#But there are shades of black. There are more and less deaths to face

[95wonder]

Happy disability pride month!

If you argue that people shouldn't vote this year you should just tell me to my face that you want me to die.

  Maybe you’re young, and you think this doesn’t affect you. But, it will affect your parents, or your grandparents.   And, remember, if Republicans kill these programs, the dollars you pay in – that are/have been withheld from your paycheck – you will never get back.

[bitterrfruit]

iron tide [1]

fisherman price x reader cw: noncon undressing/bathing, dubcon touching. 11k words. 18+ mdni the crew aboard a deep-sea crabbing vessel rescue a woman adrift in the north sea. you wake up on a boat surrounded by men you don't know, with no memory of where you came from. or: john price rescues you from certain death and decides that you belong to him [masterlist]

Jonathan had long forsaken his godliness; but if he were to deify anything, it would be the Sea. 

Great big blue, infinitely vast and infinitely deep. She was sweet when she was still, gentle, little ebbs like kisses against the barnacled hull — formidable when she was angry, titanic swells like mountains that crashed and shattered and sucked irreverent men down into the depths of her. 

She took as much as she gave, demanded sacrifices for her gifts. Stole his father when he was a boy, swept off the deck of his ship by a rancorous wave and cast out into the expanse before she inevitably swallowed him. But what she purloined she returned in abundance — a cornucopia of life; fish, lobsters, molluscs — and enough crabs for John to make his living for the better part of his life once he retired from the Navy. 

In more recent years, though, he had begun to lose faith in her, too. 

The seas were violent and only getting rougher, warmer when they needed to be cold to let the crabs get meatier, colder when they needed to be warm so they could replenish their numbers. 

A burgeoning resentment had rooted in his crew like a spreading cancer, minute at first but steadily swelling — every year they were paid a little less and damaged a little more, and who else was there to blame but their skipper? 

Wrong spot, wrong depth, wrong time of year; he seemed to keep getting it wrong, despite decades and decades of seafare. As though the Sea was punishing him, as though he had taken too much — only a matter of time before it was his turn to give. 

She made known her spite as he leaned over the paint-chipped railing of the deck-facing balcony, watching his crew haul in pot after pot from the raging ocean. Each cage more vacant than the last, the crabs smaller than he had come to expect from the once generous North Sea, soft brown shells where they should have been thick, ochre red, and thorny. Half of them too small to keep, so were begrudgingly tossed back into the deep.

The sun had set not ten minutes prior, hidden by black cloud and dense fog, the sea and sky smudged into a uniform shade of gloaming blue. The waves were tempestuous, whitecaps high and valleys low — the Iron Tide was a resilient girl, and she carved through the bulk of the swells, but even she could not avoid the plummets and climbs of an ocean this rough. He felt the mist of the cracking waves on his cheeks, the wind blistering cold and forcing him to squint. 

As the Captain he had outgrown the need to get his hands dirty, he could stay in the comfort of the wheelhouse if he wished — but he still liked to venture down to the deck to pull ropes and haul pots when he could, if only to show his crew how it was properly done. He liked to ensure his callouses stayed thick and his mettle hadn’t turned soft. 

“This’s a fucken’ suicide set, captain!” Roared Johnny from the deck, work-worn voice barely audible over the bellows of the waves on the hull. Lead deckhand with the attitude of a first mate. 

The first mate himself, Simon, had begun ascending the rusty steel stairs with an uncharacteristic urgency, the hood of his fluorescent orange jacket around his shoulders, kept there by the wind. 

“How many ‘ve we got?” John asked him, jaundiced, having to shout over the gale. 

“Thirty-two,” Simon said rigidly, “from twenty pots.” 

“Fuck’s sake,” John grunted, aggravated, smacking the rail with his palm. He cynically observed the next pot as it was hauled up, even emptier than the last one, and he made up his mind. “Alright, set ‘em back.”

“They’ve been soaking for twenty-four hours,” Simon disputed, but the pith of his irritation resided in the knowledge of how much labour had already been wasted. It was an inexorable fact, though — there was little point in retrieving them now, as empty as they were. 

“It’s a waste of time to haul them all,” John barked. “What have we got, seventy to go? Set them back.” 

Simon rubbed the bridge of his nose with a thumb, exasperated. “Alright.” 

He echoed the Captain’s command in a roar down the stairs, deckhands looking up to listen before they obeyed — John watched, disenchanted, as they began launching the string of pots over the side of the deck one by one, throwing loops of yellow nylon rope and the bright red marker buoys out to follow them. 

It was easy for John to fall into a sour mood, and after the abysmal stew Nikolai had thrown together for their supper, his fuse was cut even shorter. Seemed the Russian mechanic’s turn to cook always landed on the harshest nights, left everyone crotchety and indolent. 

He needed nicotine. 

He made his way back to the helm with a crease in his brow and his jaw in knots. The bolted windows spanning the length of the bridge were near impossible to see through, the battering of sea spray distorting the view of the dark ocean that extended unendingly past the bow. He glared out into the abyss for a beat, stoically watching the black waves, wondering what next the Sea would punish him with. 

A blink of red pierced through the mist. 

He almost ignored it, at first, rubbing his forehead as he twisted his spinning chair behind the helm — until it was there, again; a pin-prick of bright carmine, cutting through the blue sea fog and disappearing behind a wave. 

Frowning as he leaned into the radar screen, his eyes scoured over the bright blue disk and immediately caught on a tiny yellow blip. Due north, twenty degrees west. It was faint, flickering every odd moment, and he stared at it vigilantly — a spot he would normally dismiss as sea clutter, if not for the blinking light he thought he saw on the horizon. 

He reeled down the window by the seat and stuck his head out into the winds, squinting through the spray — at the top of a crest shone the little red light, blinking at half-second intervals, clear as day. 

The realisation rinsed him colder than seawater. 

A lifeboat. 

He snatched the intercom radio from its hook by the wheel and held it to his lips. 

“All hands—” He barked, “Secure the deck. Got a lifeboat up ahead. Prepare for rescue.” 

Simon’s crackling voice quickly came back through the radio, from the call point on the deck. “D’you say a lifeboat?” 

“That’s what I said.” 

“Roger.” 

John could hear the yelling on deck from the wheelhouse, all that fervour frothing up at the prospect of an emergency; a new challenge. He immediately spun the wheel to adjust the rudder, steering the boat in the direction of the blip on the radar. Gently pushed the throttle to catch up and felt the roaring engine quake through the boat, the sharp bow of his ship cut through the swells like a fist through a wall. 

“See it,” Simon called through the intercom. 

“What’ve we got?” 

“Life raft.” 

He tugged the throttle lever back to halt the boat on approach, aligning the vessel so that the lifeboat was portside, knuckles white on the wheel. He set the engine to hold station before marching out to the deck, bracing for the wind as he hurried across the steel balcony and down the ladder, knurled steel stairs clanging loudly with every thud of his boots. 

“Any survivors onboard?” John shouted, joining his crew where they peered over the railing, as another wave cascaded over the gunwale, greenwater flooding the deck before gushing out of the scuppers. 

There it was, neon orange and climbing up a steep swell. Hardly a lifeboat — an inflatable raft, little red light blinking atop a rounded corner. From the deck he could tell it was ancient, the bright skin of the raft peeling and blistering, exposing the ballooning black rubber within that kept it afloat. Modern regulations demanded modern lifeboats — fully enclosed boats with their own motors, search and rescue transponders equipped. He struggled to imagine the kind of vessel the raft had even come from; certainly not a cruise ship, or any legally operating fishing or passenger boat. 

“Only one,” Alex answered, yelling over the roar of the ocean. 

Nik let out a grunt, dismissing it all with a sweep of his hand. “That woman is dead.” 

John squinted at the raft, and quickly determined that Nikolai wasn’t unreasonable for thinking so.

The woman aboard the raft lay face down in the orange bed, bare-footed, nothing on but a saturated ivory dress that clung to her skin like glue. Sodden hair webbed across her back, tresses floating in the inch of water that filled the basin of the boat. 

Even if she were a corpse already, though, he wasn’t going to let the Sea digest her unchallenged. 

“Alright,” he declared, chewing on his plan before he uttered it. “I’ll strap on the lifeline, jump in and grab her, then you lot can reel me back in.” 

The disputes were quick to gush from his crew, all cursing and shaking heads. 

“Get fucked,” Alex scoffed, appaled, “skipper jumping overboard? What world are you living in?”

“You gonna do it, then, Keller?” John retorted, lips in a line. 

“I can,” Soap yelled, already shucking off his heavy jacket. Daredevil that he was.

John gritted his teeth. Wasn’t sold on the risk of losing his lead deckhand; but as he considered it, he would never be prepared to risk losing any of them. 

“You sure?” 

“Ah’m the best swimmer,” he boasted through a grin, now down to his thermals, shoulders raised in the cold and rubbing his hands together. 

“Good man,” John nodded approvingly, and the crew quickly went to work strapping him in — hooked the harness over his shoulders and secured it in the front, fed the end of the long blue rope into the winch so he could be retrieved after the catch. 

Came the thudding of boots on the deck, running towards the commotion; “Fuck’s going on? Why’s the engine idle?”

Kyle, the ship’s engineer, finally emerging from the engine room with a smudge of gear oil on his cheek. Must have had his earbuds in when the Captain issued the all hands directive. 

John let out a huff, not prepared to give a long justification to the designated safety officer, conscientious as he was.

“Oh shit—” Gaz chirped, discovering on his own the gravity of the situation, as he glanced over the railing and spotted the raft. “Is she alive?”

“We’re about t’find out,” Soap said keenly, bouncing on the balls of his feet to warm himself up. 

“You’re jumping in?” Gaz balked, “That’s — you’re fuckin’ mental.”

John let out a sharp huff. He didn’t disagree, but he thought it counterproductive to express any reluctance. “Got a better idea, lad?” 

Gaz sighed anxiously as he clutched the guardrail, head hanging from his shoulders. He knew as well as John that this was the only option — it was that, or leave the woman adrift in the ocean to die, if she weren’t already. 

John held fast to his pragmatism, but his morals were unyielding. Nobody gets left behind. 

Men took turns giving Johnny good luck pats on the back as he climbed over the railing. He hung off the other side like a monkey with his fist around the bar, looking down into the furious ocean and taking an anticipatory breath. 

The crew watched raptly and let loose a strident cheer as he launched off, diving into the waves with knife-pointed arms and sinking out of sight. Nik remained steadfast by the hydraulic winch, ready to set it off at any indication of either success or failure. 

Soap reemerged from the water with a visible gasp ten-odd metres out, breaking through the white foam and powering ahead in a freestyle stroke. He reached the raft quickly, and climbed aboard like a wet dog, hauling himself up over the ballooning sides and almost pulling it under the water with him. He kneeled beside the woman once he was in, pulling her by the shoulder to assess her — he gave no indication to the crew as to her status before he hoisted her up and held her tight to his chest, arms hooked under hers so that she wore him like a backpack.

He pushed himself back into the water with an eager holler; “Got ‘er!”

Nik immediately pulled the lever on the winch and it zipped loudly as it began spinning, winding up the rope and hauling Johnny through the swelling sea. The crane arm of the davit extended far enough beyond the gunwale that he didn’t slam into the hull on his ascent, and he clung to the limp woman for dear life — John and his deckhands leaned as far over the railing as they could without toppling overboard, hooking the rope that suspended the swimmer and heaving he and his cargo onboard. 

Soap coughed out a splatter of seawater as he gingerly lay the woman on her back, before rolling over and wiping down his face, dripping wet.

“Found yerself a mermaid, cap,” he sputtered, sniffing and shivering violently as he pushed himself to stand. 

“Nicely fuckin’ done, Soap,” Alex lauded, smacking him on the back and earning a screech from the Scotsman. 

“‘S too cold,” he bit, grabbing at his genitals through his sodden thermals. “Ma fucken’ balls are gone.” 

“Go in and get dry,” the Captain barked, as he hurriedly crouched beside the woman, sweeping locks of drenched hair from where it stuck to her face. 

“Jesus,” Gaz muttered concernedly. 

Her skin was bitterly cold, but soft on her cheeks; some indication that resuscitation might have been possible, that her skin wasn’t as stiff and waxy as corpse skin would have been. Eyes were lightly shut, her thick lashes clumped together by seawater. He used a gentle thumb to lift up an eyelid, and her pupils were nice and black — blown out, but not clouded over. Laces of capillaries meshed through her white scleras. Blood still bright red.

“How’s she looking?” Alex asked, crouching beside John, pessimism in his throat. 

“She’s frigid,” John said grimly.

“Could be hypothermic,” Gaz said from behind him, worry leaden in every word. “That water is barely higher than zero.” 

“Mh,” John grunted in agreement, hastily pressing the palps of his fingers under her jaw into a spongy jugular, held there for a few seconds — no pulse. “We’ll worry about warmin’ her up once we get her breathing.” 

He leaned back and interlaced his fingers, laying his hands knuckles down between her breasts. Pushed his weight into her sternum with a hard shove and her ribs sunk underneath him, bouncing back up when he released the pressure. Repeat. Over, and over, grunting with each desperate compression.

The heaving bodies of five men caging her kept the bulk of the angry waves from dousing her, the spray crashed over John’s back and dripped from him, beads landing on her body. Solemn silence hung heavy between them, as though fearful that expressing any hope would condemn her to certain death. Simon clutched John’s shoulder, grip encouraging. 

He counted his compressions until he reached thirty, before he urgently keeled forward and pressed his mouth to her cold lips, pinching her nose and lifting her chin — pumped air from his lungs into hers with a forceful breath, then another, then another. Her chest rose as it filled up with his air, sunk again as he let it seep out from behind her teeth. 

Returned to compressions. Push. Push. Push. He pressed so hard into her sternum that her ribs threatened to snap under the weight of him, but they were rubbery enough to withstand it. 

Continued the next round until he reached twenty-one — when water began to rise up her throat, sloshing about in her open mouth and trickling out of its corners. He urgently halted his compressions to flip her onto her side and tip out the brine, hammering into the midline of her back with an open palm. 

“C’mon, love,” John growled, teeth gritting. “Cough it up for me.” 

As though she had heard him, a gurgle eked from her throat, torso retching as an eruption of water gushed out of her mouth and sprayed over the deck. A few weak coughs followed the first, and she shuddered — the men roared in shock and celebration as John returned her to her back. 

Her eyes fluttered open for less than a second, shrinking pupils fixed on John for a heartbeat — wet, glittering under the beaming of the deck lights, carving straight through him and taking root in the marrow of his skull. Vacant and yet swollen, the glow of life anew, as though glaring right into the heavens — and with a little sigh, they feathered shut again. 

He held a hand to her cheek, gave her head a soft shake; prepared to continue the chest compressions, but as he curled forward and held his ear to her lips, he felt her breathing, shaky and weak against the cartilage shell. 

“She breathin’?” Simon asked bluntly, laden with apprehension. 

“Yeah,” John huffed, relief potent as liquor flooded hot into his chest and made his temples throb. 

“Good shit, cap’n,” Alex commended, releasing a puff of pent air, just as relieved as the lot of them. 

John nodded dismissively, hands on his knees, before he pushed himself to stand. He stood over the girl and hoisted her up with his hands under her arms, before delicately draping her over his shoulder.

“Gaz, help me with her, will you?” He grunted, before marching toward the stairs up to the superstructure. “You three — fun’s over. Get back to setting the pots. I’ll send Soap back out once he’s in his dries.”

“Aye aye,” Alex said facetiously, shaking out his hands as he and the others returned to the stack they had just tied down. 

“What’s the plan?” Kyle asked stiffly, in quick pursuit as John steamed up the stairs. 

“Gotta get her warm,” John said. 

“Yeah—” he agreed with a hesitant tone, “what d’you want me for?”

John’s eyes rolled into his skull. “You did a couple years of health science, didn’t you?” 

“One year,” Kyle corrected. 

John could have said that he wanted Gaz specifically because he was the ship’s assigned safety officer, or because he was the only man aboard with a university degree. But, in truth, he wanted him simply for the fact he was the least likely of all of his crewmen to make stripping the girl into something needlessly lascivious. 

He carted her to the head in steady stride, passing Johnny through the narrow corridor as he dried himself off with a towel around his neck. 

“She’s alive?” He asked hopefully. 

“Uh-huh,” John rumbled. 

Soap triple-smacked the veneer panel of the wall with a flat hand in excitement, all but bouncing off the ceiling with it. “Halle-fucken’-lujah! Need help warmin’ her up?” 

“No. Get your skins on and head back out to deck, Johnny, y’got more pots to drop.” 

Johnny groaned like a teenager, but he went off as he was told.

The head was small — enough room for a toilet, a shower, and a three-inch wide sink, not quite the floorspace to lay her down gracefully. John tore back the curtain and propped her up against the wall of the shower, nestling her into the corner so her head leaned against the perpendicular wall. 

No sense in wasting time. He clinically peeled the sodden fabric of her white dress up her thighs, lifting her limp leg to tug the skirt out from under her. 

“Christ—” Gaz grumbled, disquieted, he turned away. 

“Will y’hold her arms up for me?” John monotonously requested, uninterested in the boy’s reservations. 

Gaz sighed as he obeyed the order, taking her cold hands by the wrists and holding them above her head. John hiked up her dress without reservation, revealing the saturated bra and underwear she wore underneath, as he lifted it her arms up above her head. 

“This’s fucked up,” Gaz mumbled. 

“What is.” 

“Taking her clothes off,” he said, reluctance poignant. 

“You’d rather we let her freeze to death, eh?” John bit, not even dignifying the engineer’s aversion by turning to look at him. 

He tugged her flaccid body towards him, and her head fell against his shoulder — he reached under her arm into the space between her back and the shower wall, unclasping her bra with a single hand. 

“No,” Kyle acquiesced. “Do we really need to take off her underwear, though?”

“She’s not gonna get warm in wet knickers, is she,” John grumbled, frustration blossoming, releasing it in a sharp sigh. “Y’need to grow up, Garrick. Go and grab my jersey and a towel from the laundry, then.”

“Okay. Sure, yeah,” he agreed, marching out of the head like he might trip over in his haste. 

John bit down on nothing as he pulled the straps of the girl’s bra down her arms, adding it to the pile atop her drenched dress. Didn’t help that she was a lovely thing — pudding-soft curves, pretty little face — might lend an explanation to the young engineer’s discomfort, couldn’t reconcile the attraction he felt to a near-dead woman while she was incognisant of her nudity. 

John did not care, he had no qualms. 

A pragmatist, through and through. He felt no shame for admiring her as he leaned her back against the laminate wall, nipples grey-purple and hard as pebbles by virtue of her palpable hypothermia. Soft lips were slack, not as blue as they had been when she was fished out of the ocean, now that her blood was pumping again. 

He wasted no time ogling her, though, he was no reprobate. His only priority was getting her warm and awake. And that happened to involve hooking his fingers into the waistband of her knickers, saturated in seawater and cleaving fast to her skin. 

He hooked an arm around her to lift her from the shower floor, used the other hand to tug her underwear over the swell of her bottom before he set her back down to reel them down her thighs. 

Pretty cunt, too. Unshaven, how he liked them. 

He reached up for the shower head, held it in a fist as he switched on the water. Already nice and warm, preheated by the engine-powered calorifiers. He held the stream of warm water over her chest, watching as it cascaded over her breasts and flooded between her thighs. Didn’t care if he got himself wet in so doing. Checked her pulse every odd moment with the pad of a finger on her wrist, ensured her chest continued to rise and fall. 

Rubbed his free hand over her skin to scrub off all the salt; started modestly with her arms, shoulders, back — but was unhesitant in rinsing and scrubbing her armpits, down her belly, between her legs. Didn’t touch her pussy, though, even John felt that was a step too far. He simply rinsed it. Let the water run over her mons and channel down the cleft of her unaided. 

He tilted her head back and ran the warm stream over her hairline, careful not to let too much water pour down her face. He combed thick fingers through the tresses, scrunching her hair into a ball to wring out the brine before rinsing it out again. 

As he carded his fingers through her scalp, though, he felt a lump; just above her hairline, concealed by the locks. A squishy protrusion from the skull, with a frayed ridge through the centre of it. Only then did he see the diluted blood in the water that puddled at the bottom of the shower, originating from the ends of her saturated hair. 

Add that to the list of ailments, he thought. Poor wee girl. They’d need to tend to that. 

Kyle finally returned with a cautious knock on the door, a single knuckle. 

“D’you fall overboard, Garrick?” John murmured — he had been gone far longer than it should have taken to find the items he requested. 

“Sorry,” he said. “Couldn’t figure out which fleece was yours.” 

John said nothing. 

“She warming up yet?” Gaz asked tightly, likely not even looking in the direction of the shower, now that she was entirely nude. 

The girl’s skin was now plush and pink under the heat of the water, and felt warm to the touch under the back of John’s hand; so with a satisfied nod he shut off the water and hooked the showerhead back into its fastening. 

He reached backward with a gesturing hand, and Gaz handed him the crisp towel he had brought from the laundry without a word. 

“Looks like she got hit in the head,” John commented, as he draped the towel over the girl's front, rubbing her down to get her dry. Arms, shoulders, armpits, thighs, feet. He was thorough. 

“Shit,” Gaz said morosely, half-hearted. Soft young man, soft in a way John was almost envious of. Sometimes he wondered if he had grown too rough around the edges, too abrasive for his own good. “What the fuck happened to ‘er?” 

“Not a clue,” John said. “Nothing good.” 

“That life raft was — that was non-standard,” Gaz pondered aloud. 

“Thought the same thing,” John replied, as he scrunched her hair in the towel, twisting it up to wring out the water. He was careful with the top of her head — dabbing her scalp gently, leaving dark red smears in the blue fibres. 

“Ferry capsized, maybe?” 

“We would’ve heard about a ship capsizing nearby,” John said. “‘Specially a passenger vessel. They’d have blasted the distress call out in every direction.” 

“Mh,” Gaz agreed. 

“She had no shoes on,” John remarked, tone sombre. “No gear, no jacket.” 

“Running away from something?” asked Gaz, picking up what John might have been suggesting. 

“Maybe,” John said, before hanging the towel around her back and hauling her up from the floor with an arm around her ribs. 

He hung her floppy arms over his shoulder, kept her body tight to him, the towel just long enough to conceal her buttocks from Gaz, sensitive lad. He kept her up with a forearm under her rear, bounced her to adjust. She was impossibly easy to lift; John could have carried her one-handed, if he were less concerned about avoiding brandishing her nudity around the ship. 

Gaz followed him out of the head, towards the galley. 

“She had no belongings with her, eh?” Gaz asked, “no wallet, nothing?” 

“No.” 

Kyle let out a long sigh, worry oozing from his every pore. “Don’t wanna imagine how long she was drifting for.” 

John nodded, as he sat her down on the bench seat of the dining table, the thin vinyl cushion squeaking underneath her. He dumped the towel, and grabbed his jersey from Gaz — one of his heavy Patagonia fleeces, fabric thick, plush like sheepskin, dark navy with a zip collar. He pulled it over her head, fed her arms through the long sleeves and adjusted it down her torso. It was long enough that it reached her mid-thighs, hands two-thirds of the way through the sleeves — big enough to conceal everything, and cozy enough to keep her warm. He pulled her hair out from inside the collar and lay it to one side over her shoulder. 

“Grab me the first aid kit,” John ordered dryly, as he leaned her against the seat, holding her head upright with a hand at the back of her skull. 

He fingered through her locks of damp hair, looking closely for the contusion that he felt ballooning out of her scalp — found it, eventually, dark purple and swollen, sticky burgundy blood coagulating around the open wound and gluing bits of hair together. 

“Think she fell?” Gaz asked, as he returned with the red polyester pouch after rummaging through the galley cabinets, unzipping and unfurling it. 

“S’there betadine in there?” John asked, before he had acknowledged the engineer’s question. “Hard to say, it looks rough.” 

Kyle handed him the little brown dropper of iodine solution, popping off the cap for him. “You don’t think someone hit her.” 

John’s jaw tightened. “If they did, they hit her bloody hard.” 

“Fuckin’ hell,” Gaz grumbled, upset, watching with his arms crossed as John tipped over the little bottle. He squeezed out several rust-brown drops, they landed squarely in the wound in her scalp, emulsifying with the tissue. “This’s all — just wrong.” 

“Least she’s alive,” John murmured, through a huff, as he put down the betadine. No use in attempting to bandage it, the laceration was small enough that it would heal on its own if left unbothered. 

“Wonder where her home is,” Gaz mused, tone dismal. 

“We’ll ‘ave to see what the bird says when she wakes up,” John said, laying the girl down on her side, tucking up her knees. 

“What if she doesn’t?” 

“She will,” John asserted as he stood, rapping an appreciative hand on Kyle’s shoulder. “Keep an eye on her, will you? I need to get back to the bridge.” 

“Okay,” Gaz nodded tightly. 

“And get her a blanket,” John ordered on his way to the ladder. “Call me if anything changes, yeah?” 

“Will do, Captain.” 

You tasted salt on your tongue.

It was dark, and your body was so heavy — your neurons fired off to raise an arm, and all they mustered was the twitch of a finger. Skin felt warm and viscid, lacquered in a tepid layer of tar as though fully submerged in gooey black pitch, too thick to move around in.

Your eyes perceived nothing but deep, liquid burgundy, and the sparking of white-and-red stars that encroached on the borders of your vision, writhing and swirling in the abyss of your blindness. 

Still, salt on your tongue. 

It was foul, overpowering, all consuming — that brackish grit in every corner of your mouth, between your teeth, crystallising in the back of your throat. It filled your nose, stung where it adhered to the delicate mucosa of your nostrils, every breath hurt to take in. 

You could feel it in your lungs, too. Shards of salt embedded in your bronchioles, saline glutted alveoli, trachea plugged with viscous brine. 

Your diaphragm spasmed beyond your control, body seizing as you erupted into a coughing fit — wet and phlegmy, salty fluid gurgling in your chest and hucking out of your mouth with every ragged splutter, you almost choked on it as you heaved in as much air as your lungs could imbibe. 

Your eyes shot open, then, vision so blurry that you had to wrench them closed a few times before the membrane over your corneas began to dissipate. 

A rubbery cushion under the side of your head, fuzzy fabric enveloping your arms and chest, something scratchy and heavy over your legs. Warm, sore — you ached everywhere, every joint stiff, every muscle burning, every organ twisting and floundering inside you. 

Dizziness wracked through your head, brain swimming free within your skull, spinning around in circles and bouncing against the walls of its cavity as though you were being tipped forward and backward and forward again. 

Nausea swelled up quickly, filled you up to the ears and made your stomach cramp and contort — bile rose up your throat and burned on its way up, you leaned over the surface you lay on and let it spill out from your teeth. Hardly any vomit, merely an oozing stream of chartreuse bile that dripped in strings from the corner of your mouth. 

You heard a voice, a man’s voice, at first too disoriented to understand it. 

“Shit — oh my god, you’re—”

A hoarse groan escaped your chest in response, not a noise you made on purpose, as you tried to roll onto your back. 

“Are you okay?” He asked urgently, and suddenly you noticed a pair of knees under a table beside you, only as they shifted when the person stood. “Hey — you’re okay, you’re—”

You moaned again, squinting under the bright light above you, vision distorted by vertigo and brine. Tongue too fat to form any words yet. 

“You’re okay, let me — let me get you some water.” 

You heard the hurried thuds of boots away from you, and you rubbed your eyes with the heels of your palms, finally able to see properly once you opened your eyes again. Shakily pulled yourself upright with a hand on the table, muscles quivering so violently that they could barely hold you up — but fired adrenaline began to kick in, thumping out from your chest and buzzing in your fingertips as you glanced around the room, utterly alien to you. 

“Where…” you croaked, soaking in your surroundings. Panelled walls of honey oak, an ugly veneered table in front of you, you sat on its bench seat. A small circular window sat above the table, bolted around its borders, and a single light bulb hung from the ceiling. 

The room smelled like dish soap and body odour, fetid with the scent of an unwashed sponge and a hovering note of fish carcass. A small kitchen, as you turned your head around to check behind you — the man towered over a sink, you heard the hiss of running water. 

“Where am I?” You finally asked, finding your words, but your voice was as frayed as if you had swallowed glass.

The man turned then, and you did not recognise him. Not at all. A complete stranger, with a furrow in his brow, and an awkward smile tugging at the corner of his lips. 

