very uttering of the word, Ivar finds peace.

Through the halls, you follow the familiar sound of Ivar’s war cry, though quieter, and the adorable giggles of your daughter. Walking into your rooms, you make sure to remain hidden as you watch Ivar on the floor, holding himself up on his arms, mocking a taunt towards your daughter, daring the little shieldmaiden to attack.

A part of you is glad that this is a secret, a side of your husband, of your family, that the world will never know of. The world needn’t know of how easily Ástríðr makes her mother and father cave to her every wish, the world needn’t know of how fiercely and uncondicionally she is loved; only she needs to know of it, andn you and Ivar have made sure she lives a life knowing how loved she is.

You lean your shoulder on a pillar near the door, arms crossed over your chest but still betraying a smile.

Ástríðr brandishes a wooden sword at her father, big eyes strikingly alike Ivar’s when she focuses and finds her determination.

“I will defeat you!” She exclaims, the seriousness in her expression making your chest warm.

“You’re just a shieldmaiden, you can’t defeat me!” Ivar replies without missing a beat, faking a monster’s swipe with a hand that tries grabbing at her small foot.

Your daughter jumps out of the way with a squeal, but quickly furrows her brow adorably and lifts her chin, stubborn and arrogant.

Gods, Ivar is right, she looks so much like you.

“I am Ástríðr Ivarsdottir, I’ll always win!”

“Ah, you will, won’t you?” Ivar teases, letting go of the role of whatever beast he was supposed to be, grabbing onto your daughter and falling on his back with her in his arms, lifting the girl up and making her giggle. “Mighty shieldmaiden you’ll be, my sweet.”

“I know.” She replies without hesitation, startling a laugh out of you.

Two pairs of blue eyes turn to you, and Ástríðr wastes no time in calling out for you, squirming her way out of her father’s grasp and skipping towards you.

You kneel on the ground and welcome your daughter’s enthusiastic embrace, even if it was only this morning you last saw her.

“Did you defeat him, little one?” You ask her, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.

“Of course I did, mama.” She replies, almost offended. Of course, look whose daughter you’re asking about a victory in battle, imaginary or not.

You catch Ivar’s eyes and whatever intent you had on chastising him for leaving you to deal with the earl alone vanishes at the softness in his gaze at he looks at you both.

Not many know of Ivar the Boneless’ love. Even fewer know of his fear.

But there’s only a few lucky ones that have seen his happiness, his peace.

You two share a look, a look that speaks not only of gratefulness for one another, but of gratefulness for this perfect blend of the two of you, of your stubbornness and his drive, of his eyes and your hair.

Ivar betrays a small smile and his eyes go to the discarded wooden sword at his side.

“Oi, shieldmaiden!” He calls out, and Ástríðr turns to him without hesitation. “You never leave your weapon behind. It is the one thing, besides your mother and me, that you can trust blindly in this world.”

Ivar motions for the sword, and your daughter dutifully goes to pick it up, only to be ambushed on the way, Ivar’s eyes trapping her to his chest.

She is startled, and lets out a loud and adorable laugh as her father once again drops to the furs at his back, his smile blinding.

“You see? If you’d had your sword, no monster would have gotten you.”

Ástríðr grumbles an argument, but Ivar only snorts a laugh. His eyes lift to yours, and he lifts his hand, calling for the touch of yours, calling for you to join them.

You sigh, but still walk to them and stretch on the furs near the fire, accepting the embrace Ivar offers you when he lifts his free arm.

You nuzzle your nose against his throat, reaching with your hand and taming Ástríðr’s wild hair.

“Do you think one day I could defeat a dragon, like the warriors you tell me about?”

“Mhm, of course. You’ll be the most famous shieldmaiden who has ever lived.” He promises her, pressing a kiss against her hair, his arm tightening and trying to bring you closer even if it is impossible.

___

I struggled a lot writing this, I don’t really know why bc it was a lovely request. I tried my best :)

I hope you liked this, lovely anon! And I’m sorry it took me so long to get it done! I love you!!

[wlw-lovestruck-fiction]

Lavinia angst, possibly a first kiss.

Written by @evoedbd

Part 1

WARNINGS:

Minor Violence.

Mentions of Blood.

Minor Spoilers.

Somewhat OOC.

+++++++++++++++++++

Lavinia’s words haunted Lee, echoed across the darkness.  Tentative as her first step was, Lee seemingly found nothing to fear, no reason to believe her world would ever fall from beneath her. The black embodied so many things, all intrinsically understood.  They spoke to Lee, singing in a language she couldn’t recollect learning, at a pitch that her ears could not physically hear, yet it resonated within her chest. The mirror was cold, somehow rubbery, as if she were stepping onto a rug of silly putty.  Membrane across a throbbing answered by the heartbeat she guarded in her pocket.

Each step Lee took saw the maze fade, swept away like ink dropped into churning hot water. Floating like steam, the trees faded, swirling into the blackness surrounding.   The reflections cast upon the mirror almost called, a promise of safety if Lee would only turn and run for them.  A spiderweb there to catch her, should she fall.  Or perhaps ensnare her in their beauty, in the beauty uncertainty could offer. Stubborn, a solitary chance for escape.

Perhaps the spiderweb was what lingered within the crystal darkness. The Blackness, Lee noticed, did not lack for light.  It did not take the colour from what it reflected.  Merely… color did not exist within its depths.  A pure, clear darkness.  A backdrop to the world, despite it being the world Lee strode upon.  The centre of the mirror turned from black to frost, ice to a sorrowful field of snow.  Snow fell softly, seemingly without a source for not a cloud existed.  The flakes did not exist, and then they did, faster than a subconscious blink.  White flakes stark against the vibrant nothingness.

The falling snow formed an informal barrier, thicker to the edges. As thick as crushed ice from the freezer which fell like stones upon Lee’s unsuspecting body.   It blanketed her shoulders, falling upon them like the firm hands of some law enforcement.  A warden to a prisoner, a reticent threat that misbehaviour would be punished off the books.  The feeling sat heavy in Lee’s chest, even as the snow went from harsh to soft, from a vicious cry to silent tears against her tanned skin.  Malevolence returned to melancholy apathy.

The spiraling storm was tamed into strands of nacreous white, cascading down the strong expanse of lissom shoulders.  Even with such a willowy frame, Lavinia stood strong, too proud to let her body cave to the weakness within her heart.  The weight of her bulky cloak pulled on her, held around her shoulders only by the cage of Lavinia’s clasped hand, wrapped around her tender body as if it could conceal the youthful woman, could reinforce that this was a Queen standing tall within her court.  Could hide that the legend of destruction dared feel the melancholy of the pariahed existence she’d been deceitfully written into.

“Lavinia?” Lee pleaded gently, as if merely her words could destroy walls that had withstood sieges.  It seemed her plea was heeded, for Lavinia’s shoulders finally fell, caving a hairs width as the Queen heaved an almighty sigh.

“You should not have come here, little Lionstar.” Lavinia whispered.  Not that she need raise her voice.  The world had once more fallen quiet, leaving nothing save the Queen’s quiet voice to be heard.  Selfishly, Lee found herself grateful for the quiet, for she doubted her heart could have borne the weight of Lavinia’s tones had her voice been anything more. Regret tainted Lavinia’s tones, dragging the Queen to her knees without ever cowing her strong stance.  Lavinia did not need to move, not with the weight of her tones betraying her. Lee could hear the broken expression she knew she’d find upon Lavinia’s face as the Queen turned to her.