You bolted up from the seat then, tossing aside the blanket that rested on your knees, fight-or-flight reigniting your muscles and setting your heart into overdrive — your head spun with it, and your balance was completely off kilter, you had to continually readjust your feet to keep yourself upright. 

“Hey — hey, easy,” he said edgily, voice soft. 

“Who the fuck are you?” You barked, immediately defensive, you tried to keep your eyes pinned to him while you made note of your peripheral surroundings. 

“I’m — I’m sorry, I didn’t — I’m Gaz. Kyle. I’m Kyle.” 

You scowled at him, panting, hackles raised high as you shuffled away from the table. “I don’t know anyone called Kyle,” you hissed. “Or anyone called Gaz.” 

“We haven’t met before,” he said, body twisting to face you as you inched around him. 

He put down the glass of water he held in his hand, and that only further enkindled your terror. Now his hands were free. He could tackle you, if he wanted to. Tall man that he was, muscular under his black jersey, his big doe-eyes did nothing to soften you to him. 

“We found you in the water,” he tried to explain, “we thought you were dead. But we rescued you.” 

“The fuck do you mean, found me?” You spat, now approaching the kitchen, your eyes scoured around for something to grab. 

He could detect your scheming, inched closer to you on quiet feet, attempting to flank you. 

So you dashed — bolted towards the small cooktop, where a magnetic strip mounted on the wall held an array of kitchen knives. 

“Fuck—” He cursed, through teeth, failing to grab you in time before you snatched one by the handle, and held the blade in front of you with both hands. 

You jabbed it at him as you backed out of his reach, arms so shaky you almost dropped it — but you kept it tight, holding onto it with vicious devotion, as though dropping it would be your death sentence. 

He held up his hands, not in surrender, but as if he were attempting to settle a wild animal. “Okay, love, take it easy.” 

“Stay away from me,” you shouted, trembling, backing away cautiously. 

“Captain!” The man roared worriedly toward the ceiling, and you flinched. “Look, love, I’m not going to—”

“Fuck you,” you bit, before you spun on a heel and flew towards an archway. 

“Shit.” He cursed as you escaped, but he had not yet pursued you. 

You scurried down the narrow corridor, bare feet aching with every step, knife extended in front of you and prepared to slash at anything that got in your way. You were wobbling all over the place, as though the ground beneath you was rocking back and forth; you toppled into the wall on your right, yelping as you tried to get yourself upright again. 

You reached a great big industrial door, painted blue and with a tiny circular porthole too high for you to see through. It had a wheel in the centre of it, connected to a series of bars that spanned it from top to bottom. Not a door you had ever seen before, but you inexplicably knew to twist the wheel — left, first go, and the bars shrunk away from the top and bottom, the steel door unsealing with a clank. 

Now you heard the thuds of running boots, fast, growing louder, closer — you shouldered open the heavy door and leapt over the lip at the bottom, immediately blasted with an ice-cold wind that made you shrivel up and almost retreat back inside. 

The sky was stark black, and you were blinded by floodlights. You stumbled towards the railing, hanging onto it for dear life as you almost slipped over on the frigid metal grating under your feet — it felt like barbed wire on your soles, and you whimpered with every step. 

Your fierce desperation to escape trumped any pain, though, you burned hot as a boiler, thundering adrenaline keeping you aflame. You spun your head around to determine where you were; a pitch-dark abyss surrounded you on all sides — no sky, no ground, no lights on the horizon, nothing. You peered over the balustrade and realised then that you were on a ship, now seeing the building-tall waves that cascaded over the floor below, bedizened in ropes and grates and metal cages and buoys, populated with a few people in neon jackets. 

“Hey—” Came a bark from behind you, and you shrieked — immediately scurrying towards a steep staircase, pole-narrow, almost toppling down it as you bounced to every second step. 

The floor of the deck consisted of slippery water-logged wood, and the soles of your feet struggled to find any grip as you sprinted across it. You weren’t even sure where you were running, just away, from the man who had followed you — but it became quickly clear you had no escape, and the orange-jacketed men on the deck had turned their heads to spot you.

“Oh, fuck—” One barked. 

Another erupted in bewildered laughter; “She breathes, alright!” 

“Oi — girl—” Called one. 

“C’mere, hen!” Shouted another, Scottish. “We don’t bite!” 

You sobbed as you ran, ravaged by a fear so potent it made your heart shrivel up like a raisin — you were sprayed by a crashing wave, blinded by the salt, and your feet slipped out from under you. Collided into the hard ground with a slam, a bounce, you skidded across the wood and your knife tumbled out of your grip, sliding out of reach. 

Only as you flopped around on the greasy floor did you realise your nudity under the sweater you were wearing, bare thighs slick with cold sea water, ass bitten by the arctic wind. You scrambled to get yourself back up, crawling on your hands and knees towards your only weapon — until a thick arm hooked under your belly, swiftly hoisting you up from the ground with yank, and you squealed. 

“Easy, now, woman—” Gritted the man, the hoarse growl of an old dog, and he held you flat to his chest. “In such a hurry to go back overboard, eh?” 

You wailed, attempted to buck yourself free from him while your feet dangled off the floor, but he only secured his grip with another mammoth arm. The other men on the deck approached hastily, concern and confusion etched in their cold-ruddy faces, looking between each other as though waiting for somebody to decide what to do with you. 

“Let me go,” you sobbed, paltry voice broken by hiccups, you spluttered and cried and kicked when you could muster it. “Please, please—”

“Put her down, Nik, for fuck’s sake.” Came the roar of another man, approaching from further away, an authoritative fury that your captor swiftly obeyed. 

You landed on your bare feet onto the wet floor with a squelch, and a sob, but he kept a firm grip of your shoulder to prevent you from fleeing. You wouldn’t have, though — now, it was clear to you — there was nowhere to run. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Yelled the evident commander, “All of you? Christ, look, you’ve scared the shit out of her.” 

You saw him, then, as he stood in front of you — towering, heaving, you felt the vibrations of his heavy feet on the deck with each step. Broad shoulders cloaked in a rugged navy jacket, the hood pooled around his neck, a pair of roomy yellow overalls strapped over the waterproof layer. A black knitted beanie sat on the top of his head, folded just above his furrowed brows. His lips were in a snarl under his dense beard while he addressed the other men, but they softened into a neutral line when he looked at you. 

There was something familiar about him, not that you could place it; a face you might have seen in a dream, or crossing the street once. A face you could imagine with a glowing light beaming from behind it, as though the moon eclipsing a sun. You had no memory to tie to it, and yet, it settled you slightly. 

“Y’alright, love,” he said, voice honey-warm and thick with gravel, he held a hand in your direction and gestured to follow him. “Come back in, will you? Too cold for you out here, eh?” 

You sipped a shaky breath, shivering in the bitter wind, glancing at the men surrounding you from under your brow. Returning to the man that gestured for you, you gave him a feeble nod, and waddled in his direction. 

“Tha’s it, c’mon,” he said gently, hovering a hand at the small of your back. He turned over his shoulder to shout at the others; “You lot have more pots to set, don’t you? Get back to fuckin’ work.” 

He guided you gingerly towards the stairs, close behind you to ensure you didn’t slip over on the way up. Opened the weathertight door to let you in, but walked in front of you down the same corridor you had escaped through. You held your arms tight around yourself, left soggy footprints along the vinyl floor. 

“Got yourself all wet again,” he said, an edge of irritation in his tone. 

“D’you get her?” Came a call from the kitchen you had awoken in, and the man — Kyle — appeared at the end of the hallway. You froze. 

“Go finish your work, Gaz, y’still got an hour on the clock.” He ordered flatly, and Kyle looked at you past him. 

“Yes, Captain,” he grunted disdainfully, shouldering past the man in front of you, and squeezing around you where you pressed yourself into the wall. “Hope you’re feeling okay,” he mumbled sheepishly, before disappearing down a flight of stairs. 

The captain looked back at you, flicked his head in the direction of the kitchen. “C’mon, let's get you dry.” 

The kitchen was much smaller than you remembered it being not a few minutes prior — cozy, much warmer than outside but still not quite warm.

“Siddown,” he said from the kitchen, not as forceful as a command but just as compulsory. You gingerly sat yourself on the same bench you had woken up on, watching him carefully, lips sealed. 

He approached you with a tall cup of water, held by the rim with the tips of his fingers. “Drink it.”

You took the cup timidly, but once it was in your grip you did not hesitate; tipped it into your mouth and skulled it down desperately, a dribble escaping the corner of your mouth. You had no idea how thirsty you were until fresh water touched your lips — fresh, not salty — you panted like a dog when the cup was empty, half-quenched. 

He took it from you, filled it back up at the sink before bringing it back, and you drank the second cupful just as quickly. 

“Better?” He asked, and you nodded, wiped your mouth with your hand. 

“Thank you,” you said quietly. 

You watched as he grabbed a light blue towel from the tabletop, and for a moment you thought he might hand it to you — instead he crouched in front of you, and took your leg by the ankle. 

You immediately chirped and attempted to tug your foot free on reflex, but his grip was firm; entire hand wrapped tight around your ankle, he gave you a tut. 

“Settle down,” he snipped, resting the sole of your foot on his collarbone. “I’m only dryin’ you off.” 

Said with such certainty that you began to doubt your instinct that it was inappropriate for him to put his hands on you — tempered by the feeling that he knew what he was doing, that he was only taking care of you. 

He looked at you impatiently until your tensed muscles eased, before he nodded in satisfaction. He hooked your foot over his shoulder so that your ankle rested on his trapezius, before he bunched the towel up in a fist and ran it up the length of your leg. 

You leaned on your arms behind you, heart in your throat, beating so fast that you could hear it buzzing in your ears. 

He was focused, wiping the seawater and muck off your skin, up and down your thighs, down the underside of your leg. 

“Took a tumble, did you?” He asked plainly, dabbing a fresh graze on your knee with the towel, making you flinch with the sting. 

“Yeah,” you said meekly; you were sure it would bruise eventually, but it was largely painless for the time being. 

He tutted you, but continued, wiped down your calf and dried off your foot last; he was fastidious about it, pushed the fibers of the towel between your toes, engulfed your foot in the cotton, scrubbed it along the sole of your foot and your toes curled with the tickle.

He set that leg down once he was done with it, and wordlessly demanded the other with a curl of his fingers. 

Confounding yourself, you did as you were told, and offered him your other leg; he repeated the procedure, resting your foot on his shoulder and scrubbing your leg with the crunchy towel, unabashedly wiping up to the top of your thigh, between your legs, under your knees. 

It didn’t escape your notice that you were naked underneath the jersey, and if he were to look a little higher his eyes would be square with your pussy. The thought made you tighten, and he gave you a disapproving glance when he felt it — but he finished with the other foot, and set your leg free again. 

“Thank you,” you muttered, tight-lipped, dizzy with confusion. 

“D’you want a new jersey?” He asked as he stood, swiping a hand over the sleeve shoulder, where seaspray had beaded on the outside of the fleece. 

“I’m okay,” you said timidly, tucking your legs together. 

He nodded, dropping the towel back on the table. “Alright, pet,” he said. “Let’s get you a cuppa, yeah?” 

You were quiet, but he busied himself in the tiny kitchen anyway — followed the rumbling of a water boiler and the slosh of hot water, the opening and closing of cabinets and drawers, the tinking of a spoon in a teacup.

“Hope you take it with milk and sugar,” he said. “You’re getting it whether you like it or not.” 

“That’s fine,” you croaked. 

“Good girl,” he said, as he returned with a brown glass mug and set it down on the table in front of you. “Gotta get some sugar in you. You remember the last time you ate?”

You shook your head. 

“Mh, well, let’s get you fed.” 

“I’m not — I’m not hungry right now,” you said hesitantly, and when a divot pulled in his brows, you clarified; “don’t think I can keep much down yet.” 

He nodded. “No problem, love,” he answered, with a pacifying grin. “How’s the head?”

“Where am I?” You asked pointedly, cutting to the chase, unwilling to take a sip of your tea out of lingering suspicion. 

He sat down across from you, landing in the bench seat with a grunt, interlocking his fingers on the surface of the table. His glare was scrutinising, albeit gentle, as though checking rather than inspecting. 

“You’re aboard the Iron Tide,” he said candidly. “We’re fishing for crabs in the North Sea.” 

“Iron Tide?” 

“That’s the name of the ship, love,” he answered, a little patronising. “I’m her skipper, I’m Jonathan. You met Gaz, he’s our engineer — he gave you a fright, I bet, but he’s a good lad.” 

You nodded edgily, looking askance at him. “Okay… but, how did I get here?” 

He smiled sombrely at that, crow’s feet pinching in the corners of his tired eyes. An oceanic blue, you noticed, little round seas reflecting the light that bounced off the table beneath him. 

“Was hopin’ you could tell me that, pet,” he gibed, nodding at your mug. “Drink your tea.” 

You took a sip, as you were told. Just cooled enough to sip with a slurp, blanketing your salty tongue, warm and saccharine, hot as it went down your throat. Earl grey. The taste made you feel tucked in, as though a blanket were over your legs, a pillow behind your head — but the murky memory was as fleeting as it was vague. You swallowed it with a sigh, and he looked pleased. 

“So?” 

“So what?” You asked, with a frown. 

“How’d you end up on the high seas, hm?” 

“I—” You cut yourself off, as you stared into the steaming surface of your tawny-coloured tea. 

Words danced at the tip of your tongue, amorphous and flavourless, nothing you could place. Notions that, if you were to reach for them, would drift away, or turn to smoke. 

You didn’t have an answer. 

“I don’t know,” you said, voice shaky, glancing at him with worry knitting in your brows as though he might be able to remind you. 

“You don’t remember?” He asked carefully. 

A piteous heat swelled beneath your eyes, tears welling from their ducts and pooling in your eyes, your vision went blurry with it. You shook your head. 

“S’alright, pet,” he said, fixing a hand to your wrist across the table. “It’ll come back to you. Do you remember anything at all? If you were on a boat, what country you’re from?” 

Again you shook your head, sniffling, you wiped an errant tear with the soft sleeve of the oversized fleece you have no memory of putting on. “No.” 

Concern cracked through his stoic expression, and it only made you more upset.

“Do you know your name, love?” 

You vacuumed in a slow and trembling breath, eyes bouncing between your hands, as if they might hold the answer. You could think of names — Jessica, Lucy, Nina, Anna, Rebecca — but they were only that, random names floating about in the air around you, and you could not pin any of them as your own with any certainty. 

“No,” you eked, followed swiftly by a sob, despite your effort to swallow it. 

He exhaled, long and beleaguered, stroking the back of your hand with his colossal thumb. Hands as big as saucers, calloused and molten hot to the touch. Made your hand look like a pixie’s underneath it.  

“Don’t fret, eh?” He said, failing to comfort you. “Y’got plenty of time to remember. Just finish your tea.” 

“What do you mean?” You asked weakly, plenty of time comment making you uneasy. “Aren’t you going to take me to — back to land?” 

He smiled, bemused, as he released your wrist with a pat and leaned back against the bench seat, hanging an arm insouciantly over the back. 

“Not heading all the way back to port yet, love,” he said frankly. “We only left a couple days ago. Got a lot more crabs to catch.” 

“I’m — I have to stay on this boat until you’re done fishing?” You asked, fighting back the tears that threatened another cascade. 

He tilted his head. “This’s my job. If I don’t get crabs, I don’t get paid. Neither do the other lads, ‘n they won’t be letting that happen.” 

You pouted, lip quivering and face scrunching, and he let out a huff. 

“Look, sweetheart, what would I even do with you if I took you back now?” He asked, tone rigid. “Y’got no ID, no passport, no papers, nothing on you but that bloody frock. We don’t even know what country you belong to. You’d get snatched up by the authorities and tossed around immigration services until your head is on backwards.” 

You sniffled, wiped your cheek with your sleeve. You had no argument, and even if you had the energy to muster one, you had no knowledge of how such a system worked, or where you would possibly go if they allowed you free movement. You’re sure you’d have a house somewhere, a family, someone out there must be looking for you…

The thought made you cry again, head falling from your shoulders and landing in your hands, you sobbed unremittingly into the dense fleece. 

Jonathan sighed at that, evidently growing impatient, but he pushed himself to stand — he was suddenly next to you, planting himself on the bench with his thigh against yours, and he draped an arm around your shoulder. 

“S’alright,” he crooned, voice as deep and rumbling as an engine, and you found yourself curling into him on instinct. Tucked up under his arm, head on his chest, a warm hand rested on the side of your head and smoothed down your hair. “We’ll sort it out.” 

“I don’t even kn-know where my home is,” you blubbered into him, muffled by his jacket, still speckled with beads of sea mist. “Or if — if I’ve got a family, or a husband—”

“Y’look a little young for one o’ those,” he remarked, with a chortle. 

“What if I don’t remember anything? Ever?” You cried, and he stroked the shell of your ear with his calloused thumb, fingers woven in your hair. 

“None o’ that,” he grumbled, you couldn’t determine if he was rocking you or if it was simply the motions of the boat tipping over the waves. “No wallowing on my ship. Keep your chin up, and you’ll be fine.” 

You whimpered, but nodded, and he petted your head like a cat. 

“We got another nine or ten days at sea,” he said, comforting hand retreating from you, resting on his lap. Kept his heavy arm coiled around you, though, and you were daftly grateful for it. He patted you on the far shoulder with a stiff hand. “You’re a tough girl, yeah?”

“I dunno,” you sniffled, sitting yourself upright and reeling away from him. He released you, then, arms crossing over his chest instead. 

“Well you survived God knows how long floating around in the North Sea, pet, I’d call that pretty tough.”

You attempted to compose yourself, sucking deep a breath and wiping down your face with your sleeves. Hoped that whoever’s fleece it was didn’t care about tears and snot being smeared over the cuffs. 

“Is there somewhere for me to sleep?” You asked cautiously, in an attempt to come to terms with reality — nine or ten nights of sleeping on a fishing boat. It made you sick to think about. 

He curled his lips as he thought for a moment. “You can sleep in my bed,” he said. “Skipper’s cabin is a lot nicer than the crew berths, I’ll tell you that.”

You blinked at him, uncertain — it was unsettlingly vague whether that meant he was offering you the bed to yourself. 

“Or you can ask one of the lads to share a bunk with them, I’m sure they wouldn’t mind.”

You shook your head hastily, and he cracked a grin. “No, thank you, skipper’s cabin sounds good, please.”

“Alrighty,” he concurred, with a nod, the deal done. “Sleepy already, eh?”

You nodded sheepishly — for the most part, you just wanted to be alone, somewhere quiet and enclosed, out of sight. But you were utterly drained, left ravaged by receding adrenaline, body battered and bruised. Curling up in a bed sounded luxurious, and heaven only knows how long it had been since you slept in one. 

“Y’only been awake for twenty minutes,” he joked. “And you’ve hardly touched your tea.”

He flicked his head towards the mug, and his imperious expression made clear that he wanted you to finish it. 

So, if only appease him, you clutched the mug and tipped it into your mouth, sucking down the now luke-warm tea in five hefty gulps. Licked your lips when you were done, and dumped the mug back on the table. 

“Happy?” 

He smiled wide, let out a haughty chuckle. “Nicely done,” he said. “Alright, then, let’s get you tucked in.”

He pushed himself to stand with a grunt, finally freeing you from behind the table, and you followed him. 

“Y’sure you don’t want a bite?” 

You shook your head. “Maybe in the morning, if that’s okay.” 

He laughed as he made his way toward an upward staircase. “Morning’s fine, but I’m not having you starve yourself.”

“I won’t.”

As you climbed to the top of the stairs you reached the bridge — a large control station with many screens, all showing different radars and panels and numbers. The wheel was there, too, a spinning chair with a sweater thrown over the back of it tucked in front of it. Sea spray made pattering rain-like noises on the thick windows, but very little light came in from them. The air was thick with cigar smoke and terpenic air freshener, the everpresent ghost of saltwater lingering in between. 

“Just through here,” he instructed, and you followed him around to the other side, through a door, and down a shorter staircase. 

There you were met with a bedroom; it was intimate, stuffed full of bags and boxes and papers. A fold-out desk jutted out from an warm-wood wall, covered in maps weighed down by protractors and a drawing compass. Coats hung over hooks, boots lined up by the door. 

A cot bolted to the wall, perhaps a king single, unmade — a thick duvet with a red-and-navy plaid blanket tossed overtop, heavy wool that you could ascertain would be itchy without needing to touch it. A single pillow in a navy pillowcase, cream-coloured fitted sheet likely toned off-white due to age or overuse. 

It was rich with musk in there, the single porthole window not able to be opened, and the heady scent made you dizzy. You imagined it was only a marginally diluted version of the same scent you’d get pressing your nose into his armpit. It was only tempered by traces of toothpaste and cigarettes, and the potent smell of Imperial Leather bar soap. Daft that you remembered that, and little else. 

“Not a five-star hotel, eh?” He gibed, nudging you with his elbow. You didn’t have a response, at first, and he chided you; “Don’t be a sourpuss. No room for being fussy here, love.”

“No — this is perfect, thank you, I’ll sleep anywhere.” 

He smiled and crossed his arms, rocking on the balls of his feet. “Alright, well, you get yourself comfortable then,” he said. “Loo’s just through there, if you need it. Use my toothbrush if you like, just give it a wash after, eh?”

You almost grimaced at the thought of sharing his toothbrush, but the lingering bile and salt in your mouth had you looking forward to the taste of toothpaste. 

“Need anything else, pet?” He asked, still gruff. “Paracetamol? I can get you something else to sleep in—”

“I’m okay, thank you,” you insisted, perhaps too plainly eager to get him out of the room. 

“Alright, love,” he said. “G’night, then. I’ll just be up there, still got some steering to do.”

“Okay.”

With a firm nod, he turned around and headed out of the cabin, shutting the door behind him. 

You let out a pent breath once you were alone, potent exhaustion suddenly crashing into you like a train. You stumbled into the tiny ensuite — a small toilet and a sink, the shower head jutting out from the wall above the commode — rinsed his frayed toothbrush under the tap and globbed on some colgate. 

Brushing your teeth made you feel marginally human again, and you spent a good five minutes scrubbing out every crevice of your mouth. You washed it afterwards, like he said, and stuck it to the wall with the suction cup on the back of it. 

There was no mirror, and you found yourself glad of it. You couldn’t yet confront the fact that you did not remember what you looked like, an existential dread that simmered in your belly, but too tired to churn up. 

Only then, as you glanced at his bar of soap (it was Imperial Leather, as you had guessed), did you realise how clean you felt — you wondered if he had washed you, and now you were certain that he had changed you. The thought made you shiver, and you tried not to think about it. 

His bed was squeaky underneath you, and the mattress so soft that you sunk deep into it; the weight of him permanently embedded in the springs, you settled into the divot like a cat, curled up towards the wall. It was bitterly cold in the cabin, much like the rest of the ship, so you tugged the blankets up your cheek, rubbing your icy feet together to warm them up. 

The sheets reeked of him, of man and musk, the pillow smelt of scalp and salt. It was unusually comforting. Such a human smell, and as you tucked yourself under his layers of blankets it swirled around in the front of your head and made you dozy. 

Sleep called to you, dark and ebbing, and you slipped willingly beneath the surface. 

You were roused, only slightly, at the sound of a door handle. 

Not alert enough to open your eyes, you still floated deep in slumber, soft and warm. Your consciousness ascended close enough to the shallows to acknowledge the opening of a door, the footsteps across a hollow floor, but the sounds conveyed no meaning to you. 

Sleep pulled you downward but you floated languidly back up at each noise; the fizz of running water, the scrubbing of brushing teeth, the spit of toothpaste.  

A zip being undone, velcro being ripped open, boot laces being untied. The clunk of a shutting door, a cough, a grunt, and you finally broke the surface. 

Now entirely awake, you remained completely still — not out of fear, you didn’t think — perhaps in the hope that he would leave you alone to keep sleeping, absolutely not ready to get up yet. He made no effort to be quiet, as he dumped his boots by the door, rummaged around in his belongings for a moment, coughed again. 

You kept your nose close to the wall, eyes barely open. He flicked off a light switch and the room was abruptly drowned in darkness. 

The blanket was lifted from you, then, and you flinched — with the cold air nipping at your skin, you realised your long jersey had been hiked up in your sleep, and your bare bottom half was starkly exposed. 

You froze, curled up, tongue in your teeth; until a sudden weight plummeted into the mattress, bouncing you up before sinking deep behind you, causing you to slide into the dip.  

With a grunt and a huff the blanket was pulled back up over you, scratchy wool brushing your cheeks. A titanic arm hooked over your stomach, and you squeaked — he paid no mind, yanking you backwards until your back was flush with his chest, ass nestled into his lower belly, his thighs tucked up behind yours. 

You held your breath, skittish, not yet daring to move; he let out a deep sigh into the back of your head, warm breath seeping through your hair and into your skull. 

His entire body was a furnace, burning hot, and you felt yourself melting into him whether you liked it or not. A mammoth hot water bottle, wrapped around and behind you, keeping you soothingly warm. 

His hand ventured nowhere untoward, arm only hanging listlessly over the divot of your waist, forearm tucked into your chest. He felt clothed against you, sweatpants and a thermal on. 

There was something wrong about it — something off, a survival instinct that buzzed around you, humming like a mosquito, a ringing in your ear, annoying and persistent. 

But his pyretic warmth made you lightheaded, so comfortable tucked into him that it felt like you were already dreaming. 

With a heavy blink, and a deflating breath, you sunk deep into him and let slumber swallow you whole once again. 

[nsharks]

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part seventeen —other parts

pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!reader words: 2.3k tags: death. blood. cannibalism mention. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. there will be sex but it isn't here yet. slow burn!!! enemies to lovers. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival.

Ghost wasn't bluffing about the rain.

The next two days are spent with a punching bag under a neverending drizzle. Well, a duffle bag filled to the brim with who-knows-what, hanging from a tree as your skin smacks into it repeatedly and wet hair sticks to your neck. According to Ghost, you hit about as hard as Blue does, and there's no point in sparring until that changes. 

He demonstrates before finding a comfortable tree to lean against and watch. The first few tries feel awkward until he reminds you to hold your stance. Once you dig your feet firmer into the mud, you start to catch on. You try to copy his movements. Knees, hands, elbows, feet. The rain soaks through the gauze on your hands, bunching it up, and the bag stings your unprotected fingers so much that your pinky starts to spasm.

You are struggling to hold the canister of water without wincing when Ghost appears behind you, grips your wrist, and says, "Why didn't you say anything?"

You pull away and tuck your hand to your breast. "It's not that bad."

His eyes sweep over the length of you before subtly narrowing. "You're bleeding. You should have said something."

When you glance at your fingers, you realize that he's right— the skin is split and oozing, but the rain waters the blood down to a light shade of pink. "Sorry, I guess. I didn't notice."

A callused finger reaches over to brush your knuckles before flipping your hand over, palm up, and tapping the heel of it. "Hit here from now on. It's less soft."

"Noted. Thanks."

Blue warms a bucket of water and soaks your hands that night. You listen to the sound of rain drumming against the plywood as you pray for it to stop by the morning, but of course, there's no one listening to you up there in the clouds because, by the time Ghost gets you up again, it's only gotten worse. Mist shrouds your ankles and the trees crackle and moan. He takes you back to the clearing and you know you won't be dealing with the duffle bag today.

"Let's see what you've learned."

He shucks off his jacket and you do the same despite the brisk temperature. Left in his shirt and sweatpants, the sheer size of him appears even more daunting. The black fabric soon becomes wet and sticks to his well-defined muscles, resembling a second skin. Ghost inclines his head and looks at you expectantly. Your heart races but you meet his stare, breathing deeply.

This time it's you who lunges first.

A swift kick to his ribs shoots the familiar burst of adrenaline through your veins. 

The flicker of confidence makes you greedy and you try it again, but he wrenches your ankle away and twists you into submission, pulling you flush to his chest. 

His breath hits your neck and warmth, not rain, prickles the skin. "She didn't hesitate. Good. But moves like that leave your stance vulnerable."

With a shove, you are released, and then he wipes the floor with you. Again. Everything turns into a blur of movement. The ground squelches beneath you. You try to focus more on offense, but the rain clumping your lashes and the way he darts so quickly makes that near impossible. Frustration builds in your chest the longer you two go at it. It is as if the past few days have done little to nothing. 