The burden of immortality pulled at Lavinia’s young features.  Features which had been young through too many wars.  A youth stolen yet aching to break free of the chains, the weight which continued to drag on her.  Even her almond shaped eyes, the sharpest aqua Lee had ever seen, seemed dulled under the shadows of her subtle brow, which had descended like stormclouds, darkened all the more by wisps of smoky eyeshadow and rebellious eyeliner.  As if makeup could contain the brewing storm.  It was a storm Lee had witnessed a thousand times, safe within the eye of such chaos, shielded from the worst of it even as Lavinia gushed warning after warning from full, crimson covered lips. Lips which were now so agonisingly downturned. Trembling like snow on the frail winds. Denied by the harsh set of her low sweeping jawline. Lavinia’s words of caution had always bled together in Lee’s ears, recklessly unheeded.  Now, Lee understood why her body refused to listen, to accept.  Nothing could have prepared Lee for what she saw.  The briefest flash of hope, a lightning strike, before the skies went dull.  The oceans froze.  The spark extinguished.

“You shouldn’t be here either.” Lee commented, keeping her voice as quiet as Lavinia’s had been.  At this, the Queen’s brow found some life, arching into a fine point as her lips twitched, a weak effort at one of her lazy smirks.

“Shouldn’t I be? Where else would I go that is safe from you?”

“Safe from me? Lavinia, we can work this out! I want-”

Before Lee could even comprehend the weight of Lavinia’s words, could complete her thought, Lavinia was there.  Stalking closer, voice that same terrifyingly piercing whisper, a croon as much as a mockery.

“Me?” Lavinia’s redundant question was met with a confirming silence.  Both women swallowed, staring at one another as if the other’s face might hold the answers they needed to such a potent question.  Lee’s silence was deafening.  The answer Lavinia sought and feared.  The answer Lee herself couldn’t understand enough to give. “Of course.” The Queen nodded, turning to begin a pensive pacing with the effortless grace of a wolf closing in on unsuspecting prey.

“It always comes back to me, doesn’t it? You’ve always wanted to be close to me. I’m what the star fallen to the earth truly wants.”

“What?” Lee breathed, denial on the tip of her tongue.  How Lavinia said those words. The sudden realisation dawning in her icy eyes, the raise in pitch, a note of wonder smothered beneath the derisive persona she aimed to keep so firmly in place. None of it sat well, in fact, every syllable saw Lee’s stomach tightening, a weight settling there. An uncomfortable stone she couldn’t dislodge, couldn’t ignore.  All she had was the potential of denial, yet a single look from the Ice Queen killed it in Lee’s throat.  Just what had Lavinia read from her eyes that had the Queen’s expression so… tormented?

“How do you want me, my little lion heart?” Lavinia seemed to beg behind her mockery, pleading the very fabric of reality for answers.

It was a flash, much like her hopes, a moment of indecision riding the undercurrents of care, and dare Lee think it, affection.  A rebellious little flicker of emotion that Lavinia crushed beneath the weight of whatever burdened her so.  A shift, something so very subtle yet impossible for Lee to ignore.  The Queen’s shoulders straightened, loosing the lazy slouch, posture as regal as the finest paintings depicted nobility.  She almost floated, every footsteps devouring the distance between her and Lee, much how the menacing slant of her lips promised Lee would find herself devoured if Lavinia’s hands landed on her.  A wolf stalking an injured fawn, letting the bleeding creature escape merely for the chance to continue the hunt.  The illusion of hope provided all for the predator to sweep away with an all too elegant sweep of crystalline talons.

“My weird, naive little book nerd? My star come to earth. What desire burns brighter than your senses? Who did you follow to this place where dreams fade to a nothingness to rival nightmares?” Lavinia queried scornfully, each nickname falling from her lips more potent than their potential affection.  They warred, even as they fell silken from her silver tongue, a clash of everything Lee had ever known of Lavinia laid out like a white carpet, only to be lost in the snows.  Lost in Lee’s growing discomfort.

“Stop.” Lee commanded, voice holding remarkably true despite how she staggered in the snow.  The Queen smirked at this, wicked amusement shattering the weight of her agony for a breath.  A breath stolen from Lee’s lungs as she righted herself.

“You’re acting strange, and for you that’s saying a lot.”

“Oh? Am I scaring you?” Lavinia’s ominous aura melted, warmed by an almost playful laugh low on a husky voice.  A tilt of her head, mirrored in a briefly uneven slant of her shoulders.  That same shift, the one that haunted Lee’s dreams.  The girl who played with matches in place of Winter’s chill.  How many people saw this?  How many understood what they saw in such a little gesture?  How many would give up their chance to put distance between themselves and the hunter to heed such a thing?  How many could ignore the chill of an icy wall against their shoulders, mixed with the heat of Lavinia’s breath against their cheeks in their moment of admiration?

“Has the cowardice infecting your heart returned so suddenly?”

Had it?  Lee trembled before the mystical being, trapped against a wall of ice by the mere risk of touching the Queen. Lee could break away, she could press into that unspoken space between them, challenge their roles… but she couldn’t.  Her body wouldn’t obey, her lungs wouldn’t take the air she desperately craved for fear her swelling breast might brush those iced furs.  That she might challenge and win, might drive her Queen away.  When had air become more sacrificial than Lavinia?   The fear claiming her breath was not healthy.  This wasn’t healthy.  To be so scared to lose somebody that she chose to stifle her breath.  She couldn’t do this, couldn’t let Lavinia bully her. She blinked, preparing to reclaim the space she’d forsaken, only to catch a movement in the corner of her gaze. The Rebel Queen’s hand rose, extended towards Lee’s cheek for the briefest of moments before she froze.  Winter in the Queen’s veins held her captive, the clarity of her vision disrupted by the gasp of the star within her snare.  Once more, the monarch seemed to have found herself at odds, fingers curling on air less she foolishly offer affection.  Less she reach for the warmth of a tanned cheek, or the softness of sun bleached curls. She swallowed; a gesture which looked as painful as forcing knives down the exposed column of her pale throat.

“I thought you had grown beyond that.” Nothing could have hidden the note of melancholy within Lavinia’s voice.  Not her attempts at a sneer, not the chill of her magic touching where her hand dared not.  Once more, her magic picked at Lee, little rodent claws tugging on the girl’s flesh.  Punishing Lee for Lavinia’s hesitance.  The girl bristled, brows furrowing as she inspected Lavinia’s face, close enough she could see the snowflakes powered in the Queen’s lashes.

“You don’t get to punish me because you’re scared.  You’re the one who ran away.” She gently challenged; caution lost to the rise of heat in her chest.  Her heart thumped rebelliously, warming her to the tips of her fingers.  Lee averted her gaze, not for fear of Lavinia’s, but to the Queen’s hand.  A hand still raised, curled into that image of forlorn restraint.  A hand that struck out, accompanied by nothing more but a harsh breath, nails biting into the ice beside Lee’s head, shattering the wall so violently that Lee staggered.  The human winced as she came down amidst the rubble, back bent across the misshapen bricks, knees caught over the rise.  It was then the Queen dared touch, the wrath of winter empowering her as those icy talons sunk through the material of Lee’s tie, through her shirt.  The Queen hauled Lee from her feet, effortlessly holding the shorter girl aloft in the grasp of her plagued vehemence.  

“You dare speak to me this way? As if you know me oh so well? Do you even know who it is you have chased to this place?”