A bruising blow to your stomach almost makes you slip, but he catches you by the sleeve and draws you close, leaving you face-to-face. His eyes burn a trail over your forehead down to your nose and lips as you pant heavily, then snap back up to yours. 

"What happened to your confidence? Where is the girl who kneed my dick?"

You swallow and blink hard as you meet his thick gaze. "She's trying... but she's wet and can hardly see."

"Better than being dead." You place your hand atop his callused one and try to pry it off, but his grip tightens. "Stop holding back again."

Tension holds your teeth together. "Just because I wasn't a military sergeant like you doesn't mean I'm holding back."

"Lieutenant."

"What?"

"I was a lieutenant, not a sergeant."

"Does that change my point?"

His brow quirks and his hand drops. "You have quite the attitude when you're not scared of me." 

The stinging air turns your cheeks pink. "I was never scared of you."

"Blue's next lesson should be teaching you to lie better.”

Something about his tone causes a twinge in your chest. You back up and ready your fists. "Oh... Is she good at that?"

He stalks you with slow steps that scuff over the mud. "Pretty good at it. Though, she forgets who her old man is sometimes."

"What do you mean?"

"You think I didn't notice?"

Your mouth runs dry. Unspoken truths hang in the air; the antiseptic, the food she snuck. "I don't know what you're talking about."

His eyes roll to the side. "Relax. I would've killed you the moment I noticed if I wanted to."

"Why didn't you, then?" 

A glint of—something—passes through his eyes. "Perhaps I thought you could be useful. Turns out I was right. Now—" He changes the subject. "Don't hold back or you can enjoy the shed tonight."

All the color drains from your face. "What? You... you can't do that."

"Why not?" 

Your voice sharpens. "Because you made a fucking promise to me, Ghost. You said you keep your word."

His broad shoulders give a lazy shrug. "I do, but you thrive when you feel threatened. Thought you could use the motivation."

Anger curls your lips. "That doesn't mean you can just—" 

Mud. Mud everywhere. Freezing, sticky mud cushions your fall as he hits you without warning. You gasp. A flash of a memory shoots through your spine; the way he pushed you to the ground that first time you met. The crack of your bow. The helplessness. 

You ignore the ache as you push yourself to wobbling feet. It as if every hit from him makes itself known. Your anger deepens and you launch at him without thought, snarling. Your ankles hook around his torso as you grab hold of his wet shirt and cling to his back. One of your arms clamps over his neck and squeezes while the other blindly scratches at any piece of him you can find; his collarbones, the bridge of his nose, his scalp. 

A few heartbeats pound before he throws you back into the mud. This time, he joins you. Salty sweat and the taste of coppery soil brush the seam of your mouth as you wrestle beneath him. It turns messy, your hair tangling with knots and pine needles, but you don't have it in you to care. You spit in his face and dig the heel of your boot into his back, riding up his shirt. 

"Ah. There she is." His voice is rougher and only the slightest bit winded. 

The fight you give is silenced when he pins your hips down with his and grabs one of your wrists. The other you quickly slip under your back, out of reach. Again, he has you pinned, and that pisses you off even more.

"Fuck you," you snap breathlessly. "Get off of me."

"Bold choice of words to say to your landlord."

The rain seems to fade into the background and all you can see—feel—is him. It should terrify you, the pressure of his body, but your mouth opens again on its own accord. "Bold choice getting me into this position again. I guess you don't want any more kids."

A sharp exhale leaves his nose and you think it might be his version of a laugh. "Thanks for reminding me." He brackets your knees with his, rendering them immobile. "Now what?"

Now what. The mix of adrenaline and anger rushes between your ears and that thing you've relied on to survive for so long—instinct—decides for you. Your free hand scoops mud and smashes it into his eyes, stealing his vision. The time it takes for him to wipe it away gives you a shot at his face and you take it without abandon, slamming your hand hard into his nose. You can practically hear the crack. Blood blooms through the white of his mask. 

Your irises unfurl. "Shit. Ghost. I—"

He sits up and you scramble away on your butt. Like a tide, your emotions wash away and leave your face flushed. When he peels the balaclava over his nose, a trail of blood trickles down his lips and chin. He pinches the tip and flicks a clot of it to the ground.

"Is it— Did it break?"

He touches the bridge. "Minor."

"I'm..."

The uncontrollable shaking returns to your hands, snapping his gaze to them. "Did they open up?"

Confused, you glance at the red skin across your knuckles before shaking your head. "No. I... I used the heel. Like you said."

"Good." A grumble of thunder brings his eyes to the sky before he stands up, mask still hiked over the bloody lower half of his face. He offers you a hand. "Smart use of the environment. Think we're done here."

It takes a long moment before you place your hand in his. The energy has swept through your body, leaving you numb, and there are no more sharp words left to share. With the grey sky, it is impossible to tell the time, but you figure it must still be early morning because Blue is not awake by the time you and Ghost return.

He is equally as filthy as you. Dark earth cakes the entirety of his body. He swipes his boots outside and you wordlessly do the same before following him into the quiet cabin. Everything is still except for your heart. It struggles to find a normal pace again.

"Let me look at it," you offer quietly.

He doesn't object, taking a seat at the table. The only evidence that the physical activity has affected him is the uptick in heat that rolls off his body. You move clinically to stand between his knees and ignore the awkward feeling that settles in the silence. You feel strange after getting so worked up. Like you don't know how to act. If you were confused around him before, you are more so now, so you focus on what you do understand— that his nose is most definitely broken.

For the first time, it is you looking down at him. 

"I'm going to touch it."

You will the trembling in your hands to stop and brush a fingertip along the bridge. His nose is strong. So is his jaw. An old scar indents the left of his mouth, deeper than the one on your brow. This isn't the first time you've seen part of his face— he does, in fact, have human needs like food and water—but the first time you've touched it. His skin is as warm as you remember. The tender swell in the bridge of his nose makes his eyes close for a moment.

"How's it feel?" 

He throws your words back at you. "Just peachy."

"Right. Um, have you broken it before?"

"Of course."

"I'm sorry," you finally say, but he seems far from interested in your apology.

"Don't be. I said not to worry about hurting me."

"I know, but that doesn't mean I enjoy doing it."

"Liar." He calls you out in a soft murmur. "It felt good, didn't it?"

It... did. Possibly even cathartic. The release of emotions is not something you allow often, but hitting Ghost in the face mimicked the exertion of chopping wood only tenfold. Carefully, you nod. "A bit."

"More than a bit."

"Fine," you concede breathily. You avoid his eyes and look over at the wall. "It felt really good." There is a pause before you look at his nose again, clearing your throat. "It's minor enough to just let heal, right?"

His brows lower. "I thought you were the nurse here."

"Nursing student," you remind him, teeth grazing your lip. "I don't remember getting to this lecture."

"Fucking hell." He inhales deeply through his mouth, lowering the fabric back down, before saying, "Just go bathe, Twix."

"What about you?"

"I'll go after."

You nod but linger for a moment in his presence. "Ghost." Your fingers curl at your sides. "Don't ever do that again. Don't ever threaten me with something I have earned."

Making a demand of him is so utterly foreign to you that the words taste strange. The whites of his eyes slide up to yours and something you don't recognize passes through them. "Duly noted." His brows lift. "Don't hold back again."

You exhale. "I won't."

It is at this moment you notice the appearance of Blue in the hallway, still dressed in an oversized shirt that acts as her pajamas. She looks between the two of you, rubbing her eyes, before narrowing them and pointing an accusatory finger. "I told you guys to tell me when things got more interesting."

You repel from between his knees like a magnet, facing her.

"It wasn't that interesting. Don't worry."

[trappolia]

── O, BRIDE OF THE UNDERWORLD

thanzagmeg. amongst the dead of the underworld, a reprise of a love story blooms.

Your mother-in-law once called you the beating heart of the Underworld.

It was a startling thing to hear from Persephone — she who had forsaken her mother's name to marry the God of the Underworld; she who the Earth weeps frozen tears for in her absence; she who has made a dark spring bloom here with just her presence.

The Underworld already has a heart of its own. It thrums with a steady, distant pulse, like the distant drum of a song for soldiers fallen in battle. It is in the shadows that move with purpose, and the chill of death of once warm bodies wandering the halls of the House of Hades and engaging in idle conversation about how they died as if they are merely discussing the weather.

The quiet hum of eternity.

You wonder if she simply sees a bit of herself in you. You were once a nymph of the grassy plains above before Death. Now you are a bride of the Underworld, who has founded a home in this realm of ink-black rivers and whispering shades, its gilded halls and blood-red roses, its ceaseless churn of souls. You walk these corridors not as a mere visitor, nor as one damned, but as something precious; as Persephone is.

Or maybe she simply thinks too much of you. Places you against the greater portrait of the Underworld and all its hellish circles. You have always seen yourself as something more minor, though no less significant. The portrait of a lover, rather than something belonging to the whole of the Underworld; Prince Zagreus’s consort, chosen and beloved.

And not only his.

The scent of laurel and iron is familiar when Megaera finds you first. She is leaning against a cold obsidian pillar where you turn a corner in the hall, caught in your daily wandering of the House of Hades. Her whip coils lazily around her hand, and you have felt the touch of those fingers too often to worry about what that hand is capable of against your beloved prince. You know Zagreus well enough to understand that even he takes some pleasure from their semi-daily spats.

Her golden eyes are alight with amusement when she catches you.

“Looking for someone?”

Her voice is smoke and steel, the kind of teasing only she can pull off — sharp enough to wound, sweet enough to make you crave more. It's a delicious rasp, one that pulls you in.

"I thought you were working," you say softly, meek even in your approach. Under Megaera's gaze, you feel like a deer caught in the headlights. It's a delicious feeling, like flames licking at your skin.

"Tisiphone is dealing with your fool of a husband, sweetling," she muses, reaching out to brush your hair out of your face. Her fingers drift, pinching your chin playfully. "Had it been me out there, Zag wouldn't be coming home in time for supper."

Before you can answer, a weight settles against your back, a touch cold as the space between stars. A hand, deathly pale yet soft in its tenderness, trails over your wrist before curling around your fingers. Megaera raises a brow as she lifts her gaze to the newcomer.

Thanatos does not need words. He never does. His presence alone speaks volumes — the weight of inevitability, of endings — pressing into you like the certainty of a final breath. And yet, there is warmth in him, one you have come to know intimately—a paradox of comfort in the arms of Death himself.

“Zagreus is coming,” he murmurs, voice quiet as the rustle of the Fields of Asphodel. “He was waylaid.”

“Waylaid,” Megaera echoes, smirking. “That’s one way to put it.”

You tilt your head up as you feel Thanatos shift, his golden eyes gleaming under the torchlight. He is beautiful in his quietude, just as Megaera is beautiful in her storm.

"Were you helping him again, Than?" you inquire.

It has been a long time since aiding the Prince of the Underworld in his escapades was seen as some form of treason by Hades. Even then, Thanatos still averts his gaze, his grey skin flushing with a dark shade like the murky waters.

"Helping is a generous term, dear," he mumbles.

Megaera snorts.

Their bickering is dry, almost entirely deadpan. There is none of that theatrical flair of Zagreus arguing with his father for eternities, but it is no less entertaining for you to watch. You've learned to take delight in the sharpness of their words, the furrow of their brows. In a way, it is strangely domestic.

You cannot help the little grin that tugs at your lips as you watch them in front of you. The laugh that tumbles out of your mouth is entirely accidental, and you squeak as two pairs of golden eyes snap to you.

"What are you laughing about, little flower?" Thanatos muses, his voice soft and utterly smitten.

"Isn't it obvious? They're laughing at you," Megaera scoffs, though it lacks in her usual malice.

Suddenly, the scent of wine and pomegranate blossoms floods your senses.

It comes before you even see him. You close your eyes, basking in the scent of it as if it were the spring that you have not felt in a lifetime. Beside you, Megaera and Thanatos fall silent.

Then, there he is: breathless, grinning, battered from the inevitable chaos that follows him everywhere, the floors of hell burning under his feet. His underworld-forged armor bears fresh scrapes, his knuckles bruised from the skirmish, but his smile—his smile is for you.

For all of you.

"There is your husband," Megaera drawls.

Zagreus is panting when he reaches you, still dripping in the blood from the River Styx. You have learned to disregard the viscera, delighting only in the way his hands reach—finding yours, Megaera's, brushing against Thanatos's in an unspoken promise.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Zagreus breathes. “Got a little distracted.”

"Distracted, he says," Thanatos deadpans.

Megaera rolls her eyes, but she lets him pull her closer. Thanatos sighs but does not resist the touch.

Death, treachery, rebirth; how odd for a maiden of the Earth to surround themself with. But you have learned like the goddess before you that love tends to find creatures like you in the strangest of places, like a stubborn dandelion blooming through the cracks of a cobblestone path.

You beam, lifting yourself up on your toes to press your lips against your husband's cheek, then your two other lovers. Their hands are cold like the touch of Death and unbearably warm like the flames of Asphodel, and you stand at the very center of it—something that was once warm and breathing and now is not; beloved in your death as you were in life.

"Shall we have our supper together now?" the bride of the Underworld asks.

And like any damned creature in love, the Underworld listens.

[amuromi]

★ ₊ ⊹ ⋆˙ ┈ 𝐑𝐘𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀 X ᶠ!ᴿᴱᴬᴰᴱᴿ

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 ┈ 9.9k

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒 ┈ NSFW! heian era!au, concubine!reader, true form!Sukuna, unprotected sex, established relationship (married), canon typical violence, era typical misogyny/gender roles, unhealthy obsession, mentions of death, mentions of cannibalism and blood, (Sukuna is a lunatic), Sukuna is referred to exclusively as “Lord Sukuna”

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐀!𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ┈ I got a bit carried away with this one. My love of psychological horror was clawing to be free but I think I kept it pretty contained…

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐈𝐈

✮ 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐒 & 𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓!! ✮

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒 𝐓𝐎 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖 ✦ ⋆˙ engawa ┈ a hallway-like path surrounding the house ⋆ shoji ┈ a sliding door/divider ⋆ koto ┈ a Japanese zither/stringed instrument

The winter storm has leached everything into bleak shades of black and white, like ink on parchment. The trees are thick black strokes against the deep gray clouds, dusted with a thick layer of snow as flurries fall like stars through the courtyard. In the moonlight each snowflake shines like pearls, soft and lustrous as they dance on the wind. From the edge of the engawa it almost looks like staring into the great gaping mouth of a beast that’s swallowed the world, spears of ice hanging like jagged teeth from the edge of the roof, the wind shuddering through the estate in howling gusts. The cold night is scented with dreams of spring, sweet smelling coal burning in braziers, wafting gray wisps of floral-scented smoke into the wind. 

It’s quiet aside from the sharp whistling of the wind and the hissing of snow melting over hot coals, then, somewhere within the estate, a bell tolls for the Hour of the Rooster. Nightfall, despite the veil of darkness already laid out by the storm clouds. Suddenly there’s the sound of footsteps soft as summer rain, pattering through the estate and the shoji begin to blossom with the warmth of firelight as candles are lit throughout the sprawling house. More snow gathers in soft sheets over the courtyard before there’s a gentle knock to announce a soft-footed servant coming to renew the braziers and light the lanterns. The scent of lavender is renewed as the coals are sifted and replaced and the engawa is streaked with blushing shades of gold as the pink-tinged paper lanterns are lit in turn. 

Of all the rooms in the vast estate, yours is the most adorned. Which is to say, it looks as though your room is used for more than sleeping. There’s a modest desk with inks and paper, a small table for combs and perfumes, and a trunk for miscellaneous things beside the chest of drawers filled with kimono. When she’s lit the last lantern, you ask the girl to send for your personal maid. A dowry servant, though not originally one of yours. Life in this estate is fleeting in that way. 

An unbalanced teacup had been the undoing of the girl your father sent to accompany you in your marriage. Stained silk and scalded skin, later soaked with splatters of blood. But the tatami were changed and the kimono and girl were replaced. Your new maid is a bit older–a few years your senior–originally belonging to a woman that came before you. Certainly not First Mistress because she would loathe to see you even look upon anything of hers. No, she served a less honored concubine that wasn’t worthy of the title “wife,” even if it’s a hollow honor in itself. Still, your maid had belonged to the unknown mistress before she perished. It all happened before you were brought to the estate, but the haggard weight of the loss still sits heavy on her shoulders. Her face always looks like a crumpled piece of paper that someone tried to smooth flat, creased with hidden worries. She arrives quickly, kneeling to await her orders. 

“I’m happy,” you tell her. “A new Mistress is joining the family tonight, isn’t that right? Happy news.” The maid hums something to the tune of affirmation, long since grown used to your unflinchingly jovial disposition. She once asked if you wear a smiling mask throughout the day and take it off once you sleep. It’s a silly question, of course, but you like to imagine that you smile even in your sleep. There is nothing to be sad about. Living a life such as this is no different than a deer grazing in a meadow. There is nothing beyond the grass. Nothing farther than the horizon or higher than the tallest tree. What is there to be sad about when the world has been folded into something small enough to hold in your hands, a piece of origami meant to be appreciated and not pondered. There’s happiness in the simplicity that this life provides, though you seem to be the only one to realize it. 

The other two Mistresses of the house say that you should be locked up in a rice chest and left out to die. That it’s cruel to let you live in such a state of delusion. How little they know, yet it’s still too much. At times, it seems that they are far deeper in their minds than you’ve ever been. Caught up in worries and tribulations that haven’t plagued you in a long time, since you let go of your humanity. What use is pretending to be human when you’re treated like a pet. Treasured and pampered but still inferior to the master of the house. Because your husband has no true use for human brides. In keeping the three of you, he has honored each of your families with the knowledge that their blood has produced something too intriguing to kill off just yet. Perhaps if he desires an offspring to assume his legacy he’ll have a true use for one of you. 

Other brides have been offered and had their families culled like squashing bugs. It made you feel some air of superiority, knowing that you were chosen from a dozen women to be honored as a new wife to the King of Curses. It only took a few months for you to realize your place in all this and the last thread of your humanity snapped like a frayed koto string. Thinking of yourself as a person is useless when the person that holds your life within his hands sees you as no more than a doll to be toyed with as he sees fit. 

“I’m happy.” You always mean it when you say it. Happiness is all you have left when faced with the truth of how finite your existence is. There is no world beyond the walls of this estate. No people beyond its residence and staff. No purpose outside of serving your husband with unwavering loyalty. In that regard you are the most precious of his wives. The others, their devotion wavers. You’ve seen it in the way they still hesitate to follow simple instructions, still tremble and shrink in Lord Sukuna’s presence even as you bloom like a flower in the light of the sun. He is your sun. There is no life without him. Which is why you are happy to simply exist in this small world that he’s made for you. 

His power has greatly uncomplicated your existence, turned it to something purposeful, something that will end when you’re no longer of use. And Lord Sukuna will always tell you when you serve no further purpose to him. How many underlings has he executed because they were no longer of use? You imagine they must’ve felt great pride in the moments before their demise at the hands of their King. Pride in knowing that they did what they were made to do. As a child you had scoffed at the idea that your only purpose was to be wed and serve your husband as a proper wife should, but that was when the husband of your future was set to be someone unremarkable. Lord Sukuna is greater than any man that’s ever lived. Perhaps even ascended beyond the concept of a man to become the strongest sorcerer to ever live. As the daughter of a highly regarded family known for birthing remarkable sorcerers, you take pride in your small but purposeful place in all this. The culling of clans, the clashing of factions trying to unseat your husband. History will remember you because you will play your part until the very end. An end you’ll greet with a smile if it should come by your husband’s hand. 

“Will the Fourth Mistress be here soon?” A new deer to join the herd, a new flower planted in the garden. 

“By the Hour of the Bird, the last message said.” Your maid agrees. Soon, a new Mistress will be here. It’s been so long since another woman has joined hands with Lord Sukuna. The last being yourself nearly two years ago. First Mistress had been collected three years ago, and Second Mistress came along only a short few months behind her. Lord Sukuna had waited half a year after that to marry a third wife, and you must’ve served him well because there’s been no need for another until now. It makes you wonder if death is close at hand. A raven had come earlier in the day, before the snow began to fall, announcing that Lord Sukuna would be returning from his excursion by nightfall. Perhaps he wanted to arrive home in time to greet his new bride. 

Fourth Mistress. Unlucky number Four, terrible number Four. Blowing into her marriage with a snow storm. It’s all terribly inauspicious, but Lord Sukuna has reason for everything he does. Nothing is without purpose. Even death has cause when dealt by his hand. Even if it comes tonight you will go towards it fully satisfied. The snowfall looks beautiful, and the cold isn’t so terrible with the legion of braziers burning around you and the thick furs draped over your shoulders. It’s a wonderful night to die if it should come to that. 

“Shall we go welcome her?” 

“First Mistress insisted that you need not be present for Fourth Mistress’ arrival, your highness.” First Mistress, Jurina, whose hatred towards you cannot be quelled by any manner of platitudes. 

When you first arrived, you’re sure it was mere jealousy that compelled her to act out against you. A multitude of wives is not uncommon among high ranking men, but rarely is it expected that they should all live together. Most wives are left in their parents’ homes to be visited whenever their husband deems it fit. To walk the hall of your home and come across the woman your husband sees when he is not with you must be jarring to the first woman he married. Jurina seemed adamant about dispelling you from the family upon your first arrival. Now, her animosity isn’t borne of jealousy, but discomfort. 

Your happiness makes her nervous. She’s said it herself. Snapping and raging at you for your unflinching smile even as she and Second Mistress have slowly begun to lose themselves in the monotony of this life. Sitting and waiting, then serving when Lord Sukuna comes home. To them, your complacency, your happiness, is something eerie and othered. Akin to the curses your families seek to eradicate. Unnatural. Inhuman. Though it hardly matters what they think of you. They are not your reason for being, and Lord Sukuna seems to find your smile charming. 

Despite the chill, you find yourself reaching for a fan. A gift from Uraume. They’re strangely doting towards you in a way that they aren’t to Lord Sukuna’s other wives, bringing you gifts when they accompany Lord Sukuna on long trips away from the estate. A set of calligraphy brushes, a jade bracelet, a new kimono. You’ve amassed quite a collection of possessions by Uraume’s spoiling, though the fans are your favorite. All made a beautifully lacquered wood, some painted with gilded designs, the folded paper painted by the hands of careful artists. Crashing waves and blossoming trees decorate each of your fans and you take great pride in keeping them all in pristine condition because you’d hate to perform a dance with a damaged fan. 

Of all of the things filling your room, your koto is the most precious. It had belonged to your mother and she offered it with teary eyes as your wedding gift, absolutely bereft that she had to marry her daughter off to a monster to appease the head of your father’s clan. But such was your purpose in being born into a highly acclaimed sorcerer clan. Take your blood and lend your body to another clan so that you might make more powerful jujutsu users. Your father had complained of the waste in sending you off to quell the King of Curses, insisting that sending you to Lord Sukuna would be a waste of a bride. Curses have no use for brides nor, truly, does their King. Still, Lord Sukuna keeps all of you alive and well in his home. To what end? It’s hardly your concern. 

“Bring my koto,” you hum. “I want to dance.” 

The maid goes about carrying the large stringed instrument to the edge of the room where the opened shoji separates the warmth of your room from the chill of the engawa. It is a happy coincidence that your maid had been taught to play the koto some years ago when she was still an eligible maiden. But her father grew ill and when he passed her mother sent her off to find work to support herself because she couldn’t afford a dowry to marry her off properly. So she sits and serves, waiting for you to name your song of choice with her fingers poised over the strings. The song you choose is one of comfort, the first your mother ever taught you when you were learning to dance and play. There’s a practiced grace to your movements, smooth as a flowing river as you dance with your fan. The song is short but it is always your favorite to perform. 

A rare beauty in the north, she’s the finest woman on earth. A glance from her, the city falls. A second glance leaves the nation in ruins. There exists no city or nation that has been more cherished than a beauty like this.

Flecks of snow melt against the bare nape of your neck, so cold it feels like burning, but you want to keep dancing. The weather has no bearing on your mood. Rain or shine you are happy to sing and dance, amusing yourself as you wait to be of use to your lord husband. Perhaps he has already returned home along with his new bride but without the order to accompany him you will stay in your room, performing to your heart’s content. Your maid begins to pluck out the notes of your next song request, fingers stuttering over the strings as if she’s forgotten how to play the melody. That’s alright, you will dance even without proper music, swinging your fan with practiced poise as your voice contests with the howling of the storm. It’s a song of longing and melancholy. Fitting for a woman separated from her husband. 

Are you going away? Leaving me alone? How could I live if you’ve gone away? Are you going away? Leaving me alone? I want to keep you unhappy with me. I fear you may never return. Sadly, I will let you go–

“Stop whining, I’m here.” A voice interrupts your singing, a smooth timbre that rumbles like a roll of thunder. So please, come back soon after you leave. In a heartbeat you’re on the floor, kneeling before your husband. Lord Sukuna is soiled from his travels. Kimono stained and torn, the scent of blood lingering heavily around him, along with the buzzing aura of excess cursed energy leaking into the cold air around him. 

“Welcome home, Lord Sukuna.” He purrs at how you prostrate yourself at his feet, always so satisfied with your absolute submission. He once told you your lack of fear was something intriguing, your unwavering adoration far more interesting than submission borne of fear. It’s something he’s found in so few of his followers and you imagine it’s why he shows such preference for Uraume’s company. Of all of your husband’s subordinates, they are by far the most devout. Perhaps even more than you because they know what Lord Sukuna is trying to achieve with all the calamity he causes. Your lord husband has never made you privy to that knowledge, and as a good wife you remember it is not your place to ask. If you are meant to know something, he’ll tell you. 

“Get out.” His voice is thick with something akin to revulsion, though you don’t bother to raise your head. Lord Sukuna hasn’t spoken to you so gruffly since you first proved your devotion to him. Behind you there’s the sound of frantic movements as your maid assumedly makes herself scarce in the presence of her master. When she’s gone Lord Sukuna gives you permission to lift your head. In the low light, you can hardly see his face. It’s hard to tell Lord Sukuna’s mood even in bright lighting. He hardly changes from his stoic expression unless there’s blood being spilled, then a smile–more like a deranged baring of his fanged teeth–finds its way onto his face. 

“Come bathe with me.” He doesn’t wait for you to react, already halfway down the engawa by the time you gather yourself enough to stand. Lord Sukuna traverses the estate with practiced ease, as if this was his childhood home and not all place of residence usurped from some affluent family. Though the perks of Lord Sukuna’s minions commandeering such a luxurious home for their leader and his family are the accommodations afforded to only the highest nobility. Because only families with more money than time to spend it can afford to build their home large enough to encompass a hot spring along with all the other necessary land. The air is humid around the bathhouse, curtained with steam as clouds of warm air seep out of the secluded space. 

Lord Sukuna stands expectantly at the edge of the rocks surrounding the steaming pool, waiting for you to fulfill your wifely duties. With great haste you begin to undress him. His kimono is ruined beyond repair, delicate white silk tattered and stained with browning patches of blood. Still, you take great care in folding each article as it’s removed from his body. There’s no added layers despite the inclement weather, no added underclothes beneath the outer layer of clothing. Your hands reach skin sooner than you expected, flinching away from the warmth of his muscles as if his skin were an open flame. Despite your status as his wife and your consequently intimate knowledge of his body, you still err on the side of caution when it comes to touching Lord Sukuna. He had only asked you to undress him, not to run your fingers over the corded muscles of his arms. Luckily, your husband seems unconcerned with the wayward touch. Instead of snapping at you he rolls his shoulders as if the layers of clothes had been restricting his movements. In all likelihood, they probably have. 

Lord Sukuna is something that is no longer human. A higher being ascended beyond the physicality of a normal man, as if his body could no longer handle the brunt of his power and needed to evolve to fit the newly emerging shape of his soul. Once, before you first laid eyes upon him, Lord Sukuna had the appearance of a mere man. An unremarkable face and body. But now he has become something beyond the shape of a human. “A two faced demon with four arms,” as the members of your clan had called him when talks of appeasing the great King of Curses began whispering through the halls of your maiden home. Of course his rumored differences held no bearing on whether or not the clan would be willing to sacrifice a bride to satisfy the Disgraced One. His four eyes and black markings make no difference to your devotion. He is still the husband you’ve dedicated your life to. 

Tentatively, you try to strike up a conversation as Lord Sukuna settles himself in the warm pool. “Has Fourth Mistress arrived yet?” 