There it was.  The lava beneath the icy surface.  Lee could only stare, trying to decipher the snarling beast before her. The violence of the gesture should have frightened Lee.  Should have had the girl scrambling in panic within the monster’s grasp.  Grovelling for her life.  Yet, Lavinia’s tone was so level, a practiced tune disguised in vicious resplendence.  Her intent was intimidation, yet her hand was so steady, the brush of her knuckles against Lee’s collar so cautious.  How could a monster hold such caution, have such awareness to disguise that caution?  Swallowing, Lee knew the answer.  It couldn’t.  That meant this was Lavinia, not some creature replacing her.  However far removed from the nihilist rebel, this was Lavinia.  This beast did not need to be deciphered, for Lee already knew her.  Lee held her heart, she had for nearly 18 years.  A heart that had been broken, raped and violated by betrayals of lust and logic.  A heart kept in pieces by worlds conspiring… a heart that rebelled against the chance that it might be loved in return.   Lavinia had to prove herself the monster.  She had to prove she could hurt Lee, that she could kill Lee.  She had to be strong enough, to drive everyone away, keep them out and away from the chasm her heart had left… But she couldn’t let Lee get away.  Couldn’t let the girl go, couldn’t keep her close, couldn’t love but couldn’t stop her heart’s betrayal within her own torn chest.  She was burning the possibility of a relationship at the stake, assassinating the goodwill between them, anything to keep Lee’s hands from her soul… all the while putting her soul in Lee’s waiting hands.  She was doing what she always did when her wounds were laid bare, lashing out, defending by driving all those nearby away.  Then she would never be hurt again, or worse, come to depend on another.   She wanted Lee to run, wanted Lee to be terrified of her… Lee refused to rise to the bait, choosing to speak soothingly, to gently lay her hand over Lavinia’s.

“You’re acting as if you’re two different people, Lavinia.”

Lavinia’s eyes widened, realising what she had done, what her explosiveness had almost cost her.  She’d almost failed to succeed, yet succeeded to fail.  It was Lavinia’s turn to tremble, to freeze and think, to process what this foolish girl within her grasp was doing.  It was so typical of Lee, to respond to cruelty with determined kindness, to risk herself to see Lavinia’s heart defrost.  Even a few droplets from the ice encasing her seemed worth everything to Lee, the foolish girl, the star fallen to earth.  The girl who tasted of magic and mortality, without ever having been beneath Lavinia’s tongue.  The girl who changed the very air around her, who accepted and welcomed Lavinia, who actively sought the lonely monarch out.  Lee was… too good.  Too pure.  Yet, she fell from grace to shine into Lavinia’s torment.  Sacrificed for the damned.  Once, Lavinia had believed that because Lee was unable to see the damnation.  Now, she fearfully suspected Lee saw her darnation better than any mortal ever had.  Saw it, considered it, then chose to ignore it.    Lavinia couldn’t make her see, couldn’t drive this fool away, even as she threatened to tear her open.  Even as she threatened life and limb.  Oh, what crimes had she committed to earn the loyalty of such a beautiful soul?  What had she done to deserve the torment of destroying the star laying herself in winter’s palms?

Quietly, Lavinia placed Lee back upon her feet, smoothed her tie down as best she could, wilfully ignoring the fuzzy bloom of icy magic across the bars of navy, white and red.  Lee followed suit, forcing her gaze to remain on Lavinia’s, to ignore the reflection of magic across Lavinia’s revealing eyes.

“So, who is it you want, Lee?” Lavinia’s question was accompanied by the gentlest of winds. As if made of powder, her illustrious gown fell away, delicately crumbling to reveal the rebellious image Lee was so familiar with. Her breath caught in her chest, bubbling into a stuttered sigh in her tightened throat. The familiar figure still existed, still fought for some prominence in the picture. The relaxed nihilist. The rebel. The Lavinia of Whitehorn.

This Lavinia was so flowing, so free within the confinements she rebelled against. The crisp lines of a dark blazer somehow accentuated the slope of her shoulders, uneven due to a lazy half slouch. Ever the rebel, the blazer’s sleeves didn’t cover finely veined forearms, scrunched subtly at the elbows, leaving the jangling armor of a dozen fine bangles protecting Lavinia’s left forearm. A hand tucked into the pocket of dark blue shorts; waistband half concealed by a partially untucked university t-shirt. White and green, hopeful and bright amidst the dark shades whilst remaining complimentary. The lower one eyes wondered, the more tattered cloth they could find, with torn fishnets on proud display, leading right to decorative combat boots. White, with the most elegant, elaborate swirls of dark greys and blacks forming the gothic flowers.

“Is it the mysterious girl in the hallways? A stray creature to be tamed? The girl who will share stories with you? The cliche romanticism of the rebel only the good girl can draw a smile from? The bad girl you can redeem?”