“Yes, she arrived before I did. I expected you to be with the others, fawning over her. Why weren’t you?” His tone is calculated as if he is trying to decide if there is cause for punishment. Your next words are chosen carefully. 

“First Mistress did not think–it was requested that I not attend to Fourth Mistress’ arrival.” 

“Are you not my wife?” Lord Sukuna asks, annoyance thick in his tone. Of course you are. In this life you are nothing if not his wife. “I expect that you’ll act your part. The lady of the house is meant to greet guests upon their arrival. I don’t care what Jurina says. You’re of noble birth. You know the rules on how to conduct yourself. Act like it.” 

“Forgive me for speaking out of turn, my lord, but I am not the lady of the house. That is First Mistress Jurina’s title.” To go against your husband’s word is wrong, reason enough for him to lash out at you, but it is the truth that Jurina is always reminding you of. She is First Mistress, the matron of the estate. It is you that is a lowly concubine in comparison to her status as a legal wife. Lord Sukuna bristles at your insolence and you duck your head to receive your reproach. He’s a short distance away, submerged to his waist in the warm water, but Lord Sukuna can move like a striking snake. It would only take half a beat of your heart for him to reach you and tear it from your chest if he so desires it. 

Tonight’s admonishment is far less violent. Coming in the form of a disparaging growl before he snaps at you to undress. You do so with the same care that you disrobed your husband. As his wife, you are an extension of him, and you dare not mistreat his items in his presence. Once your clothes are folded you approach Lord Sukuna with hesitant steps. You’ve discovered that drowning and burning are the worst means of death and the boiling water of the hot spring is a combination of both. Still, if tonight will be wasted on death, at least it will come in Lord Sukuna’s arms. He reaches to help you into the water, drawing you close while his second pair of arms stay splayed on the rocks behind him. He moves you as he pleases like a doll being perched on a shelf, positioning you to straddle his thigh. 

“Look at me, woman.” His tone doesn’t sound angry, but that has never been a successful way to guess at Lord Sukuna’s intentions. He can execute someone with a smile. You hope he’ll offer you that same cruel grin when he pushes hot beneath the bubbling water. 

“I do not care what order I married any of you in. It should be clear by now that you are the woman of this house. First or third, it doesn’t matter. Jurina’s words hold no weight over you. Do I make myself clear?” There’s a franticness to the way you nod your head, chirping out a pinched “yes, Lord Sukuna!” as he holds your chin to keep your eyes on his. 

“You’re the only wife that matters to me, stupid woman. The rest,” he scoffs, “I wouldn’t spit down their throats even if their lungs were on fire. Even the new one. Jurina is nothing and no one. I will kill her right now if it will please you.” 

And that had been the original crux of Jurina’s jealousy. The priority with which Lord Sukuna always seemed to treat you. There were always rumors about the estate that you are the favored wife, the one that truly matters, but it is hard to believe rumors when Lord Sukuna hardly does anything to validate them. Though his constant quelling of his temper in your presence should be evidence enough. It’s a rare thing for your husband to lash out at you, but you always assumed it was simply because you were careful with your actions. Never giving him any reason to turn his ire against you. It’s plain to see now that the reason for your persisted well treatment is simple. You are his favorite wife. 

Possessive as he is, Lord Sukuna has favorites in everything. Cursed weapons that he favors over all others, and servants that he calls on more often than the rest. To know you hold weight among his most precious possessions is dizzying. Of course, to Lord Sukuna, a favorite thing is a useful thing. It’s easy to imagine that you’re the most useful of his four wives. Neither of your seniors have remarkable cursed techniques despite hailing from quite notable families in the hierarchy of the jujutsu world. And any technique they do possess is woefully untrained as is expected of women in the world of sorcery. Women of jujutsu-laden clans are meant to be vessels from which the next generation of male sorcerers are born, not taught to be sorcerers in their own right. 

It was only by a terrible coincidence that you were able to train your own technique. A jealous cousin and a well. A harsh push to your back after she whispered about how she should be the one to marry first despite her inferior talents as a homemaker. She got her wish, the husband she so covetously desired. Last you heard she’d been returned to your family’s estate after being set aside for a more fitting woman. 

When she pushed you, falling felt like flying and dying felt like burning as your lungs filled with water. In the end you’d spent nearly a week at the bottom of that seldom used well, floundering for your life as your cursed technique kept you in a constant loop of dying and reviving, bursting back to life stronger than when you died. Chrysalis is what your family had taken to calling your ability when you were finally fished out with a bucket of water. Death was something impermanent to you, though the manner of which you passed holds bearing on how long you’ll be stuck in your “cocooned” state. You imagine being killed by means of jujutsu would kill you properly, forever, but no one has been bold enough to try. Certainly not now that you are a treasured wife of the King of Curses. Though you’re sure Lord Sukuna will kill you eventually, when your purpose has been served. For now, it seems your purpose is to provide him with the comforts a wife can offer her husband. 

“Kiss me.” He commands, hand on your jaw already pulling you towards him. There’s never been anything delicate about Lord Sukuna as far as you could tell. He’s always had an air of harshness to him, something wild and untamed that bleeds into his every movement. You’ve decided it must be because he lives the same as you, unimpeded by the world around him. The King of Curses bows to nothing and no one, so why should he govern himself by the laws and morals of humanity. Kindness, restraint, it doesn’t seem to exist to your lord husband. The same way fear no longer exists to you. So when Lord Sukuna’s hand–large enough to hold your head in his palm–pulls you towards his fanged mouth, you feel nothing but unadulterated lust. It’s unbecoming of a woman to find herself so lost in her bodily whims but you’re no longer just a woman. You’re Lord Sukuna’s woman, and within the walls of his home, shame no longer exists. You melt against him as his sharp teeth find the softness of your lips. Blood spills between your open mouths, dripping down your bodies before dripping into the water with a soft tinge of pink. 

“Sweet,” he hums. 

It’s no secret that Lord Sukuna is prone to fits of bloodlust so blinding he’ll tear his teeth into anything soft he can find, no matter the origin of the flesh. Animal or human it’s all the same when he’s tearing his claws through a warm body. He’s mentioned sampling your body once. How he’s thought about tearing off bits and pieces of you to taste. Of course, he told you that he would only maim you in such a way as punishment for misbehavior–it hardly matters when death would only find you mended and made anew–though it hasn’t stopped him from sinking his teeth into you when he’s wrapped up in another kind of lust.

Usually imperceptible if you aren’t looking for it, the only sign of Lord Sukuna’s arousal stands proudly between your legs, so large they breach the surface of the water as he holds you steady in his lap. His upper arms are still splayed out on the stone behind him as he reclines as if he is seated on a throne. He’s shown you what a throne fit for the King of Curses would look like, but only once. In his domain. An infinite wasteland bathed in blood with a single shrine standing at its heart. A corrupted chinjusha of flesh and bone. All gaping maws and cracked skulls. A shrine dedicated to the only higher power Lord Sukuna will ever respect; himself. The strange mouth splitting a seam between his muscles always reminds you of his Malevolent Shrine, of the four grotesque mouths that stand where the four doors of a shrine would be. Its tongue is strangely textured, like that of a cat’s as it lolls out of his stomach to lap at your skin. Sometimes you find yourself wondering if Lord Sukuna has control over the appendage or if it acts of its own volition each time the grainy feeling drags over your body, but it isn’t your place to ask. Who has control or not, it doesn’t matter. Lord Sukuna is your husband and you relish even the smallest touch whether it’s intentional or not. 

“Are you going to please your husband?” He asks. The answer is always simple. Yes. It is your sole purpose now that he’s taken you as his wife and torn your world into the smallest pieces until only this single scrap remains. It’s becoming so precious no matter how small and defaced it becomes. Sometimes you wonder what would happen if you stepped out of line. Tried to leave the estate, tried to defy Lord Sukuna. In truth, you’ll never know. Your husband is your world and your world is your husband. Of course you will do everything within your power to please him. He seems satisfied with just the look in your eyes as you stare up at him, waiting for his next command. If it would please him you’d slash yourself open, spill your innards into his lap and watch him feast on your flesh. His true wish is far more gentle, something a more humble husband would ask of his bride. 

“Touch me.” His clawed hand is already guiding yours to his stiffness, wrapping your fingers over the length of him. It’s so strange that curses can bleed, but Lord Sukuna isn’t exactly a curse nor is he a human. He’s something more but his heart beats just the same. You feel it in your palm as his cock twitches in your grip, thick veins thrumming under his skin. Perhaps it’s the water or more likely it’s something innate to your husband because he always feels hot to the touch, his skin is nearly scalding as you wrap your hands around his twin cocks, fingers spread too wide to touch around his girth. Lord Sukuna looks pleased as he leans back, eyes watching you as if to catch a flaw in your presentation. A rogue frown or unintended scowl that would prove your supposed dedication false. 

Even after so long he’s waiting for you to break, to truly realize what you’re doing and be disgusted enough to shrink away. The only thing you feel at this moment is heady arousal. It pools like molten lava deep in your stomach, seeping between your legs and into the water. There’s been no permission given so you remain still, but your hips ache to shift against the strength of Lord Sukuna’s chiseled thigh, to relieve a bit of the tension his lingering gaze has caused. But his hand hasn’t strayed from your hip, in fact his grip has tightened with each stroke of your hands. There’s a stinging bite as his claws dig through your skin, burying deep enough to draw blood despite the composure still set in stone on his face. He is still a man in some regard. Still a husband enjoying the touch of his wife. The thought blooms sweetly in your chest, lifting a soft smile to your lips. Lord Sukuna notices in an instant, four eyes still trained on your face. He snatches your chin up, straining your neck with how quickly he guides your eyes towards his. 

“What are you smiling about, brat?” Another attempt to catch you in a lie, to find some falsehood in your contentment. Even your lord husband finds himself questioning if your happiness is true. You thumb over the head of one of his cocks, bringing the taste to your lips. And because he is watching you so intensely you make a coquettish show of dragging your tongue over the pad of your finger, gasping when Lord Sukuna’s fingers bury deeper into your delicate skin. There will be cuts and bruises when he’s done with you. There always are. Then your maid–or, on some occasions, Uraume–will come to tend to your body marked by your husband’s touch. You like the way your body burns when he’s through with you, memories of his touch simmering in your mind. He scoffs when you wrap your lips around your thumb. With a cruel smile he hooks his own thumb into your mouth, talon scraping against your tongue as he pulls your jaw until your mouth is as wide as you can bear with only the slightest twinge of pain. 

Drool pools in your mouth, dripping out of the corners as they sting with the strain of Lord Sukuna’s strength. He sneers, looking pleased with the mess you’re making as he leans down to lick it up before spitting it back into your open mouth. You nearly choke and rush to swallow with a rattling cough. It tastes like blood, likely your own though you wonder if your husband sank his teeth into something before coming to you. The blood on his clothes looked dry, though you can never be certain with Lord Sukuna. You banish the thought, thrilled with the way he no longer seems to be dividing his focus. 

Before he had looked uninterested, as if his mind was elsewhere even as he looked at you servicing him so happily. Now he’s leaned in close enough for you to see his eyelashes, a rare treat with his immense stature. He’s nearly all you can see, all you can feel and you revel in it as your world shrinks to this tiny pinprick. There’s nothing outside this bathhouse. Only the infinite nothingness that surrounds a domain. The world could come apart outside these four walls and you wouldn’t care as long as Lord Sukuna keeps you in his arms. As if he knows your thoughts, the very deepest desires of your heart, Lord Sukuna drags you up his leg by the hand still embedded in the fat of your hips and the feeling sings through your body as your clit catches against the firmness of his thigh. Your hands tighten around his cocks still pulsing in your hands, though his only reaction is the slightest twitch of his lip. 

“Am I doing a good job, Lord Sukuna?” You ask around his thumb, truly desperate for approval. If you were any more pitiful he might’ve pet your hair like a loyal hound. Instead he laughs, something short and sardonic as his teeth nip at your cheek. Warmth blooms then drips down the curve of your face and you know he’s broken skin once more. 

“Enough with the stupid questions. If you want my praise you know how to earn it. Show me how badly you want it and I might reward your efforts.” You slip from his lap, mourning the loss of his leg pressing between yours as you kneel in the water. It’s up to your neck as your knees meet the bottom of the pool, steam billowing like a veil in front of your eyes as you center yourself at the apex of Lord Sukuna’s thighs. He’s spread out above you like a proud effigy, a statue meant to be worshiped. You feel a transcendent kind of devotion kneeling at the feet of your lord husband. The taste of him lands heavy on your tongue as your lips tease at the head of his dick, swallowing him in slow increments. Despite the harsh preparation of your mouth, you still wish to savor every moment spent servicing your husband. 

His face is clouded in shadows again as he leans back, head tilted towards the ceiling. The lanterns flicker playful shadows across his body, highlighting and shrouding pieces of him as you bow to take him into your mouth in earnest. Your jaw still aches from the way he nearly unhinged it, but it works in your favor as your lips wrap around his length. 

There’s nothing dignified about the way you’re swallowing his dick, little focus being allotted to your own comfort as you take him as deeply as his size will allow. His body is strange, of course, but it’s all you’ve ever known of a man. Aside from Lord Sukuna you’ve never seen any man bared beyond his chest, although you know innately that humans aren’t meant to have the endowments he does. His second cock presses against your cheek, dribbling over your skin as you hollow your cheeks until Lord Sukuna’s thighs twitch. Muscles seizing tighter as the head of his cock meets the tightness of your throat. Breathing is far from your mind, a need secondary to pleasing your husband. It’s a messy endeavor and you loathe to think of how terrible you must look. It’s always been a point of pride to preen yourself to perfection because husbands like their women to look beautiful when they arrive home, or at least Lord Sukuna seems to prefer it. Though he never seems bothered by what is surely a horrid display as split slicks down your chin and tears dot along your lash line as you gag around his dick. 

Lord Sukuna flicks your forehead after a while, likely drawing another scratch between your brows. It’s a fraction of his power. It’s likely he could take your head apart as easily as squashing a peach under his heel yet he hardly puts effort behind the reproach. Only enough to draw your attention as he drags you, coughing and drooling, off of his cock. They’re both gathered into one fist so he can drag the taste of his leaking precum over your parted lips. 

“You know better.” Lord Sukuna does not take things in half measures. His intentions are clear. If you’re going to pleasure him, do it right and do it well. Your jaw pops open again, wide enough to take his twin cocks into your mouth. He stretched and strained your mouth but there’s only so much that can be done with the sheer size of him. And while he does well to shield his thoughts at the best of times, you imagine he must be gleaning a fair bit of pleasure from your messy sucking as his hand remains in your hair. His claws scratch against your scalp, gentle enough to keep your skin intact as he keeps your mouth wrapped around him. A burning type of exertion settles painfully in your jaw but you’ll endure. Lord Sukuna never likes to keep you like this for long. With both of his weeping cocks tangled between your lips you can hardly take more than the head of each. In the end, his preference will always be the wet heat brewing between your legs. Another bout of pain sings through your scalp as Lord Sukuna pulls your mouth away from him, leaving threads of spit dripping between your bodies. His thumb brushes over your bottom lip, pressing against the grooves where his teeth bit into your skin until they begin to bleed anew.

He manipulates your body as if you’re merely a puppet dancing on strings. A flex of his arm and you’re lifting off your knees, hips stretched wide to accommodate the width of his body between them. His spit-laden cocks are pressed between your bodies, grinding into the soft expanse of your stomach as he pulls your bleeding mouth to his. He suckles at your torn skin, humming at the taste of your blood seeping onto his tongue. His hands find your hips, pressing into the marks he’s already left there as he hikes you higher against his body. The tongue lolling out of his stomach finds its way between your thighs, lapping at the mess that’s left after the water washed away the first wave of your arousal. It’s nearly too much with how textured the wide appendage is but you welcome any type of relief you can find as Lord Sukuna pulls your head to the side quick enough to send a stinging twinge up the column of your neck. The pain is only intensified as he noses against the soft curve where your neck meets your shoulder, as if he’s looking for something. 

His tongue sweeps over your skin before his fanged teeth make a home in it. There’s a rippling groan that thunders in his chest as a true taste of your blood spills into his mouth. Before long, your head is spinning from blood loss. Lord Sukuna must feel the change in your pulse as it turns slippery, harder to catch beneath your skin. He pulls away with a satisfied groan as his hands press your hips deeper into the expanse of his lower tongue. 

“Enjoying yourself, brat?” Lord Sukuna sneers, and because you have no sense of shame you find yourself nodding earnestly. He’s hardly touched you and what touches he’s shared have been steeped in equal parts pain and pleasure, yet you’ve enjoyed it all the same. It’s awkward and teasing because there’s no tact to the way his lower tongue moves between your legs. It’s like striking a flint without starting a fire, dull sparks of teasing pleasure that leave you wanting more. You’d rather have his face between your legs and a more dexterous tongue teasing you to the edge, but it would be presumptuous to make any kind of demands of your husband especially when he’s a man like Lord Sukuna. 

In most regards, your pleasure is incidental. Secondary to his own. So when his teeth snap over his claws, biting the sharp points into flattened nubs, you feel your excitement growing. He’s learned from experience that his rough treatment of your body should not extend to certain places. After only a few times he pressed his clawed fingers inside you, Lord Sukuna learned that it would better serve him if his nails were dulled before he went poking them inside you. And they’ll be grown back to full length by night’s end. He can manipulate the shape of his body as easily as fire melting snow. His hand smooths over the side of your body, sliding against your ribs and hips as he makes his way between your legs. His fingers plunge inside with little warning, forcing you open with a swiftness you could almost call desperation. If something so undignified could ever be said about the King of Curses. 

Lord Sukuna is a behemoth, dwarfing you in every regard, and his hands are no different. His fingers reach deep inside you, stroking over the place that has your back bowing as he makes space for himself inside you. He hums at how easily you take his fingers, sounding somewhere between amused and approving. It flutters through your chest and settles atop the arousal already building inside you. 

“Give your body to me, woman. Open yourself to your king.” You try to say something as he slips another finger inside you but it comes out as little more than a breathy whine. This is already too much and yet it can’t compare to how full you’ll feel when he gets his cocks inside you. His fingers are a luxury offered in preparation for his true reward and you take it happily. He smirks at the way your thighs strain as you try to grind against his touch. The heel of his hand is pressed tight against your clit and you buck your hips against the feeling. Lord Sukuna’s skin is thick, nothing like the softness of your own and it feels just the right amount of rough against your clit. One of Lord Sukuna’s hands finds your hair again, yanking hard until you’re looking up at him with tears shimmering in your vision. 

“There’s my spoiled brat. This is how you act. This is how the wife of a king is meant to be. Take what you want, woman, take everything I give you.” A dark laugh booms through the room as you whine and paw at Lord Sukuna’s chest. He adds another to the litany of scratches decorating your skin as his teeth nip at your neck, distracting you from the sting of another finger finding its way inside you. 

“You were made for this,” he reminds you. “Made to be mine. My bride. You can take it.” He sounds almost patronizing, voice softening to a teasing lilt as his thumb presses against your clit. Like with everything, Lord Sukuna is harsh, forcing you to the edge quicker than expected. Each curl of his fingers yanks at the string tightening inside you, pulling you closer and closer to the edge as he moves his hands with inhuman speed inside you. Everything is hard and fast and your thighs start to tremble in his hold, body shivering as Lord Sukuna all but wrings the orgasm out of your body. You clench hard around his fingers, pussy dripping down your thighs as you try to steady yourself with your hands on Lord Sukuna’s shoulders. He allows it, revels in it as he pulls you into another bloody kiss. But even as you tremble in his arms, Lord Sukuna doesn’t stop. His thumb is still circling your twitching bud even as you try to whine out a plea for mercy. It only brings a fanged smile to his lips. 

“Take it,” he grunts, “I know you can.” It really feels like you can’t. The tension brought on by your orgasm hasn’t dispersed and you feel like a knot being pulled ever tighter, back curling until your face is buried against his chest. He smells like the bath. Like sweet oils and wildflowers as your nose is buried against his scalding skin. With your forehead pressed against his chest your eyes have nowhere to look but down. Down at the way his cocks are straining to be touched, flushed and leaking just out of reach. You look up to distract yourself with the black markings etched into Lord Sukuna’s chest. Your kisses are sloppy, wet and open-mouthed as your tongue peeks out to trace the shape of each tattoo. It’s not until your teeth begin to nip at his chest that Lord Sukuna scruffs you once more. 

“Trying to leave a mark on me, brat?” As if you could. Your teeth are likely no different than trying to pierce his skin with a blade of grass. “What a greedy little bride I have. So eager to defer to another wife’s authority when you’re this possessive of your husband. Isn’t that right, woman?” You try to shake your head. Of course, you aren’t possessive of him, you know your place. You are the Third Mistress. Perhaps you are his favorite but there is a hierarchy that must be upheld in the household. To so brazenly try to claim full authority over your lord husband would be lunacy. There is no higher authority than the King of Curses himself. You’re simply a pebble lingering in the shadow of the highest mountain. 

“Yes you are,” he grins. You whine as he pulls his hand from between your legs. “Look at the mess you’ve made trying to mark me up like a bitch in heat.” There’s no sense of embarrassment welling at his degrading words. What sense is there in hiding how well your husband pleasures you? And Lord Sukuna seems proud as his tongue licks up the mess you’ve made on his hand before pressing a kiss to your parted lips. You taste yourself on his tongue. Your blood and your pleasure. 

“You’re going to take me so well, aren’t you?” It’s hardly a question. Simply an ordered phrased as if you could deny yourself the feeling of being split open on Lord Sukuna’s cocks. He starts with one, always. Dragging the leaking head through the mess he’s made of your cunt, tapping against your clit until he finally presses inside. His body is a marvel and you’re blessed to be so acquainted with it as the length not pressing inside you grinds against your clit as he makes you take him as deep as your body will allow. Lord Sukuna has been known to be rash and unpredictable, a being of pure chaos when the mood strikes him, but when he’s with you like this everything he does is deliberate. 

He’s rough but not destructively so. Yes, you’re bleeding as he bounces you in his lap, drawing a litany of breathless sounds from your lips, but he’s always intentional when drawing blood. You’ve been trained well in these years of marriage to take him. To weather any storm Lord Sukuna throws at you. His hands are bruising on your hips as he drags you up and down his length, hands that could shatter your bones with the slightest bit of effort and yet he only uses enough strength to hold you close. You’re not deluded enough to think that Lord Sukuna loves you, certainly not in the way a lover should, but he cares enough to treat you with a level of gentility. 

“Thank you,” you babble it like a prayer, over and over. Worshiping at your husband’s altar for even the briefest thought given to your safety, your pleasure. It can never be said that Lord Sukuna is a neglecting lover, at least not with you. He’s everywhere all at once. Hands on your hips and at your breasts, pinching at the aching peaks of your nipples. His face is buried against your throat, teeth surely raising welts as his tongue laps at the taste of blood and sweat dampening your skin. You cling to him in turn, nails digging into the thick muscles of his arms with no hope of ever drawing blood. Still, he grunts out a laugh as you drag your dull nails across his skin, leaving nothing but the whisper of claw marks behind. An arm slips out from under your grasp, unbalancing you, but Lord Sukuna is quick to steady your boneless body as he reaches between you to take hold of his second cock. It’s thick and straining, leaking against your skin as he presses it in beside the first. The stretch is harsh, a stinging pinch between your legs soothed only in part by his thumb drawing shapes against your clit. He hushes you when your whining gets too loud, hands clamping tight to your hips to keep you from squirming away from taking all of him.

“Be a good wife and accept your reward.” Lord Sukuna hisses as he presses deep inside you. The weight of him settles like molten heat inside you, his hand pressing over the shape of himself through your stomach. “Hush, you can take it.” He hisses, biting at your cheek as tears well in your eyes once more. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s a strange feeling to be so full all at once. 

“My pretty wife.” He’s only this sweet when he has you close to breaking, teetering on the edge of insanity from the way he’s taking his pleasure from your body. “Look at me, woman. Keep your eyes on your king.” It’s hard to look anywhere else. He isn’t sweating, this is hardly more than a leisurely stroll for him, but the humidity has left his skin beaded with moisture. It makes him shimmer in the torchlight like the divine being that he is, wasting his time on a creature as lowly as you. It’s your blessing that he’s so enraptured with you at the moment. Your eyes slip shut, tears streaming down your cheeks as every corner of your body feels lit aflame, the heat only made worse as Lord Sukuna’s hand finds your jaw. 

“I said, eyes. On. Me.” He growls. With a bit of resistance, your eyes flutter open, white light swimming at the edge of your vision as Lord Sukuna drags you to the precipice of insanity. He’s close. Far less careful and coherent as he drags you up and down his lengths with startling strength. He’s pressing against every sweet spot inside you, igniting a thousand flames at once that threaten to swallow you whole. There’s a pitchy mantra of “wait, wait, wait” playing on your tongue but it only seems to further entice your husband. 

“You gonna sing for me, woman? Go on, let me hear something pretty when you come for your king.” He’s taunting you, laughing at how shrill your voice sounds. It nearly does sound like you’re singing as you wail his name, back bowing as he rips another orgasm from your spent body. It’s as quick as a lightning strike and nearly as blinding, eyes clouding white for a moment as you fight to keep your eyelids from fluttering. From taking your eyes off Lord Sukuna for even a moment. You feel yourself clawing at him, clinging and grasping to keep yourself grounded as pleasure shatters through your body. Vaguely you can hear Lord Sukuna laughing, something tinged dark with amusement as he works you through your orgasm. He has no patience to wait for you to regain your breath, to see the light of coherence return to your eyes. Instead, his hands grip tighter to your waist, nails biting into your skin as he works you faster over his cocks. His voice dips low, a rasping gravel as he grunts, squeezing every bit of his own pleasure from your body. It’s barely a change, just the slightest shift, but you’ve done this so many times that you can almost sense when he gets close. 

Lord Sukuna gathers your loosening muscles back into some semblance of an embrace, holding you tight to his chest as he pushes your hips low enough for your bodies to meet in earnest. The feeling is a wet slide of skin against skin, the mess of your joined pleasure slicking up your bodies. It nearly feels like choking as he holds you still, the shape of him pressing every so slightly against the softness of your stomach. He’s more gentle now, but only by a hair’s breadth, as he thumbs over the shape of his body making a home for itself inside yours. There’s always a hint of softness at the edges of moments like this. A bit of the darkness bleeds from Lord Sukuna’s eyes as he guides your hips to grind against him, thumbing where he sees himself beneath your skin. Lord Sukuna has always been smart, his intelligence far exceeding that of your woefully undereducated mind. 

There’s never been a time where you were certain of his thoughts, but in moments like these you think there’s a hint of curiosity sparkling in his eyes. Something desirous of the unknown and intangible. He moves in shallow thrusts, thumb dancing lazily over your puffy clit for only a moment more before he’s spilling inside you with a satisfied groan. But, still, he keeps you there. As if forcing your body to take to everything he’s given you. If it were up to you, your womb would quicken to give him a child; proof of your devotion. But even the fantasy sounds impossible. Lord Sukuna has shed his humanity and with it, you assume, his ability to continue his legacy by way of heirs. Though he hardly needs them. 

Lord Sukuna is a shining beacon of the height of jujutsu, proof of what greatness can be achieved when you’re willing to go beyond the standards set out by society. He’s immortal, indomitable. Children would only be another jewel in his crown, more pawns to serve his greater will. And it’s unlikely such children of greatness will ever come to pass. In all your years of marriage, there’s never been a single moment where you thought for even a moment that Lord Sukuna’s seed took. And it likely never will. It’s wasted as he lifts you off of his softening length, everything he gave you dripping out into the spring water. The light flickers and for a moment it almost looks like there’s a spark of disappointment in his eye, then the torches shift again and the shadows are gone.

“You did well, woman.” He hums, running his hands over the length of your body. The heat of his palms and the babbling water works to soothe the aches and pains of being so thoroughly used by your behemoth of a husband. “Who do you love, wife?” He asks after the breath finally returns to your lungs. Of course it’s him. There is no one else. No man could compare, like a pebble being compared to a shining jewel. 

“Good girl.” He says when you’ve finished your babbling. Like a true king, Lord Sukuna loves to hear his own praises and you’re more than happy to sing them. Sometimes it’s startling how perfectly the two of you exist together. He’s the sun and you’re a flower turning your face to gaze upon him always. Which of his other wives could ever share in a fraction of your devotion? No one will ever love Lord Sukuna as you do, save for maybe Uraume. Perhaps they don’t love him, but there is a fine line between love and admiration. The loyal servant comes bustling into the bathhouse after Lord Sukuna has had his fill of soft caresses and breathless praises. 

The fact that both of you are bare makes no difference to Uraume. They lift you from Lord Sukuna’s arms with startling strength, hands frigid against your skin as they guide you to sit and go about drying your body and combing your hair. It’s always strange to be tended to by someone other than your personal maid, more so when it’s by the hands of Lord Sukuna’s most trusted servant, but it seems Uraume sees you as an extension of Lord Sukuna as much as you do. They dry and dress you, sending you back to your room so that they may speak privately with your husband. Some time later when the bells of the estate are tolling for the Hour of the Dog, the strumming of your koto is interrupted further by screaming. Something bloodcurdling terrified as it rings through the house, echoing into the snow speckled night. Vaguely you think of how the screaming sounds like First Mistress Jurina. 

[sellyourshadownotyoursoul]

DP x DC WIP: Magical Sugar Daddy

The world exists in shades of green. Everywhere Jason looks he sees sickness and death and the perverted unfairness of it all.

There's blood on his boots, accompanied by the pleasant ache of tired muscles. His hand is still buzzing from the recoil of his gun - the breath in his lungs is tinged with cigarette smoke, dry and acidic.

There's been a presence behind him for a while now, trailing after him no matter what he does to lose the tail. It's like a prickle of static in the air, faint enough to dismiss for anyone less paranoid.

Jason's body is a spring wound too tight, the metal screeching in protest as the feeling of being watched intensifies.

A week and change since he's had a moment of peace.

When he hears the scuffle of a shoe on the quiet rooftop it's no wonder he explodes into action.

The trigger is pulled before he's even turned his head, a roar of thunder in his ears. The butt of his gun misses its target by a hair's breadth as he brings it down in an arc followed up by a kick that finally earns him a reaction. The figure grunts in pain and surprise, but the step it takes backwards isn't one of staggered retreat. It's a pivot on a heel and a coil of muscle before Jason's stalker is vaulting over the smokestack at their side, launching them back into the fight proper.

Jason growls low in his throat, like his lungs do not exchange oxygen for carbon dioxide but what he exhales is instead a heady mix of hunger and rage. There's an answering sound, a hiss pitched high at the end as the two of them clash once more.

Jason blocks a punch and pushes the muzzle of his gun against an unguarded shoulder, point blank. His target flinches hard enough that the shot only clips them but that gives Jason the opportunity for a follow-up punch to the jaw.

The hood of his stalker falls to their shoulders and Jason answers the grin on their face with a baring of teeth hidden behind his mask.

Jason gets a kick to the ribs while he reloads the gun and subsequently opts to just holster the thing so he can have both hands free. The other asshole isn't much bigger than Jason and their guard is sloppy.

He won't need weapons for this.

A misstep from his opponent has Jason surging forward to fling them over the edge of the roof before a flip that would make Dickie proud reverses their positions. It forces Jason to roll under a kick so he isn't the one meeting the pavement at lethal velocity.

His attacker appears male, age unclear but certainly out of their twenties. Jason grabs the snowy white braid that flows behind them and feels a rush at the gasp that pulls from the guy, even as the retaliation gets him an uppercut that makes his vision swim.

Jason twists the hair around his fist, forcing the head it's attached to into the pavement at their feet.

He slams it down once, twice, before a leg around his own has him lose his balance. He lands on his elbow and curses at the pain shooting through it even as he gets back up and rounds on his opponent. He blocks a punch by diverting it outwards, stepping back and to the side so the fight stays in the center of the roof.

There's blood running freely down the other man's front from a nose that Jason bets is broken, the liquid looks jet black in Jason's monochromatic world of sickly lazarus green.

The eyes watching him are wide and alert, a manic edge to them from the bared fangs and the tense posture. They both surge forward, trading blows and kicks until they're breathing heavy and Jason can tell his opponent is flagging.

The way they move makes it clear they're not a fighter, at least not one with a preference for hand-to-hand. They keep up with Jason just barely, but it's already clear who the winner is going to be, even as Jason lets it drag out until there's sweat running down his back.

A kick from Jason's steel toed boot against an unarmored shin is what finally ends it. His opponent falls to the ground with a curse and they don't get back up even as Jason looms over them. Their eyes are half-lidded, hands sprawled out limply above their head in defeat, but there's a smile on their face that really tests Jason's ability to suppress the urge to tear out their throat. He places a boot on the guy's sternum and puts enough weight on it to show he's serious.

A low sound, a mix of a grunt and a laugh, precedes a weak attempt to buck Jason off but he doesn't budge.

“Talk,” Jason rasps.

A dark tongue swipes through the drying blood on his assailant’s lips and they cough wetly before responding.

“Nice to meet you,” is what he says, strained from the pressure on his lungs, “fuck, you're good.”

“Who sent you?” Jason's demand is curious but dripping with derision. Who would send a fucking prodigy of stealth just to have them suck at actually taking out the target?

Jason hadn't been able to lose this stalker for over a week, had gotten litterally zero intel on who this fucker is despite having Oracle and half his own men on high alert.

And then the guy just walks up and scuffs his shoe against the pavement?

Suicide by Red Hood much?

“Technically Clockwork, but I'm not really-” the guy coughs again, trying to breathe, “not really someone people can send.”

Jason prompts him to continue with an addition of pressure to his ribs. He doesn't feel any sort of armor under the neutral hoodie, nor do the cargo pants look like they're in any way reinforced. They're clean though and clearly not the kind of worn Jason expects for someone trying to blend in this side of town. No camouflage tech unless it's nano-sized.

The man wrinkles his nose, eyes flicking down to the boot and back up to Jason's face.

“Okay, look I know I'm late, but I'm here to apologize,” he says with another little grunt and a wiggle. Jason keeps him pinned.

“I didn't actually know you were mine until a year ago-”

“Yours?” Jason scoffs, something sour rising in his gut.

“Yeah?”

“I don't fucking belong to you,” Jason states darkly, one hand unholstering his gun.

There isn't any immediate reaction to the escalation, but Jason can feel a strange charge in the air. The body underneath him certainly doesn't relax.

“Fuck, okay sure, yeah, no ownership,” the guy huffs but the voice is not nearly as afraid as it should be, “that's kind of, ah, what I wanted to talk about.”

“And if I tell you to fuck off?”

“Then I'll fuck off.”

Jason pauses, tilting his head in consideration.

“Who are you?” Jason's question is wary and curt, a final offer to change his mind before he cocks his gun. The guy under him watches with bright, intense eyes, seemingly unperturbed by the monster looming above.

“I'm the reason you're still alive, Jason.”

Jason laughs coldly at the boldness of that statement.

“Bullshit,” he spits.

The eyes continue to watch him, appearing to glow in the faint light. The guy's face is set in a grimace, but it's one of mild inconvenience rather than pain. He should have a concussion at least, not to mention a fracture or two, so he's either trained to withstand pain or some kind of meta. Maybe he's hopped up on some new drug that's got him unaware of the damage. A byproduct of whatever made him so difficult to track.

Neither of them are panting anymore.

“Last chance,” Jason drawls as he takes aim at a damp forehead, already feeling the anticipatory rush that comes with taking a life.

He is admittedly not intending to let this little stalker live no matter what comes out of his mouth. Not when he knows Jason's name, not when there might not be another chance to tie up the loose end.

The guy seems aware of it too, eyes flickering over Jason's mask as if trying to find the right combination of words to buy just a little more time.

He opens his mouth, closes it again.

He sighs through his nose, a wet sound when it displaces the coagulating blood, and lets his head fall back against the concrete rooftop. The message seems clear in the resigned set of his shoulders and Jason feels an irrational indignance at being denied the struggle.

Nevertheless he pulls the trigger.

BANG

The sound echoes into the distance until it blends into every other incriminating noise Gotham makes at night. Jason frowns down at the would-be corpse.

He couldn't have missed, not with the muzzle barely a foot from its target - but there's no bullet hole marring the face at his feet. The eyes remain alive and aware as they watch Jason's growing confusion.

“What the fuck,” he mutters.

That earns him a stuffy snort. The man's hands flare out as if to say ‘ta-dah’ and only flinch minutely when Jason sends another bullet into him.

“Rude,” the guy comments, in the cadence of someone annoyed rather than relieved.

“What are you,” Jason demands in response, forcefully holstering his gun now that it has proven to be worthless. Looks like fists are going to be the way forward.

“Loaded question,” the guy groans unhelpfully, pushing at Jason's leg with little success.

Jason makes a point of momentarily increasing the pressure, staring the fucker down through the whiteouts of his mask.

“You survived a lazarus pit,” stalker offers, the words a sucker punch to an unhealed wound that Jason refuses to acknowledge, “which means you accepted the price that comes with it, whether you knew about it or not.”

“And that explains what, exactly?”

“You asked what I am,” the guy shrugs.

“And you still haven't answered.”

There's a moment where stalker-guy gazes up into the cloudy, dark sky, hands settling from their attempts to remove Jason's boot to instead tap idly against the leather. The fingers are long and thin, the kind an author might describe as suited for playing the piano, the nails neither bitten to the quick nor so long as to appear unkempt. Jason feels a sudden urge to break those fingers one by one just to see if that might yield a more satisfying reaction. Or some answers. His eyes catch on a sleek black band on the ring-finger of the guy's left hand and wonders momentarily if his shadow’s got someone waiting for him. He pities them.

“Price,” Jason prompts, “explain.”

“Right, yeah I can do that-do you mind stepping off? The bullets are digging into my back-”

“Maybe if you give me a reason to,” Jason retorts with a sneer, feeling the absolute furthest from any notion of ‘charitable’.

Stalker-guy sighs.

“Got it, okay, so, I'm basically your magical sugar-daddy-”

“My fucking what-” Jason chokes, feeling distinctly like the gravity of the situation is doing loop-de-loops.

“Your patron. Your new one, anyway,” the guy shrugs again, as if that's a concept that's common knowledge.

Jason forces air into his lungs. The world flickers.

“You paid your soul to my predecessor and he gave you back your memories.”

Jason's insides are made of cracked glass and every syllable pushes further up against it. Isn't the pit rage enough of a price?

“I came to introduce myself,” Jason's apparent ‘magical sugar-daddy’ continues conversationally, “which I guess I still haven't, technically.”

Jason's hands are white-knuckled fists, his vision is green and tunneling. From the moment he had him pinned every word out of his stalker's mouth has done nothing but add more fuel to the anger sitting low in Jason’s gut. The need for this piece of shit to at least have the decency to be afraid.

Talking about Jason's fucking soul - about paying the price and book-ending it with a term as crass as ‘sugar-daddy’ is so discordant it is almost physically painful. Mentioning the pits and claiming to have saved Jason's life in such a blasé manner has him writhing with indignation. The condescension drips from him and his every action, too similar to-

Jason's spiraling is interrupted by a change to his balance. His foot on the guy's chest hits the concrete underneath, the sight of his calf sticking out of what should have been a living, breathing body causing a momentary stutter in Jason's reality.

Then the guy is on his feet, reaching out a hand as if they weren't at each other's throats a moment ago. As if the bullets lodged in the concrete weren't intended for one of their heads. As if he cannot sense the raw malice pouring out of Jason.

“I'm Danny, sorry for the wait.”

[ilguna]

Hey! Can I get the number 89 (in honour of 1989 tv) with finnick ?

☼ lovestruck, lovesick, lovelorn pt1 (Finnick Odair) ☼

warnings; swearing, death mention, death, gore for sure, blood, weapon usage, mention of prostitution.

wc; 8.6k

prompt; 86. "Do you trust her?" // "No, but I trust her anger."

notes; i already did 89 for Peeta (castaway) and i'm trying not to do any repeats, so we're going with 86 :)

part two, part three.

--

The golden Cornucopia sits abandoned in the middle of this black sand island, whereas normally it’s occupied by the Careers to ensure that no intruders steal from them. There must not be anything worth protecting in here, then, besides the weapons that are displayed.

This allows the group to spread out, picking places to rest in the shade. Peeta lowers Beetee to the ground, propping him up against a box. He backs off, going to stand next to Katniss.

Beetee calls out to Wiress, making her go over to him. She crouches down, hands on her knees, waiting. In her limited state of mind, you’re fairly surprised that she’s still comprehending people, much less requests. He holds up his coil of wire, she takes it. “Clean it, will you?” 

Wiress nods, wordlessly getting to her feet and going to sit on the edge of the island to clean the spool of blood. She dunks it in the water, occasionally using her fingers to rub a particularly hard spot. While she does this, she begins to sing, no longer repeating the words ‘tick tock’.

It must be some sort of nursery rhyme from District Three, because you don’t recognize it. It’s about a mouse running up and down a clock, which is fairly appropriate, given the recent discovery, thanks to her.

“Oh, not the song again.” Johanna says, rolling her brown eyes. “That went on for hours before she started tick-tocking.”

Wiress stops suddenly, getting to her feet, posture rigid as she points to the jungle and says, “Two.”

The rest of you watch as a white wave of fog begins to seep onto the beach. From here, it doesn't seem so threatening. You probably wouldn’t think twice about it, if you hadn’t run for your life from it early this morning. While it melted your jumpsuit and poisoned your skin, causing you to strip to your under clothes and for your body to be covered in scabs from where it touched you.

You’d rather fight the orange monkey muttations a hundred times than risk doing that again.

“Yes, look, Wiress is right. It’s two o’clock and the fog has started.” Katniss says.

“LIke clockwork.” Peeta agrees. “You were very smart to figure that out, Wiress.”

Wiress smiles, and then kneels in the sand to continue singing and dunking the coil in water. “Oh, she’s more than smart.” Beetee says from beside you. Your eyes slide over to him. “She’s intuitive. She can sense things before anyone else. Like a canary in one of your coal mines.”

“What’s that?” Finnick asks Katniss.

“It’s a bird that we take down into the mines to warn us if there’s bad air.” She says.

“What’s it do, die?” Johanna scoffs.

“It stops singing first. That’s when you should get out. But if the air’s too bad, it dies, yes. And so do you.” Katniss ends that line of conversation, turning to go inside of the Cornucopia.

Johanna goes in after her to poke around in the weapons, since she’s been empty handed the entire time. Funny how Beetee was able to make it to the Cornucopia before she did, even if it ended up getting him hurt because of it.

You briefly glance at Finnick from where you were watching Johanna, and you have to do a double-take when you realize that he’s staring at you. He looks you over, up and down, which would be flattering, if you didn’t know that he was assessing your demeanor, deciding if you were a threat.

You squint at him, face twisting. “What?”

“Nothing.” He tells you.

“It’s not nothing if you’re looking at me like that.” You snap. “Leave me alone.”

He shakes his head, but doesn’t say anything back. You’re getting tired of him thinking that you’re going to betray the alliance. You’re in this as much as he is, you volunteered to be here. If anything, he should be a little grateful that he got a district partner that’s invested and capable.

He doesn’t see it that way, though. He thinks that you’re just as bad as Enobaria and Brutus—that you’re itching to get back into an arena to kill for some spotlight. And you know this, because he told you himself on the train. Once you were out of sight of the cameras, he tried to lay you out in front of Mags and the escort, and you shut him down.

You know he disagrees with the way you choose to handle situations, but to think that you would get in the way of a rebellion was a slap to the face. You made sure he knew that later on, when you were out of earshot of the Peacekeepers. If he wanted to think of you so lowly, fine. The line is drawn when he begins to implant those ideas in other people’s heads, too. Especially since you’ve done nothing to deserve it.

It didn’t matter to him. In fact, he tried to block you from being invited into the alliance by telling Haymitch that you could fuck the whole plan if your mood changes. He said all it would take is one disagreement, one thing not going the way you wanted, one wrong look, and you’d make sure that everyone else would be brought down by it.

Thankfully, Haymitch knows better than to just take Finnick’s word for it. He might be a drunk, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t paying attention for the past ten years. He knows that you and Finnick have a history of not getting along. If anything, you’ll sabotage Finnick more than you will the alliance as a whole.

Which is why he told you that you have a place in it, if you want. And while everyone else places stepping stones to make sure that the plan to get rescued is in place. You were told that you have two jobs; the first one being protecting Katniss and Peeta, a task that you were already prepared to risk your life for. As for the second one—if anything were to go wrong, if someone unexpected were to get killed, you’ll replace their shoes, and get Katniss and Peeta to the end of the day at all costs.

This is why you’ve been on edge. If Finnick would see past his hatred for you, and thought about it, he’d realize that you’re trying to make sure that Katniss and Peeta are in good positions. You are not the threat here.

Johanna lets out a grunt, you turn your head in time to watch as she throws an axe through the air, straight at the Cornucopia. It hits the sun-softened gold with a gentle thud, and it sticks. She crosses the area, pulling it out by the handle, making a face at the blade.

Katniss is digging through the weapons, probably looking for more arrows to add to her collection, because two sheaths aren’t enough. When she finds one, she swings it over her back and comes out to stand over Peeta, who’s drawing a map of the arena onto a large leaf that he brought from the jungle. He slices the circle, creating twelve equal wedges.

“Look how the Cornucopia is positioned.” He says, looking up at her.

Her eyebrows draw in, and she turns around to take a look at the building she just came out of. “The tail points to twelve o’clock.”

“Right, so this is the top of our clock.” He says, numbering the wedges one through twelve. “Twelve to one is the lightning zone.” He proceeds to write lightning in the wedge, and then goes clockwise, adding blood, fog, and monkeys in the next sections.

“And ten to eleven is the wave.” She says, he writes it down. 

Finnick comes over with Johanna, the two of them have upped the weapon count on their bodies. And he thinks you’re the dangerous one, as if you don’t have a sword and a couple knives on you. Does he really need two tridents and half a dozen knives? It makes him look…

Hot, a voice whispers from the depth of your mind, It makes him look hot.

He’s standing in a patch of sun, where the Cornucopia doesn’t quite reach. The sunbeams baking his already tanned skin. His eyes are a brighter shade of sea green, with the light being in his eyes. He looks like he belongs at the bottom of the ocean, commanding the creatures that dwell in it.

He must feel your eyes on him, because he flickers over to yours. You stare for a second longer, before blinking and looking away, back at the map that’s being drawn. 

It’s a shame that Finnick decided years back that he would rather keep you at a distance instead of making a friend out of you. The two of you are so similar that it hurts at times, but all he can see are the differences, which hurts more.

The both of you won at young ages, with him setting the record, while you won at fifteen. He had an advantage in his Games, though, because the sponsors were drawn in by his good looks for being someone so young. This meant that he had everything he could have ever asked for gifted to him in the arena.

On the other hand, you didn’t make much of an impression during your reaping or the Tribute Parade, forcing you to change the strategy that you’d been given by Finnick and Mags. They wanted you to keep your head down, but if you wanted even a sliver of a chance, you needed to make your name big.

So, that’s exactly what you did. And that’s where the resentment he has for you, started. You showed off absolutely all your skills in the Training Center, making sure the Gamemakers knew you had potential, getting you a score of nine. During your interviews, you told Caesar that there wasn’t a single hurdle you wouldn’t jump to get home.

That statement was put to the test in the arena, when you killed several tributes, including your own district partner, because you knew it put you one step closer to getting out. You didn’t care what bridges you had to burn, how many sponsors you had to lose, or if you lost the support of your mentors. Nothing could stop you, and it didn’t.

Finnick hates that you had no remorse when you got out of the arena. Or now, because you told him that this is the hill you’ve chosen to die on, because between life and death, you choose life. He can’t wrap his head around the fact you’re so cold. How could the two of you be from the same district?

The similarities came back into play when you turned sixteen, when the Capitol realized that they do care about you. Which changed your title from victor to Capitol darling. You were told to join Finnick and be a prostitute, or President Snow would kill your family. 

This is where you screwed up, believing him to be bluffing. You didn’t think he would actually do it, but he’s a man of his word. When you were done listening to the screams and pleas of your parents to spare your siblings, Snow told you that if you didn’t agree, Finnick’s family would be next.

You had no choice, you had to agree. And when Finnick found out that you landed right where he was, there wasn’t a single shred of empathy he had toward you. Not even after you returned to District Four, and he learned that your family had been murdered in your home. The one you’d be forced to stay in for an additional two weeks while they got your victor house ready.

If you weren’t indifferent to his existence before, you sure as hell were then.

“Did you notice anything unusual in the others?” Katniss asks Johanna and Beetee, referring to the wedges. 

“Only blood.” Johanna says, Beetee nods.

“I guess they could hold anything.” Katniss looks down at Peeta.

“I’m going to mark the ones where we know the Gamemakers’ weapon follows us out past the jungle, so we’ll stay clear of those.” Peeta says, drawing diagonal lines on the fog and wave beaches. He then sits back. “Well, it’s a lot more than we knew this morning, anyway.”

You look up, going to check on Wiress, since she’s gone quiet. Your eyes find Gloss, water dripping from his bare skin, knife sliding across the skin on her throat. It’s too late to save her, you know this when the blood begins to come down her neck like a waterfall.

The knife on your belt is in your hand and flying through the air in the matter of seconds. It’s headed right for Gloss, and when the blade lodges in the center of his forehead, it throws him back. This kills him instantly.

A movement out of the corner of your eye makes you turn your head, hand reaching for the knife that’s lined up next, but Johanna’s on it. She buries her axe in the center of Cashmere’s chest, eliminating her.

Three cannons blast, back to back.

Finnick swings his trident upward, deflecting a spear that had been aiming for Peeta, thrown by Brutus. Finnick goes to twist his body to take the knife that Enobaria throws at Beetee, but he misses by an inch. It’s too late for you to save Beetee, as the knife shatters the lens on the right side, and the blade buries itself in his eye socket.

Fuck.

Another cannon blasts.

You shove Finnick out of the way to chase after Enobaria and Brutus, who are making their escape around the backside of the Cornucopia. They’ve successfully killed two of your most important allies, and they don’t even realize it.

The two Careers are running down one of the sand strips to the beach. You manage to throw one more knife at Brutus before he’s out of range. It slams into his right calf, taking him down. He lands on his hands and knees, which is exactly what you were hoping for.

Right as you’re about to step onto the strip, the ground beneath you jerks, throwing you down. The center island of the Cornucopia begins to spin, fast. You press your sword between your body and the ground, digging your fingers into the grooves to hold on. 

It’s only thirty seconds later when it slams to a stop without warning. 

You squeeze your eyes shut, taking measured breaths to calm the growing annoyance in your chest. The Gamemakers knew you would kill Brutus, and later Enobaria, if you caught up with her. That’s why they had to intervene, otherwise the fun of the Games would be gone.

You slam your fist against the rock, pushing yourself to your knees. You lean back on your heels slightly, face to the sun while you collect yourself. With Wiress and Beetee being gone, this is a very large hiccup that you’re going to have to smooth out. You jinxed yourself, didn’t you?

A sigh leaves you as you get to your feet, swinging the sword into your hand. As you round the corner, you can see that everyone else is upright. Finnick looks over at you, eyebrows raised, waiting for good news, because you were the closest to the Two tributes.

“Brutus is injured. I would’ve had him if the fuckin’ Gamemakers had minded their own business.” You stab the tip of the sword into a patch of sand.

“Where’s Volts?” Johanna asks, looking around the group.

“He’s dead.” You tell her.

She meets your eyes, “What happened?”

“I—” Finnick starts.

“I didn’t block the knife in time.” You talk over him. “Enobaria’s got a strong arm, it went right through his glasses.”

You can see Finnick staring at you from the corner of your eye. You lick your lips, tasting the salt of the water, before pressing them together. When you look at him, the two of you stare for a long second.

You, Johanna and Finnick know what this means. If just one of the Three tributes had been killed, you could’ve used the other. With both of them being gone, it means that someone needs to pick up their job, and you were the one that was elected to do just that.

“What now?” Finnick asks you.

You tilt your head, eyes going out to the water, finding two of the four bodies. It’s got to be Wiress and Gloss, because they’d been right next to each other when they died. You lean your sword up against the Cornucopia before wandering forward, to the edge of the island.

Wiress is floating on her back, on her stomach sits the spool of wire, golden and shining in the sunlight. You begin to head down the sand strip closest to her body. “I want the wire.”

“What for?” Johanna asks, “That was his weapon, not yours.”

You look over your shoulder. “It has to be now, doesn’t it?”

Johanna makes a face, but it’s not one of doubt. She knows that you’re right, that’s why she won’t bother to argue. Not that she would, anyway. You and Johanna get along, basically two peas in the same pod. She just likes Finnick more, because he puts up with her bullshit.

You jog as close as you can get to Wiress’s body, before diving in the warm water. It’s a nice break from the sun, even if it is for a minute. It doesn’t take long to get to her body, prying the coil from her fingers. You’re about to swim away, when you hesitate, closing her eyes.

Finnick is waiting for you on the strip when you get back to it. You place the wire on the rock, and he reaches down to help you up. Your face twists, but you take his hand, letting him help. The moment you’re on both feet, he pulls you close, a rough hand on your shoulder as he pulls you close to speak in your ear.

“If you can’t do this, you need to tell me. I’ll figure something else out.” Finnick harshly whispers.

You jerk back, squinting at him. “Worry about yourself.” 

As you stoop to grab the wire, Finnick shakes his head. “I mean it, (Y/n).”

“And so do I.” You tell him, lowering your voice. “There’s a reason why Haymitch trusted me with this, and not you.”

He raises his eyebrows, “We’re back to this, huh?”

You scoff loudly. “You’re the one that’s upset by it, Finnick. So, here’s a fucking suggestion: deal with it.” You shake your head. “You’re so worried that I’m going to betray the alliance, that’s you’re forgetting that this is what I do.” You motion to the jungle with your free hand. “Enobaria and Brutus can run all they want, but we both know they’re going to have to come out eventually if they plan on finishing us off. And when they do, they’re going to get it.

“Not from you, not from Johanna, from me.” You seethe, moving around Finnick to head back up to the Cornucopia. You throw your hands up, one of them still holding the wire. “Face it, Finnick, I’ve got this handled.”

You turn around, finding that your three other allies have their eyes on you. You ignore them, watching where you place your feet. On the island, you retrieve your sword, dropping the wire onto a box. Finnick is a few feet behind you, wearing a hard expression.

You hate it when you have to talk to him like that, but you can’t do it any other way if you want him to listen to you. It’s like he doesn’t care unless you’re being hostile, except that tone of voice has him on edge, afraid that you’re going to flip a switch.

There is no happy medium. It’s like he’s dead-set on thinking that you’re an unlikable person. You wouldn’t have minded having an actual conversation between you, Finnick and Johanna to figure out a plan together. It’s his fault that he decided to take the situation into his own hands by assuming that you wouldn’t have the ability to fill Beetee’s shoes.

It makes you mad, so now you’re going to take care of it by yourself. As much as he wants you to ask for help, you’ll do everything in your power to make sure you don’t need him. Or the others, for that matter.

“Let’s get off this stinking island.” Johanna says once Finnick has joined the group.

You dig through the weapons in the Cornucopia, looking for a pair of knives that aren’t too short. The only ones that are available are displayed on the wall in the very back. They’re slightly curved, not too heavy. They’ll work just fine.

You watch as Peeta, Finnick and Johanna start in three different directions.

You stand next to Katniss, watching this. When they realize that no one is following them, they stop.

“Twelve o’clock, right?” Peeta asks. “The tail points at twelve.”

“Before they spun us.” Finnick says. “I was judging by the sun.”

“The sun only tells you it’s going on four, Finnick.” Katniss tells him. “Any one of these paths could lead to twelve o’clock.”

You tuck the knives in your belt, as you circle the Cornucopia with them to try and find the path that’ll lead to the twelve beach. Only, the jungle is perfectly replicated in every section, down to the last tree. Johanna suggests following Enobaria and Brutus’s path, but it’s been washed away.

Katniss stops. “I should have never mentioned the clock. Now they’ve taken that advantage away as well.”

“For now.” You murmur. “We still have the wave at ten to tell us, we’ll be back on track after that.”

“Yes, they can’t redesign the whole arena.” Peeta says.

“It doesn’t matter.” Johanna’s growing impatient, wanting to move. “You had to tell us or we never would have moved our camp in the first place, brainless. Come on, I need water. Anyone have a good gut feeling?”