Lavinia moved as if nothing could contain her, relaxed ease as she began to circle. Lee didn’t dare turn her head to follow, not with Lavinia’s words washing over her. Not with the lazy brushes of touch. A shoulder skimming hers, the soft jangle along with the gentle sting of cool metal against burning flesh, a lazy hand across her back, teasing at the ends of her wild hair. A suggestive finger running the length of Lee’s blazer pocket. Subtle touches given by a creature who cared not who watched her commit such acts. Lee could only follow with her eyes, turning her head only to hear the Queen’s soft musings. The rare occasions Lavinia came into Lee’s view inspired hope. The Rebel’s face was relaxed, lips in that unaffected, not quite a smile she so often gifted Lee. Those cusps of vulnerability that could grow if only Lavinia cared enough to let them.

“Do you want to save me?”

“Lavinia…” Lee sighed, closing her eyes as Lavinia’s hand touched her shoulder, her hand wondering dangerously close to Lee’s throat, her hip brushing into the small of Lee’s back. Lee had to clench her teeth, momentarily breathe to centre herself. Why was every goddamn fairy-tale, magical being so fixated on this goddamn saviour complex? All this, she can never have her heart back, and beware the wicked Queen, who constantly was trying to warn Lee away. Beware the big bad wolf, less his broody pout and gorgeous eyes rip your throat out. Cautious be thee about the Darkwood Witches, less you turn to a toad. Praise be Prince Charming, maidens beware, less his extreme levels of gay leave your hearts broken and your brothers never the same. Truthfully, Lee was so damn tired about it all. The dehumanisation even the magical beings themselves engaged in towards themselves. How people kept casting rolls of hero and villain. What was wrong with wanting to restore Lavinia’s heart and hold the woman close, instead of trying to hurt her? What was wrong with wanting coffee with Ezra, or laughing at how Lucas flustered her brother? What was wrong with wanting to save her friends? To love them as people, not archetypes.

“Or is it the Ice Queen? The cold beauty of Winter?” It took Lavinia’s sneer to break Lee from her musings. She was aware of a soft pressure against the back of her neck that roused her, a thumb just beneath the hairline that promised to soothe all the tension. Something that left Lee pliant.

In an unsteady blink, that thumb slid from neck to jugular, teasing over Lee’s hammering pulse as icy talons dug into her tender flesh. The Queen’s fingers spread, stretched to encompass the hinge of Lee’s jaw, claws drawing blood to the surface just as the Queen’s thumb had. A soft hiss escaped Lee, melting into a confused whimper as Lavinia’s grip tightened, as her thumb brushed the length of Lee’s jaw to rest under her chin. Lee was helpless, pulled back into the Queen’s mass by a second hand curled over her ribcage. With the wall of Lavinia’s body curled around her back, Lee could only surrender to the threat, let herself swoon into Lavinia’s hold to avoid those lethal claws. The warmth of Lavinia’s palm against her throat helped sooth the ache of bending her head back. She swallowed, realising all too swiftly the level of danger she was in. She understood now why Lavinia’s hand was light and relaxed, following the movement of Lee’s stuttered breaths. Lavinia didn’t need to use force. Not when her nails were hypodermic needles poised to turn into knives if Lee moved even an inch out of place. Not when a single unexpected move would have those claws claiming her lifeblood. They’d see her drained, staining the snow, falling to her knees at Lavinia’s feet as nothing more than a corpse. A distraction removed. Even the act of breathing felt tight in her chest; every breath threatening to push her lungs into those talons. Just as every erratic beat of her pulse pushed her skin further onto those sharp fingers, a string beneath a musician’s bow, vibrating and throbbing. Each thump of her pulse against those claws had a droplet of blood weeping through. Every beat after only felt as if daring those icy points deeper as it leapt to greet them. She knew her skin must be blanched beneath the pressure of Lavinia’s grasp, that soon the droplets of blood gathering would begin to trickle down her jaw, if they didn’t freeze. Yet, she didn’t panic. She refused to. But stars above, was it torture to hold herself so still in the cage of Lavinia’s potentially deadly grasp.