You let them decide which strip to take to the beach. Katniss and Peeta begin to lead the way. You grab the wire, motioning for Johanna and Finnick to go next, but they don’t budge. You roll your eyes and duck your head, putting a good distance between you and Peeta before you walk.

“What’s the plan?” Johanna’s voice sounds far, and she’s trying to be quiet, but there’s not enough going on for it to conceal her.

“She says she’ll handle it.” Finnick murmurs, you can’t tell if he’s mad or not.

“That’s it?” She asks, “It looked like she was yelling at you.”

“She did.” He says. “She told me to worry about myself, and she’ll handle Enobaria and Brutus.”

Johanna doesn’t speak right away. “Do you trust her?”

“No, but I trust her anger.” He tells her. “She’s right, this is what she does best.”

“So, you want to follow behind her?”

“Do you have any other ideas?” Finnick shoots back.

“No.” Johanna sighs.

When you get to the jungle, they look inside of it, trying to figure out if there’s anything waiting inside or not. When you can’t see any immediate threats, they relax.

“Well, it must be monkey hour. And I don’t see any of them in there.” Peeta says. “I’m going to try to tap a tree.”

“No, it’s my turn.” Finnick objects. “I’ll at least watch your back.”

“Katniss can do that.” Johanna says. “We need you to make another map. The other washed away.” She reaches up, yanking off a large leaf to hand to him. “(Y/n) can stay with us, while she figures out what to do with the wire.”

You drop it in the sand, along with your sword, as you sit down. Peeta crouches beside you, beginning to make his map, again. As you watch him draw the slices, your mind begins to wander. 

Katniss and Peeta are the Careers’ focus. They want to target the ones with the highest scores first, and then work their way down. If they take out a few of you in the process, then that’s great, but they’re afraid of what the Twelve tributes could’ve possibly done in order to get a perfect score.

It was a little odd for Gloss to go for Wiress, if this is the case. And Cashmere wasn’t able to kill anybody before she died. You guess she might have been going for Katniss, but Johanna was in between them, she wasn’t going to make it that far. That’s why Brutus tried to get Peeta with the spear, and maybe the knife was originally aimed for Peeta, not Beetee?

You just can’t wrap your head around their strategy of getting rid of the Three tributes. Were Enobaria and Brutus that worried about you guys coming up with a plan to use the explosives on the tribute platforms? It wouldn’t be the first time it happened in the Games, it’s just a stupid idea to do it in the water, when you have nothing to steady yourself on.

Either way, you need to figure out a way to draw them in. If there’s anything you know for sure, it’s that they’ll wait until dark to attack again, because they’ll have cover. It’s only the two of them now, which means they won’t attack the five of you all together, they’ll get overpowered in seconds. They’ll wait until you split up.

You play with the wire, twisting it between your fingers while you think.

If they send another twenty-four rolls from District Three tonight, you’ll have no choice but to go into the jungle for the lightning section, because that’s where they’ll be rescuing you out of the arena. You would just say that you should go up to the lightning tree and wait, except you won’t know what time it is until ten, like you said.

When the wave does it, you’ll have two hours to get to the tree. After that, Katniss and Peeta will have to get split up long enough to get the tracker out of their arms. That’ll be the perfect time to kill Enobaria and Brutus, too.

You just need a reason for them to split up. Johanna’s already agreed to getting it out of Katniss’s arm, which left Peeta for Finnick. You need some sort of placebo plan in the meantime, something for them to focus on to keep their minds off of the fact that the situation is going to be very, very suspicious.

“That’s it.” Peeta says, sitting back. “I don’t—”

A scream cuts through the still air, silencing him. You whip around to look back at the jungle, unsure of whether or not it belongs to Katniss. As you get to your feet, sword in your hand, you can hear another voice, shouting back. That one sounds like Katniss.

“What’s happening?” Peeta asks.

You get to your feet before he does, pulling the sword into your hand as you break through the jungle, swinging at any leaves in your way. “I think we chose the wrong section.”

“It’s supposed to be the monkey mutts right now, how can it be anything else?” Peeta asks.

Your face twists as you look over your shoulder, finding that Johanna’s eyes have rolled back as far as she can get them. “Because it’s the next hour?” She snarks.

Peeta doesn’t respond. For a moment, you’re genuinely concerned that the forcefield on the first day might have fried his brain a lot more than you thought. When you begin to think of all the decisions he’s made over these past couple of days, you relax. It’s not really out of his nature to say something stupid once in a while.

You’re about twenty yards into the jungle when you stop suddenly, sword at your side, eyes scanning the trees above. When Johanna and Peeta finally pause, you realize just how quiet it is out here.

Johanna takes a step or two forward, coming to stand next to you, looking up at the tree branches. She covers her eyes with one hand, squinting. “There’s no birds.”

“Exactly what I was thinking.” You tell her, your normal voice feels too loud. “There’s not even insects.”

“What are you thinking?” She asks, looking at you.

“I feel like it’s too early to be the beast, because the sun was down further yesterday.” 

She nods. “A new hour.”

“That doesn’t explain why it’s so quiet.” Peeta says.

“Could be something in the trees.” You tell him, turning your body to face him. “That’s why I don’t want to go further in.”

“But Katniss and Finnick are in there.” Peeta shakes his head. “We have to.”

“Don’t you think they would’ve called for help by now?” You ask, “We heard Katniss say something, but then she stopped.”

“And they can’t be dead because there’s no cannon.” Johanna says after. “What if they’re hurt?”

You look further into the jungle. “It’s a bad idea.”

“We have to try.” Peeta says, starting toward the two of you.

You move in time to let him pass without running into your shoulder. He makes it an additional five yards before he walks smack into a wall, head bouncing off. A little smile fights its way onto your face, and then it vanishes when you realize that this is exactly what happened when he hit the forcefield.

He reaches out, going to touch it. You stride forward, grabbing the back of the neck of his undershirt, yanking him back. “Are you stupid?”

“Wait.” He swats your hand free. “Watch.”

You grab his wrist when he holds his hand out again, causing him to look at you with wide eyes. “I’m not taking any chances with you.”

“Then do it yourself.” Peeta motions, you let go. “It would’ve blown me back if it was a forcefield. Besides, it’s too far down.”

You look at space in front of you, seemingly fine. The wall that he’d run into isn’t even visible. You take in a breath, holding it, before sticking your hand out in the direction of it.

The palm of your hand vibrates against it, you apply pressure, wondering if it’ll budge if you lean into it, but it doesn’t move. You look down at your sword, pressing your lips together. If this is a forcefield, this will most definitely kill you. Still, you swing the sword into the invisible wall, and you’re pleasantly surprised when it doesn’t explode into sparks upon contact.

“Well…” You trail off, beginning to walk around the wall, keeping one hand on it. No matter where you touch, or how far along you walk, the wall doesn’t stop. You make it into the next section of the jungle, and around the corner, and still feel it there. When you make it back to Johanna and Peeta, you shake your head. “Sealed.”

“They’re inside?” Peeta asks. “Do you think they can hear us?”

“I’m going to say no.” Johanna grunts, swinging her axe into the wall repeatedly. “If we can’t hear the birds,” Her voice is strained, “Then we can’t hear them.” She stops, tossing the axe aside, it lands next to a bush. She sighs, “I guess we’re going to wait out here.”

Peeta doesn’t like this idea, you can tell by the way his face screws up, but he knows you don’t have any other choice. 

“I’m going to grab the wire, then.” You tell her.

“Speaking of it, come up with anything yet?” She asks, eyebrows raised.

“Almost.” You say, walking away from her.

When you get to the beach and find the wire, you don’t go back into the jungle right away. You stand beneath a patch of shade, staring at the Cornucopia, and the trees beyond it, squinting.

From what you can tell, Enobaria and Brutus aren’t on the beach or in the treeline, which means that they’re in those trees, somewhere. They must be fairly far in, where they’re resting. They likely won’t come out again until they’ve been sponsored and their wounds are healing. And even then, they’ll make sure you’re not on the beach, first.

Or maybe they are able to see you, and you just can’t see them.

If you were in their shoes, you’d be watching your every move right now to figure out what you’re doing. And if that’s the case, it doesn’t matter what you do with this wire, they’ll already know the plan. Really, it would just be an excuse to split Katniss and Peeta.

So, that’s what it’ll be.

The wire could be used for a number of things, you could probably make a trap out of it. There’s enough of it for you to bring it to the tree and back down to the beach, twice. The question is what Beetee would have used it for.

You close your eyes, listening to the waves on the beach, trying to remember how Beetee won his Games. You were talking to Mags about it the other day, she was telling you that it’s been thirty years since he won. Back then, he wasn’t the strongest tribute either, he had to make something to electrocute the last remaining tributes.

He wouldn’t really be able to do that now. He had the sources—the lightning at midnight and the water at the center. In the condition he was in before he got killed, he wouldn’t have been able to make the trip up to the tree, back down to the water, and up again to be out of the way of the electricity. And the chances of the wire being cut by the Careers isn’t that low, even in your situation now.

You’d need someone at the base of the tree, and someone unspooling the wire down to the water…

Your eyes pop open, it takes them a second to adjust to the sudden light. You stare at the water. This is what Beetee was going to do, wasn’t it? The wire acts as a conductor. If you hook it up to the tree at the right time when it strikes, it’ll fry everything in the water.

But what you want is to kill the Careers, in a way. The sand would have to be wet too, or at least damp. Which… Which will be the exact case when the wave hits at ten, and it’ll be cooler out, so the water won’t evaporate as quickly. If you bury the spool in the sand, it should have the entire beach covered and the water.

“Bingo.” You say, grabbing the coil.

You join the others back inside of the jungle, finding Peeta on the floor, forehead pressed to the invisible wall. Johanna’s pacing back and forth, arms crossed over her chest. When you get closer, you’re able to see that Katniss and Finnick are on the other side, both of them with their hands over their ears.

When a twig snaps beneath your weight, Johanna looks over. She lets out a sigh, shoulders slumping. “What took you so long?”

“Came up with a plan.” You tell her, dropping the wire and your sword next to one of her axes. 

“What plan?” Peeta asks, unmoving.

“On how to kill the remaining Careers.” You wink at Johanna, but it’s not flirtatious.

You know she understands when the crease appears between her eyebrows, giving you a slight nod. “Care to enlighten us?”

“When they’re out, I will. I don’t want to have to repeat myself.” You nod at the other two. “What’s going on in there?”

“I think it’s jabberjays.” Johanna says, pointing up at the trees behind the wall. “They’re fifty of them in the trees. Katniss tried killing them, of course it didn’t work.”

Your eyes land on Finnick, finding his muscles rigid. You crouch to get a better look at his face, there’s a streak of red from his nose, down his lips, and off his chin. “What happened to Finnick?”

“He ran face-first into the wall.” Peeta says. “It was a bloody nose.”

You hum, lowering yourself to the ground. “Hopefully it won’t be much longer.”

—

The wall suddenly breaks, Peeta falling forward. He catches himself on his hands, getting to his feet. He doesn’t even say anything, just scoops Katniss into his arms, and walks straight out of the jungle with her, leaving the arrows behind.

You sit up, looking over at Johanna to see that she’s staring at you. She tilts her head, “Do you want to try?”

You take in a breath, “I’ll let you know if it works.”

She nods, following after Katniss and Peeta, because someone needs to be watching over them. You get up, walking a few feet over to Finnick, before crouching down beside him. 

You lift a hand, hovering it over his back for a minute, and then change your mind, placing your elbows on your thighs to lean on them. He’s got his eyes closed, head down. He probably can’t even hear you. You don’t even know how he’ll react to being touched, much less by you.

You press your lips together, heart hurting at the sight of him. It’d be better if Johanna were here, she can talk to him. All you’ll do is upset him more. You grind your teeth, once again wishing that this wasn’t your relationship. As you go to stand up, the hands over his ears loosen, head beginning to lift.

He looks around in the jungle first, making sure the threat is gone. That’s when he notices you beside him, waiting. His eyes are watery, he swallows.

“Hey,” You murmur, “Are you okay?”

He stares at you, eyebrows drawing in.

You nod, “I’ll go get Johanna.”

Once again, you try to get to your feet, when he speaks, “Why?”

“Why… what?” You ask, pausing.

“Why would you get Johanna?” He asks.

You turn your head in the direction of the beach. Is he really going to make you say it? Does he want to see the pain it’ll cause you? Or does he think it’ll come out venomous?

When you look at him, you sigh, “Because I’m not really a comforting person to you, am I?”

He doesn’t answer your question, “Where are they?”

“They’re on the beach.” You tell him. “I figured out a plan that’ll work. I’ll tell you guys when you’re ready.”

“Do Johanna and Peeta know?” He asks.

You shake your head, “No.”

Neither of you move, staring at each other. And while you could stay here forever, you don’t allow yourself. You push on your knees, standing up. You offer your hand to him, but he moves it away, just like you figured he would.

He doesn’t say anything, walking past you to leave. You stare at the scene of dead birds in front of you, before you turn around, collecting yours and Johanna’s belongings, and going to join them on the beach. 

Katniss seems better, she’s talking to Peeta. Johanna is standing over them, she glances at Finnick when he passes by. She has to twist her body to see you standing in the treeline. You hand her the axe.

“It was a trick, Katniss. A horrible one. But we’re the only ones who can be hurt by it. We’re the ones in the Games. Not them.” Peeta says.

“You really believe that?” Katniss asks.

“I really do.” 

“Do you believe it, Finnick?” 

“It could be true. I don’t know.” He says, looking up at Johanna, ignoring you entirely. “Could they do that? Take someone’s regular voice and make it…”

Johanna makes a face, looking at you for help. You play with the piece of wire you’d unraveled, “I’m sure Beetee would know.”

“Peeta’s right.” Johanna then says. “The whole country adores Katniss’s little sister. If they really killed her like this, they’d probably have an uprising on her hands.” She deadpans. “Don’t want that, do they?” She scoffs, throwing her head back to shout, “Whole country in rebellion? Wouldn’t want anything like that!”

She shakes her head, wandering around the beach to pick up shells. When she finds a good few, she stops next to Finnick, holding her hand out. “I’m getting water.” Finnick drops the spile into her hand, and she begins toward the jungle.

Katniss grabs her hand. “Don’t go in there. The birds—”

“They can’t hurt me. I’m not like the rest of you. There’s no one left I love.” She says, shaking her hand free. You don’t miss the look she gives Finnick, and then you, as she disappears into the jungle. 

She comes back a couple minutes later with a shell of water, handing it over to Katniss first. She makes trips back and forth, letting each of you have some. She comes out one trip with a pile of arrows that she gives back to Katniss.

Finnick shakes his head, walking to the water. He stops a few feet in, and sits. You let the wire drop to the sand, tired of bringing it wherever you go. You don’t move from where you are, eyes fixated on his back.

“Who did they use against Finnick?” Peeta asks, curious.

Katniss is quiet. You’re expecting her to say Annie, because it makes the most sense, but when you look over, she’s eyeing you, and so is Peeta. 

“What?” You ask. “Was it Annie?”

“No, it wasn’t.” Katniss murmurs. “We thought we heard you.”

A loud laugh comes from you, unwarranted. The thought of Finnick caring about you enough for the Gamemakers to use you against him is funny. Really funny, actually. It must’ve been a walk in the park for him, listening to your pleas. A little gratifying, because he could pretend that you were getting what was coming for you.

But Katniss isn’t laughing, she’s serious. 

The humor leaves your smile, “It must’ve been his mother, that he was mistaken for me.”

“No, because we heard his mom, too. That first scream was yours.” She insists, “And he dropped everything to find you.”

“Finnick would never do that.” You tell her, voice cold. 

She doesn’t press it further, but the look in her eye is enough. She’s not lying to you, she’s telling the truth. She doesn’t gain anything from making something like that up.

You won’t believe it though. This is the same Finnick that told Johanna that he didn’t trust you, an hour and a half ago. There’s nothing that could’ve made him change his feelings in that time span.

Unless it didn’t.

Your eyes narrow at the back of Finnick’s head, hand tightening around your sword. 

A cannon blast keeps you from thinking about the subject any further, but the bubbling in your stomach is only getting hotter. Finnick gets up, coming to join you three, as well as Johanna, materializing out of the jungle. You stand together, watching a hovercraft appear over the next section, claw dipping in several times to retrieve all the pieces of one body. 

The beast.

This sparks Peeta to create another map, this time he’s able to fill in more than half of it. It starts with lightning, rain, and fog. It moves on to monkeys and jabberjays. He has to skip a section, and then writes beast. And the next one you have after six to seven is the wave at ten. This means you’re missing five of the other hours. 

The others begin to come back to life. Finnick begins to weave a water basket and a net to fish for dinner. While Katniss takes a swim and applies more ointment. By the time she’s done, Finnick has worked up a pile, so she sits on the edge of the water, cleaning them for him. 

It doesn’t take long for Katniss’s words to creep back into your mind, refusing to leave it be. Finnick cares about you, a thought that should have you excited, but it makes you uncomfortable. He has spent the last eight years making sure that you know that he hates you and couldn’t care less about what happens to you.

Yet here he is, supposedly dropping everything to save you. Possibly even leaving Katniss behind to do it. The Gamemakers must know something that you don’t, if they knew to use your voice. You want to assume that they thought Finnick was worried solely because you’re his district partner. Except, that doesn’t make sense either, because the two of you are notorious in the Capitol for being a pair of mentors that get into fights about how to handle things.

He has a lot of nerve.

The sun falls below the horizon, the moon rising to replace it in the sky. When they finish cleaning the fish, they bring it over, setting it in the middle of the circle for you to enjoy. The four of them begin to settle in the sand, you don’t move from where you stand.

The anthem begins to play, stopping them from digging in. The Capitol seal lights up the sky, and then it’s replaced by the faces. Cashmere, Gloss, Wiress, Beetee. The woman from Five, the morphling from Six, Blight, and the man from Ten. 

Eight tributes dead.

Strangely, this makes you think of your own Hunger Games. Where you managed to kill four people in the span of two hours, one of those being Rio, who was your district partner. By the end of the Games, you had eight kills under your belt. A third of the competition was taken out by you, a little fifteen year-old.

Once again, a factor that used to make Finnick sick. And now it doesn’t.

“They’re really burning through us.” Johanna says.

“Who’s left? Besides us five and District Two?” Finnick asks.

“Chaff.” Peeta says without missing a beat.

The sound of clinking fills the air, you look up to find a parachute coming down, teetering from side to side. It lands perfectly in the middle of the group, unfolding itself to reveal the steaming rolls.

“Do these look like District Three to you?” Finnick looks at Johanna.

“Yeah, look at the imprint.” She says, running her finger over the top of one. “How many are there?”

Finnick counts them, being sure to be thorough. “Twenty-four. How should we divide them?”

“Let’s each have three, and whoever is still alive at breakfast can take a vote on the rest.” Johanna says, causing Katniss to laugh.

You pull your sword out of the sand, swinging it up to rest the flat part of the blade on your shoulder. Finnick looks up at you, eyeing your stance. You step away from them, shaking your head.

“Sit down, (Y/n).” Finnick tells you.

“Why, so you can keep an eye on me?” You snap, crossing the treeline. “Come and get me, Finnick.”

You make it a few feet in, before you hear the snapping of branches behind you. You sigh, turning with raised eyebrows to see that Finnick took it as a challenge. You didn’t mean it that way. You didn’t want him to chase you.

“Get out here.” He tells you.

You walk backward, tilting your head at him. “I’m just making sure Enobaria and Brutus aren’t out here.”

“I don’t care.” He’s still walking toward you. “We’ll worry about that when we make camp.”

You stop, letting your sword down from your shoulder. When you look past him, you can see that there’s enough distance between him and the beach. There’s privacy to talk and sort out what you heard.

Your eyes land on him, “Katniss told me something,” You start, watching his eyebrows twitch, “About how you thought I was the one screaming for help.”

Finnick shakes his head, “I thought it was my mom.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said too.” You tell him, “But you said my name, and you dropped everything to go and get me.”

He sets his jaw, “So?”

“So,” The word is bitter, “What changed?”

He laughs, “Nothing, (Y/n). I went—”

“They used loved ones and family.” You cut him off. “You care about me, admit it.”

“I don’t.” He tells you. “I never have, and I never will.”

“You chased after the jabberjays thinking it was me, and you followed me in here because you’re worried that I’ll get caught by the Careers, admit it.”

“I don’t know what you think is happening, but whatever it is, it’s not true.” His voice wavers.

This is all the confirmation you need. “You want to know what I’m thinking right now?” You press your pointer finger to the middle of his chest. “That you’re not bothered by me anymore, and you haven’t been for a while. You’ve done a damn good job of hiding it up until now, but the jabberjays got you good.”

Finnick grabs your wrist, “That’s not true.”

“What changed, Finnick?” You insist.

“Nothing, because I don’t have feelings for you.” He snaps. “The reason why I came in here is because we want to move camp to the ten sector once the wave happens, I just didn’t want you to get lost out here and think we abandoned you, making you think it’s a free-for-all.”

He lets go of your wrist, face screwed tightly, as he leaves you here. You watch him go back to the beach, while you take several breaths, feeling the pit in your stomach grow.

What have you done?

---

this is part of my 3k celebration!!

[hollowed-theory-hall]

I don't get why the fandom likes to say Lily and Ginny look really similar to each other.

I mean, yeah, they both have red hair (different shades of red, btw), but all their other descriptions are very different, and the two probably don't look alike at all.

Let's start with their hair:

She was a very pretty woman. She had dark red hair and her eyes — her eyes are just like mine, Harry thought, edging a little closer to the glass. Bright green — exactly the same shape

(PS)

It was one of the girls from the lake edge. She had thick, dark red hair that fell to her shoulders and startlingly green almond-shaped eyes — Harry’s eyes.

(OotP)

Ginny, on the other hand, is described with "flaming red" hair, so it's likely something like this:

Plump little Mrs. Weasley; tall, balding Mr. Weasley; six sons; and one daughter, all (though the black-and-white picture didn’t show it) with flaming-red hair

(PoA)

where two enormous gray feet stood on the smooth Chamber floor. And between the feet, facedown, lay a small, black-robed figure with flaming-red hair.

(CoS)

As Lily's hair is described as "dark red", so we're probably talking on this sort of more auburn color while Ginny's (and her brothers) hair would be more orange (Lily - Left, Ginny - Right):

Also, Lily is described as having "thick" hair, while Ginny isn't. So, I usually imagine Ginny's hair as straight while Lily's has more waviness and volume to it.

Their eye color (and shape) is also different:

As I mentioned above, Lily has bright green almond-shaped eyes like Harry, while Ginny's eyes are described as:

He forced himself to look directly into her eyes, noticing as he did so that they were precisely the same shade of brown as Ginny’s.

(DH)

They are built really differently as well, and their facial structure is likely quite different too. Ginny is often mentioned to take after Molly (short with brown eyes) and we know Molly is plump and rounder:

Mrs. Weasley was marching across the yard, scattering chickens, and for a short, plump, kind-faced woman

(CoS)

So, Ginny likely has a similar build, short and stocky (if likely less plump as she's more sporty. Also she didn't have 7 pregnancies yet which can also affect a woman's build), and has a round face. She is mentioned to be noticeably short of repeatedly:

“You need more persuasion?” she said, her chest rising and falling rapidly. “Very well — take the smallest one,” she ordered the Death Eaters beside her. “Let him watch while we torture the little girl. I’ll do it.” Harry felt the others close in around Ginny. He stepped sideways so that he was right in front of her, the prophecy held up to his chest.

(OotP)

Harry looked over the top of Ginny’s head to see Dean Thomas holding a shattered glass in his hand

(HBP) - Harry who's about 5'11 in HBP can easily see over the top of Ginny's head.

Lily, on the other hand, is Petunia's sister and likely shares some familial resemblance. Petunia is tall (for a woman, not tall-tall), thin, and she has a thin face:

Aunt Petunia’s thin, horsey face now appeared beside Uncle Vernon’s wide, purple one. She looked livid.

(OotP)

Plus, Lily is implied to be taller than Pettigrew (who I estimate at about 5'2 and taller than Ginny):

His mother and father were beaming up at him, sitting on either side of a small, watery-eyed man Harry recognized at once as Wormtail

(OotP)

Also when she stands next to a 5'11 James, she isn't mentioned to be shorter than him by a full head (like Ginny is and which is the kind of thing Harry often mentions):

The tall, thin, black-haired man standing next to her put his arm around her

(PS)

I always imagined Petunia as tall and thin and Lily not shorter by much. So, Lily is somewhere around 5'6-ish, I think, which is a bit taller than average, while I imagined Petunia is a little taller. And Lily would likely have a thin, slightly longer-looking face, especially compared to Ginny. (Harry too, is mentioned to have a thin face, like his mom).

Ginny, like the rest of the Weasleys, is very freckled:

My father told me all the Weasleys have red hair, freckles, and more children than they can afford.

(PS)

Mr. Weasley, Fred, George, and Ron in a cloud of rubble and loose chippings. Aunt Petunia shrieked and fell backward over the coffee table; Uncle Vernon caught her before she hit the floor, and gaped, speechless, at the Weasleys, all of whom had bright red hair, including Fred and George, who were identical to the last freckle.

(GoF)

Charlie was built like the twins, shorter and stockier than Percy and Ron, who were both long and lanky. He had a broad, good-natured face, which was weather-beaten and so freckly that he looked almost tanned;

(GoF)

Note Fred, George, and Charlie, like Ginny are more similar to Molly, and all are covered in freckles.

Whereas Lily (or Petunia) is never mentioned to have freckles, and most likely doesn't have any. Her face is only ever described as white. If she did have freckles, Harry would have mentioned it since it's the kind of thing he notices. Especially considering how excited he is whenever he sees his parents' faces.

So, Ginny and Lily don't look at all alike, not even their hair is the same kind of red and I find all the jokes about Oedipus complex or Hinny looking just like Jily make very little sense when you look at their actual descriptions in the books. These two women look nothing alike (besides red hair (in different shades!) and white skin), so it just kind of annoys me when they're treated like look-alikes in fanon.

[humanpurposes]

Can I Be Yours? - Nightblooms II

Aemond returns to the pleasure house after the battle of Rook's Rest // Main Masterlist

Aemond x unnamed female character

Warnings: 18+, smut, dub-con, angst, sex work, unresolved childhood trauma, implied underage and non-con (not explicitly depicted), mentions of war, violence and death, ambiguous ending

Words: 3k

Each day she arrives at the market shortly after sunrise. She has the coin to pay for the usual cheap cuts of meat, for fats and vegetables to make into something edible, but there is nothing to buy; most of the vendors have sold the last of their wares. Summer is at an end, there are less crops coming from the Reach and the sea is still cut off with no end in sight to the blockade. 

King’s Landing has never been a place where she feels at ease but as the season shifts and the war goes on, families are starving and people are getting desperate, fighting over what they can get their hands on. They’ve all been reduced to dogs, clawing at each other over scraps while carts of livestock and fresh produce trundle through the streets towards the Red Keep, guarded by men in Hightower green.

She manages to buy some crabs and vegetables she’ll have to cut the mould from. They have a store of grain in the kitchens to make flatbread, though they have to use less and less each day, anticipating when they’ll be able to find more.

She eats less of her share so the younger girls won’t have to go hungry. Besides, she hasn’t had much of an appetite for days.

She had spent hours trying to rinse herself clean of the King and his companions after they’d had their way with her– after Aemond had left her to their mercy. That night she scrubbed at her skin with salt, then a cloth, then a bristled brush. That feeling was still there, like sweat sticking to her skin, like her body was not her own. She heard their voices and their cold laughter with the rush of water past her ears. She scrubbed harder and harder until she tinted the water pink with her blood.

One morning, one of the girls returns to the pleasure house, unsuccessful in finding a cure for her babe’s fever, but startled by something else.

The Hightower army has returned from a battle, dragging the head of a dragon on a cart through the city.

“It’s monstrous,” the girl says, trying to measure the scale of the head with her arms. “It had black blood, and gods, the smell, like charred meat!”

Sylvi hovers over her shoulder. “Slain by your favourite, I wonder?”

Favourite? Clearly she was not so favoured by Prince Aemond.

Men are led by their desires. That’s why, even as the city is starving, they find the money to come here and seek their pleasure. They are fickle, easily satiated and have no loyalties but to themselves, to their own preservation.

Sylvi huffs when she does not react to her teasing. “Seven above, do try to look less miserable, girl.”