“The villainous thief of the young and jaded? She who took a kingdom, who turned the desert to tundra at a whim? I took a kingdom from Greed! I carved myself a destiny greater than any dared imagine! Men tremble at the whisper of my name; my title ensnares even the boldest heart. Tell me, Lee, could you endure hearing the tales of my darkest deeds? Could you stomach what I did to those who stole my innocence? To those who betrayed me?” Lavinia punctuated her question with a subtle squeeze, tightening her fingers over the bone of Lee’s jaw. Forcing the girl to look directly into her eyes.

“You’re scaring me.” Lee whispered. A confession torn from her with another squeeze. Nobility sharpened Lavinia’s features; Lee noticed. As if the tightened muscles of her jaw concealed the blunter angles, drawing attention to her pert nose. A nose which drew a little closer to Lee’s, bringing Lavinia’s lips almost to the girl’s cheeks as she spoke.

“You should be afraid. The story I shared is truth. I could freeze you so suddenly your body would continue to walk, unbeknownst your life was mine.”

Oh. Lee believed it. With the look in Lavinia’s eyes, Lee couldn’t do anything but believe every word, every syllable, with every fibre of her being.

The magic within Lavinia seemed to cause her to glow, bringing an intensity to her eyes that left Lee speechless. They were alive. Hungry and devouring, promising a million things, not a single one that the victim of such a gaze would live to speak of. What use were unimaginable pleasures to the dead, afterall? More terrifyingly, such a gaze could make one want to be that corpse for a chance to see the emptiness hiding in the shadows filled. To see what softness might appear in a moment sated. What was missing, Lee saw, was the quiet of remorse. The quiet longing. The Queen’s eyes were so loud, so active in their emotions, providing not a single one was beyond the moment. A creature of whim, only, Lavinia had a mind that planned across decades.

Lee believed. She believed everything Lavinia had told her. Everything the Queen had tried to explain. It thrummed beneath her skin, spilling over onto the points of Lavinia’s summoned claws. Claws which, despite the ease at which they could tear her apart, had only touched. Only scraped at her ribs instead of digging in. Magic, which had turned a maze into horrors, that only moved to intimidate. Lee believed Lavinia when she claimed herself dangerous, but there was something Lee believed in more than threats.

“But you won’t.”

“Won’t I?” The Queen laughed. This was a different laugh. This one was not for Lee’s antics, not to mock or play a role. This laugh seemed heavier, burdened. A laugh for her own foolishness. A laugh at her own expense.

“I do not command my magic as others do. It yearns to reclaim what was stolen. I long for my heart to be complete again, Lee, and your very life prevents that. I should not care for it as I do...”

Heat burned through Lee, white hot in her chest as she threw herself to the wolves.  Furiously, she turned in Lavinia’s grasp, scarcely registering how swiftly Lavinia’s hands reared back from her in favor of delivering her defence in the most scotching tone.

“That doesn’t make you evil, Lavinia! You...”

“I’m… what?” Lavinia’s intensity drove the air from Lee’s lungs.  A single whispered question, caressed between downturned lips was enough to fill a void.  To still Lee’s very heart for a painful second, before it began to race.  What could she do with this?  The intensity in Lavinia’s pale blue eyes, the almost white gleam of her hair framing an expression of perfect longing.

“Am I the girl you’re so invested in saving, or the Queen you must flee lest she reclaim her heart at the cost of yours?”

It was a question delivered so softly one might mistake it for freshly falling snow.  No magical flares or grand gestures.  Even Lavinia’s voice held nothing save her trembling.  Trembling she couldn’t let reach her body, even as she reaches out to brush a few erratic strands of hair from Lee’s face.  A simple, quiet gesture, no theatrics accompanying her final plea.

“Tell me.  Who do you see?”