She’s been trying for days, but she can’t force a pleasant demeanour when she feels so hollow.

The returning soldiers come to the Street of Silk that night, newly paid and come to bask in their victory. Her gown is a deep shade of blue and Sylvi has given her some of her jewellery, sapphire earrings and a heavy gold necklace that feels like a collar, to cover the bruises on her neck left by the King.

She catches the eye of a soldier in the main chamber. He takes her by the waist and drags her onto his thigh.

He moves clumsily, trying to drag her core against his leg or the bulge in his breeches, she cannot tell and she does not care. 

Look less miserable, it’s only a motion of the body.

Look less miserable, men want a woman who is warm, who smiles.

Look less miserable, but has he noticed her fallen face and the empty look in her eyes? Likely not.

Her body feels numb again.

“Look at me,” the man demands.

She turns her head towards him but her eyes are down, elsewhere completely. She pictures candlelight, a veil around the edges of a bed so the bodies around her are like shadows. She feels a weight on her chest and stomach, limbs intertwined with hers, long, loose hair spilling over her bare skin. A voice is just out of reach.

Look at me, look at me, look at me–

“My Prince!”

Her senses come back to her as quickly as a match takes to flame. Her head darts to where the soldier is looking, to the man standing before them, dark leathers, silver hair, an eyepatch over his face and a sword hanging from his hip.

Aemond tilts his head, his one eye intent on her. 

“Apologies, Prince Regent,” the soldier says, and shoves her off his lap so he can stand.

She stumbles but holds her ground. Her eyes are on the floor but imagining his face frowning in displeasure, the sight of his scar, the lines of his muscles under his skin. She cannot bear to truly look upon him, but he’s watching her.

Why come now? Why her, when she has already proved worthless to him?

“Come,” Aemond says without reaching for her, without waiting for her to match his gaze. She follows, if only to escape the wanton soldier.

Aemond takes her to the same chamber, standing at the foot of the same bed where they used to lay together.

She stands before him with her eyes lowered.

He towers over her and lifts her chin to match his gaze with a gloved hand. The leather against her skin is unnatural, cold, disturbing her very being like ripples through a peaceful surface of water. The sight of him only brings her pain, as does the separation from him. Fear and admiration twist together and writhe in her gut.

He reaches to remove the necklace first, letting it fall to the floor. “An ugly thing,” he mutters, “do not wear this again, I find it distracting.” It bares her bruises. He traces his gloved fingers over the flushes of red and purple in her skin.

Next he undoes her dress, another gown designed to fall away from one clasp. She does not remove the rest to bare herself, so he tugs the gown away himself, pulling her forward by her wrists to make her step away from where it pools on the floor.

Without any further preamble he surges into her, cupping her jaw with his hands and kissing her passionately. He demands reception with his lips, tongue and teeth, but she will not give it to him. She remains as steadfast as she can.

He pauses, kissing her again, then again.

“What’s the matter?” His voice is subtle and as soft as the edge of a knife. Gently, he takes a hold of her neck. It is tender, but not quite a comfort. Her pulse beats furiously against his fingers. “You are angry with me, is that it?”

Has he thought of her these last few days? Does he blame himself for the bruises on her neck? 

She says nothing.

“I’ll not fuck an unwilling whore.”

“No,” it falls from her lips like a breath.

Aemond tuts and tilts his head. “No?”

She parts her lips but she cannot speak.

His one-eyed stare darkens. He will take her silence for defiance, and that is not what he pays for.

If all he seeks is carnal desire she will grant him this. She tears away the layers of him, his gloves, the buckles on his jerkin, her fingers fumbling in her determination.

Aemond grunts as she pushes the sleeves from his shoulders, the leather landing with a heavy thud on the floor. His face is perplexed but he does not resist.

She tugs at the strings of his undershirt and pulls it over his head. When his chest is bare she puts her hands on his shoulders and pulls herself in, crashing her lips into his. Everything becomes a single feeling, a fire in her chest, hurt and rage and— she’s not naive enough to call it love, but it’s an urge that spurns her to be close to him. Their teeth clash. She loses her focus and her lips graze over his cheek. She finds him again, drawing her tongue against his, dragging her teeth over his lip–

“Fuck!” Aemond hisses, snatching himself away from her. He dabs his fingertips to his lip, checking for blood that isn’t there. 

His eye is wide but gleaming, excited at the challenge. 

Her heart leaps when Aemond grasps her jaw. He drags her chin up, fingertips pressing into the bone. “I find your insolence tiresome,” he snarls.

The edge of his nose brushes against hers. She feels his breath, how his chest rises and falls against her body, how his heart beats as frantically as hers.

She shakes her head. “I am yours, my Prince.”

He lays her on the bed, pushing her thighs apart and holding them down as he kneels.

He sighs at the sight of her.

Each drag of his tongue is divine, circling and pressing at the places he has come to know will please her the most. She tries to chase the friction with her hips but he holds her firmly in place.

She reaches for his hair, slipping the eyepatch from his face so she can see all of him. He looks up at her as she does, his lips glistening with her arousal while his sapphire consumes the golden light of the candles. 

Between the movements of his mouth he mutters to himself, words she has heard before but does not know the meaning to. His voice is heavy and breathless and she adores it. 

Her peak comes suddenly, a wave of warmth and weightlessness that lingers after Aemond has drawn his mouth away from her.

He’s just out of her reach, standing over the bed and slowly pulling on the strings of his breeches. 

She brings herself to sit, only to be thrown down again and roughly turned onto her front.

“Aemond?”

His hands pull her up by her hips. His thumb glides in circles over her entrance and she stutters into compliance. There’s a ruffle of fabric before he replaces his digit with the head of his cock. He teases her as he rocks back and forth. The pleasure is sparse, a delicious kind of torture. She grips at the linens and sinks her teeth into her lip.

On one motion of his hips, Aemond slips inside of her. She sighs at the stretch of it. He stills for a moment to let her adjust, pushing himself to the hilt and slowly drawing back. She feels how his fingertips dig into her flesh, marks that will stay for days. She can picture the look in his eye, his resolve melting away.

She props herself up on her hands, turning over her shoulder. He meets her, pressing his nose against her cheek, teasing his lips over her skin.

“Do you still find me insolent?” she whispers.

Aemond hums. 

He draws back, only to snap his hips harshly into her rear. It knocks the breath from her lungs and he holds his arm around her to hold her close to him, his palm pressing into her stomach as he fucks her roughly and without reprieve.

This is the Prince she has only ever seen glimpses of. She’s heard the workings of his mind and his regrets, but she’s never seen him unleash himself, a dragonrider, a warrior, now a demanding lover.

Each kiss of his cock at her sweet spot aches and drives her towards bliss. She grasps at his hand, leaning her head into his. His sweat drips onto her brow. His moans fall upon the shell of her ear.

She feels another peak edging closer when Aemond pushes her torso down against the bed. He keeps his hands on her shoulders. Her own moans are muffled against the mattress and she cannot move. She can only take what she is given, fast fucking and brutal precision. 

He comes with a unrestrained groan, spilling himself deep within her cunt. His weight falls against her back and he nestles his face into her neck, whispering some appraisal in an ancient language, gently fucking his seed deeper.

She whines as she catches her breath, letting herself settle with him on top of her. They stay like this for a time. Before he finally moves, Aemond presses a delicate kiss to her brow.

They lay amongst linen and silk, his head on her chest, his arms wrapped around her ribs, moving with her as she breathes. 

He tells her of Rook’s Rest, of his plan to attack during the daylight and bait their enemy into sending a dragon, then he would lead Vhagar into an ambush. He had not expected Aegon to join the battle, and when the smoke cleared, only Aemond and Vhagar remained unscathed.

“Perhaps I should have been more forgiving, but he got in my way.”

What did you do? She wonders, but cannot bring herself to give a voice to her question. 

That soldier had named Aemond as Regent. Not the title he wants, but it is a brutal reminder that only one life stands between him and the throne he pursues. 

“And even when he is… incapacitated, my victory is named as his. It was meant to be mine.”

The dragon head was his doing after all. 

Tears run freely down her cheeks, not that he will see.

He takes a breath and waits. She’s done this enough times by now to know he’s waiting for her to say something. He needs her to say something.

What loyalty has your brother ever shown you? He knows you were better suited to war, at least now he will not overestimate himself.

She does not wish to think of Aegon. 

“You left me,” she utters.

Aemond tilts his head towards her. She meets his eye. When he sees the tears on her face his own expression softens.

“You left me to entertain those men. You didn’t even look back.”

Aemond swallows thickly, making a soft clicking sound with his tongue. “I had to.”

“Had to?”

“You would not understand.”

“I understand perfectly. You are a Prince. To you, I am nothing but a body to be used.”

“I’ve never said that.”

“You do not need to say it. It is the nature of the world we live in.” 

He shifts himself to lay beside her, face-to-face. His thumb strokes over her cheek and at the corner of her mouth. “I’ve only ever admired you,” he says. “You came to me when I felt alone.”

Back when they were children, when she was innocent enough to think the gods favoured those who were kind, merciful, good. 

“You looked lost. I was the same the first time…” the first time Sylvi brought her into a room with a strange man. When she sees girls of the same age, she wants to take them into her arms and shield them from strangers, from the people who promise to care for them and do not. “I knew how it felt to be used and then discarded, like none of it mattered. But it did. It mattered to me.” 

Aemond’s eye shimmers like glass.

“I needed you, do you understand that? I needed your protection,” she says.

He blinks and a tear falls from his eye. 

“You taunt me with this,” she says, wiping it away with her thumb.

He holds her hand against his jaw. “I’m not trying to taunt you,” he pleads. “You are the only one, the only one I can speak my mind to.”

She has seen his pride, his remorse, his shame, but she has never seen fear in Aemond. She does now. He clasps onto her hand like she’ll fade away.

“I try. I know my place in my family. I know what they need of me. I try, but I am not always strong enough.”

Jaehaerys, the little Prince who lost his head. He has a sister and a mother grieving his loss, what of them?

What of Aegon?

“I’ll protect you,” he says, kissing the heel of her palm, the inside of her wrist.

How will he do that? Before morning he will leave a purse of gold in her hand and return to his Keep. While he plots his war and demands taxes and tithes from the people of the Crownlands, she will endure in a city that is slowly starving to death.

And when the war of dragons comes to the skies over King’s Landing? Will he pick her out from the masses atop Vhagar? Will he find a way to spare her from the fire and the bloodshed?

It does not bear thinking about. She holds him and tries to forget anything other than this feeling, his weight and warmth, his hair between her fingertips, the points in his bones, his legs intertwined with hers. Everything about him that is cold and cruel. Everything about him that is quietly beautiful.

I've kinda given up on taglists <3

[carbootsoul]

The biggest clues to an inspection of the prince myth are colors. Utena is liberal with its color symbolism, and the flat, primary shades in the myth’s shadow-box visuals are a blatant use of them. Also, since Utena’s color symbolism is semi-internal (e.g. while a lot of connotations are external, like yellow for innocence, the most significant applicability of them are things formed by association within the show, like the combination between purple and a particular pair of siblings), the prince myth is our first introduction to these colors and their logic in Utena. Starting with a blank slate, what is the first impression it wants us to have of its shades? Like all mythic symbols, they’re providing a basis for how we will interact with these elements for the rest of our time in this story. Let’s begin our color examination with the opening scene, after a quick aside on the general visual style.

Like a shadowbox, the figures in the prince myth are paper cut-outs moving in front of a flat background, so while there’s significant detail within each layer, the layers don’t interact. Instead, they’re completely flat, casting a simple shadow on the backdrop. In Plato’s allegory of the cave (which we may as well get over with), prisoners are born into a dark cave with a view of one wall, onto which objects are projected by unseen captors. These captors say the names of the objects that pass, and the association between the objects and the names produce the prisoner’s reality. This is false reality, and fake “knowledge,” but to the prisoners nothing else exists. In the shadow box, we seem to see both the objects and their shadows (the cut outs and the real shadow), but the figures themselves and the intervening “real” moments where the false myth breaks to show Utena’s real memory show the second, more important, layer of cast shadows. The shadow box scene itself is enclosed within a silhouetted frame, and complex figures (like people) are pure black. The fact that the same things are happening between the shadow figures and the real memory show that the memory is clearly casting these shadows, but it’s not clear what is truly happening in the moments when the shadow reality takes over. (Looking forward to the rest of the show, like in Plato’s allegory, the real question is not necessarily “what do the shadows refer to,” which can eventually be answered by walking out of the cave, but by “what will the prisoners prefer? The real world, or the shadows?”)

The use of black as a silhouette also establishes right away that black in the show is always in relation to light—as a shadow, yes, but maybe more accurately as the real object whose details are obscured by light. A silhouetted object is the true object, but the fact that it’s in front of a bright light means that our eyes can’t focus in on it. In this case, we might say that the prince (Dios) is a real object, but the brightness of emotion and desire Utena has infused this memory with silhouette his reality. All that's left is the shadow memory. (This comparison may prove helpful in looking at the Black Rose arc, whose duelists are less shadowy than obscured by the brightness of desire).

Also right away, we’re faced with pink roses over a pastel green curtain. These are not Utena’s pink, but a lightened red, and since it’s our first time seeing this color, I don’t have much to say on it. Likewise with the pastel green, although I do want to note that it seems significant that the show opens with a color we associate mostly with Saionji: an indication that, like Nanami, he is more essential to understanding Utena than we might think. If I were to hazard a guess, I would say that green may refer to ignorance—why it’s paired with innocent yellow here and, of course, why it’s given to Saionji, who is stubbornly oblivious to Ohtori’s rules.

“Once upon a time... there was a princess grieving over the deaths of her mother and father.”

The first few lines present a classic basis for any story of preteen sexuality—sorry, I meant any fairy tale. They’re not only a clear indicator that this isn’t real life, but also present us with Utena’s orphan status as her initial trait. This is a psychoanalytic story, despite the near total absence of parental figures, and nothing plays a more vital backstage role than family. The little princess, of course, is wearing yellow (and here, again, is Saionji’s pastel rose green on her collar).

“Before this princess appeared a prince traveling upon a white horse. His appearance gallant, and his smile gentle…”

A white-clothed prince on a white horse, against a white background, emerges to save her. Here is our first true introduction to white, which is inarguably the most important color to the show. All other colors are adulterated with it in Anthy’s roses or contrasted with it in the Student Council uniform. Note that it isn’t the young princess who wears pure white, but the prince: white is not a color you’re born into, but one you aspire toward, perpetually bleaching the fainter and fainter yellow out of your dress. White is an ideal color, not something actually wearable, and the pure white of the prince in the myth only doubles down on the impossibility of the story. (Also, note the red interior of the cape, even in Dios: a strand of Touga’s chauvinism in the princely ideal, or an indication that there is something genuine Touga is trying to emulate?)

“The prince enveloped the princess in the scent of roses, and wiped away her tears. ‘Little one bearing up alone under grief, never lose that strength or nobility, even when you grow up’ [he said].”

As the prince kneels to embrace the princess, the rosebuds in the background burst into bloom. With the death of her parents, the princess’s sense of the world’s meaning was destroyed. The cracks in the version of reality she had—a glimpse the true objects outside of the cave—began to show themselves. Impossible to handle even for adults, the young princess falls into a depression and searches desperately for a way to obscure this truth from herself, which she finds in the prince and his command: “Never lose that strength or nobility, even when you grow up.” William James, discussing the “process of inner incompleteness and reducing inner discord,” refers to this emergence from depression as the new birth, which may be religious or “produced by the irruption into the individual’s life of some new stimulus or passion, such as love, ambition, cupidity, revenge, or patriotic devotion.” The princess’s new birth, prompted by the prince, could be any of those things, and it’s perhaps because of this shift that we’re able to see our first glimpse of the real memory between her and Dios. Whatever it is, it is what saves her from an orphan's depression, and so becomes the grounding force in her life. Nothing she has can exist without faith in this moment: the prince is the thing keeping the entire system together.

The phrase “even when you grow up” feels very significant. I would say it has its fingers in too many pies to discuss here—in a story about adolescence, the idea of those virtues we lose as we age is essential to our founding myth. Is the fact that Utena changed as she grew older the reason she can't achieve the princely ideal? It's haunting, true or not.

"’I give you this to remember this day. We will meet again. This ring will lead you to me, one day.’ Could the ring from the prince have been an engagement ring?”

Then, the symbolic engagement, with the prince’s white gloves sliding a ring onto (real) Utena’s hand. The true memory says “I give you this to remember this day” and then—crucially—the scene switches and it is the shadow who says “this ring will lead you to me, one day.” Dios, this unattainable ideal which Utena bases her life around, has truly left her something to remember him by, something she will never leave behind: her desire. However, it’s only the false shadow memory which tells her that the ring will lead her to him. It’s the eternal hope of every young person that the overwhelming desire you feel, which seems both focused and directionless, is an indication that it will one day be fulfilled. It’s a message from your prince. This stubborn hope that the need for something means that it is meant to be yours, is what keeps all of the Ohtori students we meet spinning on their hamster wheels.

"Because of the strength of her admiration for the prince,  the princess made up her mind to become a prince herself! But was that really such a good idea?"

As the princess watches the prince ride away, the red roses of the frame are replaced with white ones, before finally becoming the familiar Utena pink, as the shadow version of her stands proudly on screen in princely dress. The myth is over: the story begins.

The twist at the end of the myth is simple misdirection: rather than a desire to have the prince, Utena desires to become him. This confusion, which seems on the surface like a ridiculous misunderstanding, is instrumental to nearly every conflict on the show. Yes, it’s a gendered confusion, but it’s also a natural lack of knowledge about what exactly will fulfill the desire for the princely ideal. We see it most overtly in Utena, but every student council member expresses it in their own way: do you want Anthy (to be the prince), or do you want to have her position (to be the princess), or do you want to somehow merge with her into one through an exchange diary (to be and have at the same time)? When one method fails, maybe the other will work, the student council thinks. Sadly for them, the shadow girl’s rhetorical question applies to all: you cannot just make your mind up to be a prince. He and the princess are only shadows. The more you grasp at them, the flatter they will show themselves to be.

[seneon]

dabi x goth girl but his face gets covered in black/dark lipstick marks 😁

★ kisses that tastes like death, dabi.

just like snakes and spiders, your kisses are filled with poison. the moment your lips touched his skin, dabi could feel his skin stinging from the poison that covered your lips. it's so metaphorical that it doesn't help when he's so bewitched by the colour that covered your pretty pink lips.

the shade of your lipstick like a black mamba's mouth, with each kisses that stains dabi's lips the darkest of hues. it intoxicates him so much that he doesn't give a single shit about how painted his face is with your dark kisses. in fact, he wanted his lips to be covered in your lipstick marks, known and seen to the world that they were your kisses.

your lips are the paintbrush on his beautiful canvas of a face. he couldn't care less if you sipped blood for supper or consume souls for lunch, as long as the shape of your lips covered in dark lipsticks are on his face, dabi is for sure satisfied.

"do you want more?" you asked, gazing at his face. such a work of art dabi is— with your own art work planted on him. his eyes found their way to drown in yours, eyes so captivating and ethereal that he absentmindedly nods at your question. "give me more, you pretty tarantula."

a smile crawled up your lips at his words and the nickname. you always loved it when he calls you a tarantula or any sort of creepy insect. they make your insides twist. you applied more obsidian lipstick on your lips before closing the distance between your face. very carefully, as if you didn't want to scare him with your touch that felt like a corpse's caress, you pressed your lips onto his.

again and again, you kissed, kissed, and kissed dabi, dirtying his precious lips with the taste of death.

note. i'm actually the goth kissing him btw it's none of y'all

© SENEON 2024 ♰ do not repost, alter, or translate.

[tojjist]

“At Least” S. Gojo

☆ genre: angst to fluff (kinda)

☆ pairings: Gojo Satoru x f! reader

☆ summary: After Geto left, nothing has been the same. Especially not your relationship with Gojo Satoru. Once you decide to move to Kyoto for good, Gojo is less than pleased. But fate does not seem to want to let you go.

☆ cw: mentions of sex, depressed gojo, not spoiler free, hopping between timelines but like i added non-canon events, smoking, drinking, getting drunk, high school Gojo being a high school boy, cussing, mentions of drunk sex but it doesn’t happen, mentions character death (from the anime), gojo satoru (yes that's a trigger warning).

☆ wc : 5.6k

☆ a/n: this has been in the doing for so long? I've been waiting to have the chance to upload it for maybe a year now smh. Also was originally written for an irl of mine lmao

“Oh my god,” you emphasize each word, pushing the wooden chair away with your knee. “Satoru, is it yours?”

His black pupils, lined with iris the color of morning skies, study your figure from behind the shaded glasses, pink lips quirking slightly upwards in approval of your attention.

“Nah, it's only staying with me for a week,” he stated, watching nervously as you strode over to him. “His owner is away for some business.”

Your attention remained fixed on the pet in Satoru's long, long arms. Your face lit up when a bark escaped the infant animal. “Can I hold it?”

Satoru watched over you carefully, pleading eyes coming in line with his blues. You make it hard to say anything other than an immediate yes, but he tries to stretch out the conversation to his best ability.

“It's 400 yen for 10 minutes,” he muttered, sarcasm dripping from his words. He earned a look of amusement from you; a small victory. He then braced himself for the next part. Satoru bent down, meeting you eye-to-eye, and noticed your breath catching in anticipation. “Or... you can shorten your skirt.”

Your face took no time to grow hot, not giving any verbal answer besides the blank expression you stare at him with. For a second, Gojo let himself think he's the victor of this little challenge he started in his head. But he soon came to realize how grave of a mistake he's made.

You're not flustered, you're angry.

“You're such a fucking pervert,” you fume, eyes glaring daggers. He dares not move, noticing the way your eyes flutter over his face.

“You're truly unbelievable,” the shorter male chuckled, making sure he didn't bump into Satoru's now-bruised arm. “What were you even thinking?”

“I thought it was funny, y'know?” He huffed in response. Gojo's fingers ran through his own bright locks as he took a seat on the wood hung up by metal chains. "Besides, has she always been this strong? Physically, I mean."

Geto stared into the reddish sky of dusk, placing himself into a swing in turn and kicking the air so the swing would start moving. "I don't know. Girls are really full of surprises.”

He never thought, not in a million years, things would come to this. Ever since Gojo's last encounter with Geto after he, well, changed... Gojo became unable to face anyone quite the same way he did before.

How did he get here? How did things escalate to this? Thinking about it, Geto had shown signs of a change in his heart and mind. It was Satoru's fault, was it not? He should have done better. He should have noticed. How could he not have? wasn't he the strongest? Wasn't that his job? How could he be so bad at everything?

How could he fail everyone like this?

“Gojo-San?”

Your feminine voice cut his train of thought. He almost forgot the situation he is now stuck in. He's been doing that a lot: losing himself in thought, mind almost immune to the outer world until he temporarily lost his sense of self. Nothing felt quite the same any more. It was like the world had lost its color.

“Sorry- What's up?” He turned to you. Gojo-san, you called him. When did you stop using his given name? What's with the '-san'? Gojo hadn't realized that losing one person was the first step, and now he found himself deep in the road of losing everyone.

And now he's stuck in the elevator with the girl he had liked for so long. He couldn't find it in himself to say anything to you, to push your buttons like he always did or joke around. When did the world become so heavy? He does not know.

“Are you okay? You seemed off.”

Your face is devoid of any genuine emotion, seemingly expressionless. But your voice is laced with concern. Gojo could only guess you didn't want him thinking you pity him or anything of such. But if that isn't the case, he wouldn't know. He's too tired to bother thinking about it.

“Yeah, yeah. I'm fine,” he smiled in assurance, “Just bothered by, well, this-” he threw his hand in the way of the control panel. The elevator doors have been stuck for almost twenty minutes now. How pleasant.

“uh huh,” you sigh, turning back around. How did you turn so cold?

When the silence stretches, you start a conversation, hesitant at first. “By the way, I got accepted as a helper in a nursery in Kyoto,” you mutter, gaze avoiding his own. “they're expecting me to start work right after spring break.”

Spring break?

Holy shit. It hit him like a truck. That’s barely a week and a half from now.

“Spring break? Why so soon?”

“That’s when the students file back in,” you mumble, fiddling with the watch placed around your wrist. You pause to read the time, then turn to meet his eyes. “I’m leaving in four days to get settled.”

“Oh…” His breath caught, “Train?”

What a stupid question. He knows. Satoru has never been unintelligent, especially in conversing. But now his unintelligence shines through as if it’s his only trait. He’s glad you don’t question it.

“Yeah, I have no other form of transport really.”

“Well, uh…” He hates himself. He hates himself for not doing anything. He hates himself for being so weak and  cowardly, for being unable to keep his friends around him, for shutting everyone he holds close out. But now, he especially hates himself for being unable to feel happy for you, or to congratulate you on the opportunity, “come visit us every once in a while, yeah?”

Your mouth remains shut, only staring at the tall man before your eyes. The silence stretches between the two of you once again, and you don’t find it in you to speak of how you feel.

“You.. you know you could have died, right? We all could have b-but you…” You trail off, thoughts splattered like a spilled pot of ink. Although you seemed unfazed, in your mind you were anything but. Haibara, Riko, and all the losses that trailed and every event that followed has been stressful and nerve-wrecking. And even in the quietness and silence of the general atmosphere, it has been nearly impossible to find peace within yourself.

“Well, I didn’t. What happened had passed. Can you change that? I doubt so. No point in ‘if’ and ‘could’ve’.”

Before you could respond,the lights flickered back on. You grow unsure if you’ve struck a nerve, but that wasn’t what you meant. Gojo’s response had nothing to do with what you said, you were sure he knew exactly what your words were meant for. Why is he so scared of confronting it?

You don’t know. You could never hope to know because you and Gojo Satoru live in different worlds, the man who was only Satoru some time ago. You were worlds apart, yet  Satoru loved to play pretend that he lived in the same world as you, even when he stuck out like a sore thumb. But he was no longer. Ever since Geto left… it’s safe to say everyone has been changing slowly, deforming from their previous lives and personalities. But Satoru flipped, like the head and tail of a coin, he got himself a new face. He turned into Gojo Satoru; the strongest. A soul unalive. A broken boy in an ever growing body. A stranger.

Two days later you find yourself still roaming the campus , searching so desperately for something. Anything. A reason to stay, perhaps? You don’t find it anyway. You have no attachment as this place holds nothing but misery. Or that’s what you told yourself over and over as you packed your things.

Your steps were graceful, walking so cautiously as if careful to not wake someone up. Your fingers find rest on the old, dusty door frame, pushing yourself into the room that hadn’t been used for a good month or so. The classroom looked the same as it always did. Except for the shadow that loomed over it; a gray shade that sent chills down your spine. Or maybe it’s just your imagination. 

Then you spot something rather out of place. You’re sure you’ve never seen it before and although you know it’s none of your business, the way it tugs at the strings of your curiosity is undeniable.

It’s red, poking out of what you’re sure is Gojo’s desk. The gloomy classroom was no fit for paper with a color so vibrant. 

Your heart skips a beat when you glimpse the seat next to Satoru’s. You do your best to avoid looking at Geto’s desk any further. You busy yourself with the task at hand, reaching out for the mysterious paper hidden in the wooden desk. Shivers run up your arm at the texture of the scrunched paper.

You attempt to straighten it to your best ability, strained by his hard work of crumbling it with obvious frustration. you can barely make out the letters of your name in the middle of the paper, outlined by a messy circle. How Gojo of him. A few lines stick out of the ‘circle’, one of them has the name of a steakhouse somewhere in Tokyo. Another has a date, reading somewhere along February. It’s near impossible to make out what the small combination of letters say, especially when Satoru’s handwriting is closer to symbols than a comprehensible language.

The thought of it was so funny it didn’t feel like him at all. Satoru never planned anything. Every breath he took was based on pure impulse. Never would it have occurred to you that he thinks through things, let alone brainstorm.

The thought makes you smile. But the realization that he never asked you out because he changed his mind or everything that happened getting in his way makes your stomach churn unpleasantly. 

You decide it’s probably for the best to never bring it up. It would only make matters worse for both of you. Life ran its course; who are you to try and change it?

“I apologize, but my answer remains. I refuse to take part in this,” you spoke in an even tone. “I have a job and a life away from jujutsu. I’ve made it clear sorcery is not a part of my life anymore.”

"That’s completely understandable,” the old man argued, his voice hoarse with age. You’re pretty sure you hear anger further straining his voice, “but your technique is quite strong. That strength could be of great assistance if put to use.”

“Thank you, sir,” you dip your head, maintaining eye contact with the decaying man. “But I truly apologize. The decision is final.”

“If you ever do change your mind, please let us know. We’d be more than happy to hear it.”

You almost let a sigh of relief escape. Finally he gave up. You end up only nodding your head in response gratefully, retreating from the old man. As soon as you're safe and out of sight, you let your posture drop, eyes rolling back in annoyance. These guys are truly as relentless as ever.

You stopped upon a familiar scent catching in your nostrils. Lifting your head up, your eyes roam around, scanning the room for your friend.

“You look troubled,” Shoko approaches you, taking the cigarette out from between her teeth. “What’s with the face?”

“How is that man even alive,” you look at her, “he’s ancient.”

Your comment earns a light chuckle from the brunette. “I’m glad I never have to get caught up in this bullshit.”

“Blissed aren’t you,” you roll your eyes as you speak. “I shouldn’t have come in the first place, I knew they were going to do this.”

“It’s alright, you’re all done now. Here-” Your friend then lifts the cigarette up, putting it near your mouth. When you don’t show any resistance she, being the bad influence she has always been, proceeds to place it between your lips. You waste no time, making quick work of the drag you inhale, bringing the familiar cloud of toxic chemicals and tobacco into your lungs. Your expression relaxes, shifting into one of relief. Shoko scoffs playfully, muttering that you’re dramatic under her breath before she pulls her cigarette from you, taking in a drag.

“Satoru’s here, by the way,” Shoko didn’t need to look at you to guess the way your eyes snap towards her. She bites back a smile. “He’s calmed down. He’d even seem the same as long as you don’t squint too hard.”

“Good for him,” you mutter, trying to seem as unbothered and nonchalant as your accelerating heart rate would allow. You avoid looking at Shoko, trying to seem disinterested. You know she’d pretend you weren’t gawking at her the second she said his name.

“He’s trying, you know. He’s just as nervous as you are.”

“‘M not nervous,” you scoff, “For god’s sake. It’s been ten years already.”

Satoru is stressed. He's nervous, as Shoko put it. He’d spent so long trying to ignore the past, pretend the past wasn’t at all. He couldn’t confront it. He didn’t want to. Satoru knows what he’s done, he's aware that he hurt you the last time you two had interacted. And that was ten years ago. He even let you leave without so much as a goodbye. How could he look you in the eye and pretend nothing has ever happened?

Gojo didn’t want to face the consequences of what he’s done. More so what he hasn’t. So many things were left unsaid in the elevator that day. They’ve been hanging over Satoru ever since, weighing his heart down and wearing it out.

What if he’s met by another woman? Ten years change a lot as is. What if the eyes that meet his aren’t yours? What if he finds himself talking to a stranger that carries around your name and features? Of all the horrors Gojo Satoru had faced in his life, nothing caused dread to pool in the pit of his stomach like this thought does.

Shoko seems to find something beyond you interesting. You don’t bother to turn to see as the brunette has always been a little in her own head. She’s probably just dozed off.

“Hey, think you can hold this for me?” Shoko muttered once Gojo crossed her sight. She stands facing you, averting his gaze. “I’ll be right back, nature’s calling.”

From his distance, Gojo couldn’t make out what the two of you were saying. He watched as your shoulders shook, presumably in laughter. Shoko then made her away from you, barely sparing Satoru a glance.

Every step he took felt heavy, weights landing on his shoulders as he moved towards you. He watched smoke emerge from over your head. He didn’t know you smoked. And even though he’s not completely sure what you do for a living now, he’s not expecting any nursery to accept a smoker in their team.

His long strides finally arrived, opting to remain a step behind you. Close enough to make his presence known.

The aura was unmistakable, almost as if it could be physically sensed. You freeze in place, the cigarette remaining a few inches from your lips. Even after he changed his perfume to one a lot more manly and appealing, and clearly grew taller judging by the shadow he cast over you, his presence still had the same strength as it did before. If not stronger. Anyone else would say it’s intimidating. But you find surprising comfort in it.

“That’s going to kill you,” his hand  reached from over your head, making sure to not cause any unnecessary physical contact. His fingers slip the burning cigarette  from your grip. You find yourself unable to make a single move in response, only watching his actions unfold.

He took a step, moving closer, dimming the light from the roll by rubbing it against the metal bars, then throwing it off the balcony. “You’re too young to kill yourself like that.”

“That bitch Shoko set me up,” You hiss, regaining your composure. “Will you look who showed up. You’re killing the ecosystem by throwing waste like this, Gojo.”

Although you haven’t glanced his way yet, You were every bit sure his mouth was quirked in the same smug smirk he wore so much when you were younger. You could even hear it in his voice as he spoke, “You haven’t grown at all, have you?”

“Oh shut it,” you chuckle. “You’re still as immature as ever. How you could be a manchild at 27 is a wonder to me.”

27… It felt so weird to say it out loud. Weren’t you just 17 a few days ago?

“Oh, how you hurt me,” he says in exaggeration, his voice conveying anything but the hurt he claims to feel. “That isn’t very nice of you.”

“That’s rich coming from you,” You say. He laughs a little, you do too. But the silence that follows is not that of a joke. He knew what you’re referring to. Maybe he underestimated your last encounter’s effect on you.

The silence speaks for itself. It’s louder than any conversation you’ve had before. What now? What have we become? Is it of any use to try anymore? Neither of you had an answer to the question that began to surface with this interaction.

The questions remain hung in the air, dimming the atmosphere around you. Was this fate’s doing? Or his karma? Gojo has always been told he’s a god, but how could he be a higher form of life when he struggled so much to hold a conversation?

He’s about to speak again when you cut him off, muttering “here-” as you push your hand down the coat you wore. Your tongue pokes at the inside of your cheek as you search for the anonymous object.

You pull out a worn out paper, grown from what could have been a bright red to an orangish shade. His eyes study as you shove the paper in his  direction, eyes avoiding his gaze at all costs.

Seeing your bashful expression made him rather curious, the contents of the wrinkled paper piquing his interest. He hesitates before he pulls the paper from your hand, half-expecting you to bite him.

The letters were scribbles, almost like they’re straight out of some cult’s ritual,  that with the wrinkles of the worn out paper making reading it next to impossible. Still, he could make out just enough to realize what this paper is. His eyes widened behind the blindfold. It didn’t take much to remember this paper, trivial as it may be.

“You found this- how did you even…?” he trails off, confused.

“I guess I did,” You confirm. He’s unsure if you’re proud of yourself for your rather… interesting discovery. It’s bold of you to pull this out ten whole years later. But he can’t deny the relief he feels that at least this means you don’t completely hate him. For once, he’s truly at loss for words. 

But he wouldn’t let a perfect opportunity like this slide.

“Oh, so you’re in love with me? You’re so obsessed with me that you kept this for so many years, what a loyal fangirl.”

Before he knew it, a weight so crushing landed on his foot. He turned off his infinity around you as a sign of trust. But he soon came to regret his rather unsmart decision. Your foot stomped and crushed his toes. It makes him groan in pain, bending slightly forward.

“Tomorrow, at Narisawa in Minato city, 5:30. I’m leaving for Kyoto in 3 days. Don’t waste your chance again, Gojo Satoru. You’re not getting another one.”

“I take it you’ve been in love with me ever since?” He leans forward, elbows on the table. “Say, did you fascinate about me?”

“Hmm..” you hum softly at his childish question, “only a little.” You show no signs of interest in his tactics as you sipped the wine in your hand. Undeniably, Gojo is taken aback by your lack of reaction. He hasn’t known you to be so reserved and smart at keeping him on edge. He couldn’t help finding your new behavior enticing.

Is there anything else you’d like to have?” You nodded your head towards the plates sitting on the table, some empty and some half-full. “Or do you wanna do something else before I go back to the hotel?”

“Hmm? Maybe I could join you at the hotel, actually. Surely it’ll be a lot less lonely with me around?”

You’re tempted by his offer, feeling the heat pooling in your stomach. He looked strikingly handsome today. Maybe you were just really lonely and touch starved, or maybe it’s the way his lips quirk as he teases you that makes your brain a little hazy, inappropriate thoughts floating through it and send jolts to your core. Yet, you set your mind on refusing his advances. You haven’t had a decent conversation since high school, for god's sake.

He keeps his eyes set on you, shining before him. You looked glamorous. He’d lie if he said there wasn’t a certain allure to  your matured looks. The years that flew by changed a lot of things about you two, but his breath still catches in his throat when your eyes meet his dreamy blues. The feelings rush back, memories clouding his train of thought. 

He’s sure he’s going to pay. He didn’t mind it at all, what a small price for getting to spend an evening with you. But you surprise him when you bring up that you had already put your card down, courtesy of having been the one to ask him out. Or maybe this was your way of telling him that you are in pretty good condition, living perfectly well without needing sorcery.

“How’s working as a jujutsu teacher?” you quip, smiling softly. “Utahime says you’ve got some interesting kids in your pack? Two special grades, too. You’re sure a favorite attraction for wonders.”

“You’re still in contact with her too?” he dodges talking about his students, not meeting your gaze. “That’s ironic. Weren’t we friends too?”

A hoarse chuckle emerges from him. But nothing about it leads back to amusement, as it was a joyless sound devoid of life. Almost as if he were mocking you. The dark lenses of the shades sitting on the bridge of his nose served as a shield. He curses himself for being so weak. He's almost thirty but somehow you’ve got him acting like he did when he was 17. 

“You didn’t try to contact me either,” you shrug, not willing to take the blame for your lack of contact. 

“You could have visited then. Even Yaga talked about you every once in a while,” he isn’t too happy and it’s showing.

“All good things, I hope-“

“Don’t change the subject,” he frowns, an uneasy edge outlining his words. “He was enough. You didn’t have to go ahead and leave too.”

“I had to move on, Gojo,” the name felt like a jab every time you used it. He couldn’t bring himself to say anything about it. This is how you drew your boundaries. Calling them by their last names gives you a false sense of satisfaction, convincing yourself that your sorcerer friends are past figures now. Mere acquaintances. 

“-I couldn’t remain hung there forever, I valued my mental health. You grew distant, the atmosphere was growing uneasy every day. I had to cut ties with Jujutsu before I couldn’t recognize myself anymore.”

“Yet you’re here now. Back to square one,” his playful tone was long gone, now replaced by an even, stern one. “Whether you moved away or called us by our last names. It’s a curse you can’t escape. you’ll always end up back in the palms or jujutsu.”

His words held some truth. You know that. But just as he refused to confront this past, you repulsed the idea of your reality. You truly want to believe that you could escape this part of yourself and live a normal life. You couldn’t come to terms with your inability. You held onto your hopes as if your sanity completely depended on it. Another thing that won’t change no matter how much you grew.

“I'll be okay as long as I refuse to interact with this world.”

Once you leave the restaurant, you find yourself wandering through the rich streets of Minato city. It felt as though the night was pulling you further into its welcoming embrace, with nothing rushing you.

“He was only thirteen,” you chuckle, arm linked in his. “It’s unbelievable how bold kids nowadays are.”

“I would’ve done the same thing, honestly,” he smirks, his gaze fixed on the stores around.

“Of course. You’ve got the brains of a thirteen year old.”

Satoru grins at your remark, pulling you into a clothes store. 

“What’s this?” you look around in confusion, noting a woman in a suit welcoming you. The place looked a little too fancy, judging by the display of the items and the lighting of the place.

“It’s a western brand,” Satoru answers. Looking over at him, you can’t help but smile a little. He looks good tonight. His fancy outfit gave the impression that he’s a model to strangers. “Louis Vuitton, I think,” He furrows his brows, trying to remember the name of the brand stores he’s been to with Nobara and Shoko.

“Prada, sir,” The lady in a suit corrected him. “Can I help you?”

“We’re just browsing, thank you.” It’s a phrase he heard from Kugisaki countless times whenever they wandered into a store. His response makes you chuckle, watching as the lady takes a few steps backwards politely.

You’re soon comfortable, searching through the expensive coats and bags. Satoru watched tenderly. Even though the ten years that passed with no contact whatsoever definitely propose a wall between you, he's glad you're able to feel free. You might nit on the same page, but you two can work with what you have.

You stride back to the “S” shaped velvet couch sat in the middle of the checker-carpet store, where Satoru sat. But he was nowhere to be seen.

You walk around in hesitance and confusion, completely aware of the lady walking always a few feet behind you. Surveillance, you guess.

You find him standing in front of the white counter, taking a black bag with the brand’s name printed onto it in golden letters from the man standing behind the counter in a white shirt with the brand's logo on it.

“Gojo,” you call him, confusion fused into your expression.

He extends his arm to you, trying to suppress any sourness at you calling him Gojo. “Let’s go?”

You nod, eyeing him suspiciously before you link your arm in his. You make sure to flash a grateful smile at the woman by the door as you walk past the reflective glass door.

You almost forgot how busy the world outside is. It felt as though the glass building of the store was sound proof. Now you have to adjust to the noise of the full streets again.

Satoru remains silent for the most part. It’s not awkward, rather just neither of you knew what to say. He expected you to ask about what he bought, which you have considered. You decide against it though as you feel it’s none of your business. You’re not too surprised anyway as Gojo has always been a wealthy man. He could buy the entire Prada chain with half of his monthly spending.

“What do you wanna do now?” He asks. “Wanna go somewhere else?”

You think about going to the club to give the night the best closure. But neither of you were dressed for it anyway. You contemplate your choices. Then you grin at him, and Satoru knows it’s best to fear what comes after

You’re well aware that he has a high alcohol tolerance. While you would be wasted a few shots in. Yet you consumed so many drinks recklessly, thinking that maybe you could beat him in a drinking game.

That’s why he’s stuck to your side now, helping your sleeping body out of his car. Satoru is glad your hotel card was so easy to find in your purse, taking it out as he gets into the lobby.

A few people eye the man, glaring at him and at the way he held you in his arms. But he couldn’t bring himself to think too much about it. His mission is to get you to bed now.

“Satoruuu~” You whine, rubbing your face into the pillow once he sat you on the white bedding. “Stay with meeee”

And Satoru is nothing if not human. Despite what everyone else says. It’s proven now that he had come to face a human flaw like this. He is weak, and you are all but practically seducing him.

“Stop crying,” He mutters. He finds himself smiling sheepishly at the unlikely scenario he found himself in. Tucking you in bed, your face hot due to the drinks you had. He really should have stopped you. “I’ll stay the night, so sleep already.”

He convinced himself it’s for the best. He should watch over you for tonight. No funny business. Deep inside he knew he was just finding a reason— any reason to stay around you for a little longer, heart yearning for the lost years. But he ignored the pathetic feeling, convincing himself it’s for your sake instead.

“But I’m uncomfortableee,” you whine again, hands running down your body. “The dress...”

Did you have to make it so hard on him? Satoru is tempted to kiss you, eyebrows knitted in the space between, eyes looking around the room for any sort of aid.

This is probably a form of invading your privacy, but he sees no other choice. He’ll have to hold it together for tonight.

“nngh..”

Your groan came with an impending headache. Your body moves against the rich covers of the bed, sunlight illuminating your physique.

He stopped in his tracks, feet bare against the gray carpet.

Your form is beautiful, one to compete with statues of goddesses. The rays of light complimented every inch of skin in all the right ways. Satoru had to physically shake his head to stop the flowing perverted thoughts in his head.

Your flinch when you catch him standing near the door, heart beating slightly faster. You thought that you’re alone. You don’t think much of it anyway, muttering a “holy shit” under your breath.

“Good morning,” he casually greets, brushing off the mutual shock, albeit for different reasons. “I made coffee, if you wanted some.”

“Oh... thank you,” you mutter, rubbing your eyes as you sit up straight. “Did you eat anything yet?”

“Not yet, no,”  he says, holding his overly sweet coffee in both palms. “Thought I’d wait until you woke up.”

“You’re a real sweetheart, Satoru,” you yawn. His name slipped past your lips before you could stop it. You busy yourself with stretching your arms. “What a doting housewife God has blessed me with”

His response is only a chuckle, rolling his eyes as he sighs on the edge of the bed. “Well, at least I wasn’t begging a man to spend the night with me”

“Huh?”

You couldn’t remember anything of the prior night. Nothing that occurred after you sat at the bar, specifically. But then you begin to realize, eyes widening at the revelation. You feel dreadfulness landing in the pit of your stomach a little too late. 

He’s shirtless, wearing only his suit pants. And even though you wouldn’t mind the sight any other day, the fact that you are in your pajamas isn’t helping at all.

“Did we...” You trail off, expression darkening. Your eyes meet his own, fear implanted in your pupils. You watch as his expression drifts from confusion to an awkward hesitance. Unsure how to break the news to you.

You don’t know what to expect, not realizing you’re holding your breath. 

“I-I’m sorry,” He sighs, gaze faltering as his eyes look away from you. Your eyes widen further, oxygen becoming hard to consume.

What have you done?

“But- don’t worry. You know I’m not some asshole...” if anything, he sounded chivalrous. “I-I’ll be accountable for my mistake. When do you want to hold the wedding?”

You gasp, face feeling hot. “You piece of shit-“ You groan as your foot reaches him, forcefully pushing him off the bed. “As if!”

He breaks into a fit of laughter, the sound full of genuine delight. “I can’t believe you fell for it,” He manages between the laughter.

“Fuck you, Satoru,” you mutter, a smile of relief breaking across your face. “I can’t believe you pulled something so childish.”

“Why are you so down?” He climbed back onto the bed, reclaiming his spot on the edge. “Are you disappointed? You know it’s never too late to just as-“

“Fuck off,” Your heart is pounding as you send him another kick, less forceful this time. “Say one more word about it and I’ll make sure you don’t make it out of this room in one piece.”

He laughs, asking you to pass his coffee. You reach for his coffee from the bedside table. Your fingers lift the glass mug to your lips, sipping at the hot beverage before handing it to him.

Your face scrunches up at the horrible taste. Too much sugar. Too much milk. It’s a lot worse than you might think.

“Your coffee should be criminal,” you push the mug his way, frowning. Satoru hums in response. 

There’s no awkwardness between the two of you, and he can’t help but cherish it. He feels content, enough to sit a little closer, at least.

Enough to lean in towards you, mouth closing over yours in an ever awaited kiss, at least.

[scentedpepper]

Attempted Vehicular Manslaughter

BILLY HARGROVE X MALE READER

Summary: Max Mayfield hosts a pool party.

Content Warnings: Use of the F-slur, Use of Queer in a derogatory manner, Injuries, Verbal Abuse, Abusive Household Dynamics, Reader makes a 'if I wanna kms' joke

Other Pairings: Nancy Wheeler x Male Reader, Jonathan Byers x Male Reader, Max Mayfeild x Male Reader, Mike Wheeler x Male Reader

AUTHOR NOTE(S):

Oh brother we got a chatterbox

Had a dream about this ya'll

Readers a little sassy

Reader has a little brother

Reader has a bit of savior complex

Readers also kinda impulsive?

It's 3 am

_________________________________________

The grass was rough and patchy in the backyard, filled to the brim with wilted daisies and weeds crawling through the sprinklers. It was hardly worth a note of much consideration, as there had been nothing of great importance to discuss. There were many trees boarding the house. Pine or oak, maybe. And one dying cherry tree that was a stand alone in the yard. That was about the extent of anything substantial past the old silver fence that matched your shoes.

Nearest the house, under the shade, were several lawn chairs designated for the so-called "chaperones". The older brothers and sisters of the tweens. But really, it was nothing more than a cover-up.

Something to appease the parents' of the Hargrove house because Max knew it was odd to be friends with a group of kids the same age as her brother. Even her mother, who'd tried to remain impartial to any situation, narrowed her eyes and shifted her purse tighter when the suggestion of more than a couple 17 year old's parading around her house came.

Your mom was just happy you got along, let alone made some real friends outside the books, and encouraged the notion. More parental control, she reasoned. Less chances you were off with someone who intended on trouble.

Of course, all the shit about fighting monsters and being on the brink of death with these same friends wasn't factored in.

But no one besides them and the sheriff's deputy needed to know that.

The first time you had met the kids was, admittedly, what one would refer to as a kerfuffle. Riled up and trying to be dominant. Of course, because Billy was there, it spiraled even farther, and someone's head nearly got bashed into a rock.

That someone being you of obviously, after you'd been goaded into the fight and decided to step up. And boy, did Billy hate to lose. Hated being talked down to by a smaller kid who barely had pimples left on his face, let alone bulk.

You put up a good fight. You had a mean hit, especially the lick you gifted to Billy's chest, knocking the wind out of him when it connected. There was a bruise on his ribcage for days after and all the satisfaction he could possibly imagine at knowing it was from you.

But then he nearly killed you so, things turned sour rather quickly.

Which led to a rather impromptu welcome into the group of misfits, the lot of them. Unannounced and unexpected, you marched into the party after your small break down. Ready to be let in and accepted.

Finding out about the Upside Down was a mere accident.

You hadn't gone out of your way to befriend a group of children. Hadn't expected much in regards to friendship period even after getting your ass kicked by Billy Hargrove. Let alone a lifetime, one built from the shared experience of the horrors that lurk just underneath town, attached to one particular boy of the group.

But here you were. Standing in the backyard of Max's home like an idiot with the sun bearing down at your back. The late summer day nearly reached over 100 degrees as the clock neared the noon hour. Something you might have missed otherwise if it wasn't for the black analog watching you closely every time you renetered the house for a drink.

The main gaggle of kids swam and screamed every few seconds, trying to drag you into a half-baked game of Marco Polo that had the older Hawkins teens eyeing each other with concern.

You tapped the top of your can to ease the anxiety, looking around the edge of the yard again, past Max's mother, who waved awkwardly and would come around every so often, offering drinks or food to you, Nancy, and Jonathan.

"Nervous?" Jonathan prodded in his way, looking up from the half eaten sandwhich Will had taken two large bites from, making sure he had gotten his fill and packing it away when he received two big thumbs up from his little brother before he rentered the pool.

"Ah. " You leaned against the lawn chair, rolling your neck before looking over. "Expecting Billy to jump out from one of these corners, " you gesture towards the many hiding places you have spotted in the yard. "cause a scene. "

Nancy shifted uncomfortably, twisting her skirt slightly. "Not yet, at least. " She added while fidgeting with the button over the waist. "I thought he'd show up at least half-way through this thing. "

"Yeah, " you agreed, "thats why I'm–"

"On edge?" Jonathan filled in for you, a soft smile gracing his lips as Will looked over.

"Ready, he means. " Mike piped up, his hand was fully plunged into the cooler chest, blindly shifting around the ice as he looked over at the three.

Something in the tension held firm in the pit of your stomach, because the only times that this happened was whenever a confrontation was supposed to take place.

And judging from all the past events that had occurred, however mundane or fantastical they may be, this was probably going to end badly in more than just a couple of ways.

You'd managed to keep pretty calm in the past concerning Billy. Kept a level head about whatever shit he'd decided to cause that week. But something felt wrong today. That air in your gut had been hard to shake.

And the fact he had yet to make an appearance so far, did very little in easing you. And apparently everyone else involved.

"Don't know what his fucking problem is. " You curse, sitting up in the chair, "Never waits long to start shit."

In fact, you can almost pinpoint the time he entered the premises, an excuse to blame him for the sudden tightening in your gut and the goosebumps on your skin. Yet, he hadn't entered the backyard once since he got home. He stayed holed up in his room the entire day and that much was evident every time you, or Nancy, or Jonathan or one of the kids entered the house and heard the rock music blasting from his bedroom.

He hadn't even made a shadow to have showed his face.

For hours you waited.

Hours of worry and unease ate away at your gut while the rest of the party commenced unhindered.

And yet, it seemed all but for nothing in the grand scheme of things. Because as the sun started to lower from its zenith, you and the rest grew more tired and eventually, the temperature started to cool to a point where splashing around in the pool was no longer appropriate.

The kids came clamoring out, dripping in more chemicals than water, screaming and laughing in the process. It was getting near the five hour mark by then.

Your mind was heavy when you stood up to go inside, nearly tripping when your eyes clashed with the eldest person in the home, the both of you freezing awkwardly in the middle of the walk.

Both you and Max's mother were silent in each others presence. Stoic if there was ever a word for it.

Neil always seemed to be staring off into nothing, zoned out to some far away place only those who drowned themselves in alcohol and other momentary pleasures existed. They didn't interact, besides maybe the occasional conversation starter, or nod in passing whenever a person came too close for an inch of comfort. Not unusual in your opinion of strained marriages.

You began to speak, went to get yourself out of this weird positioning you've seemed to found yourself in. But Susan beat you to it.

"Can you do me a favor?" She beckoned before turning around and trotting off into the kitchen. Already assuming you would listen. You usually did. There weren't any hidden agendas for her actions and nothing against you personally.

She held some power that you wished wasn't. You would take just about any job that required you to be away from the current obstacles of your personal life. But as she turned back to look at you with that indescribable air and knowing nod, she had beaten you.

"Whats up?" You replied, voice more gravely then you meant it to be as you walked up behind her. She was sticking something into the microwave.

"Bye, Y/N/N. " Nancy had emerged from the Hargrove bathroom when she stood on her toes to place a friendly kiss on your cheek before joining Jonathan.

"See ya, Nance. " You say as the dark haired girl glided away, passing a wave to Jonathan and then they were out the front door.

The house was mostly empty now with nearly all the kids back home, and Dustin and Max tucked away in her room, waiting for Dustin's mother. There was enough silence now that you were itching to leave. The house had settled quiet, but you couldn't describe it as comfortable. There was a ribbed blanket across the couch that had obviously been sat on by its dishelved look.

The TV was on but the volume had been lowered so much that you were better off listening to Billy's faint music from down the hall for entertainment.

Water rushed from somewhere on the other side of the house and the distinct slam of a door being pulled shut gave you the visual to what you were hearing. Your little brother, most likely. You'd seen him dip down the hallway like he was about to shit himself the moment Nancy exited the bathroom.

You shifted around, placing your backside agaisnt the counter as you found new things to look at. Languidly, you watched, senses picking out different things around the house to latch on to. The light green walls, the ugly brown patterns on the carpet, the hum of the refrigerator that, strangely enough, harbored no family photos, just magnets with various corny sayings.

Your eyes lingered on the fridge.

Everything here was simple. Blank like a fresh canvas of dry paint. Apart from the dishes left in the sink and the few items of clothing to be picked up off the ground, it felt oddly wrong for an occupied residence.

"Y/N?"

A shift in the environment rippled over your skin and something felt charged but not in a fearful sort of way. You're pulled from your small internal worry by the same woman from before.

"Billy hasn't come from his room all day, mind taking this to him?"

Susan's got a glass plate in her hand, slightly extended our towards you. It's filled at every turn with food she'd transfered from the tupperware after the ding of the microwave you hadn't quite heard.

That same gut feeling crawled up your insides again, but you blamed the way your throat tightened on the anxiety. Why it was something now and not earlier, you can't be sure.

But, if there's one thing you learned from movies and popular tv shows, it's never to interrupt the motherfucker when he's listening to rock. But, here's your excuse. So, with a small nod and the plate in your hand, you try to shake it all away.

Because the worst that could happen is you get your ass beat again.

Stepping up to the wood slated door gave your lungs a run for their money. It was as if all the air had been sucked from the atmosphere and the pressure collapsed the walls around you. Only breathing through your nose you shook the fear away with a raised fist to the door, clenched the plate in your opposite hand.

Bass rattled through the floor and past the wooden door, you're graced with the faint sounds of the guitar on the stereo. There were bits of vocals in the background, a baritone voice that spoke. And perhaps that was part of the appeal. Your fingers danced on the metal that resided at the entrance. It felt cool on your skin.

You knocked again after a few seconds. Nothing sounded on the other side of the door but you were still unsure if Billy could hear you above the music. Maybe he'd turn it down once his father returned from whatever place he'd ventured off to in the night. But you didn't exactly have that time to be waiting around, despite your own fathers late tendencies.

You took a moment to think if you should just leave the plate on the floor, let him pick it up, and try to call a ride. You exhaled quickly, shifting your balance onto your other hip.

Before you even touched the doorknob with a single digit, the music turned down significantly and suddenly the atmosphere was more intense than you'd anticipated.

Which, was the new normal.

But, still.

Things felt off. The pressure in your bones caused your limbs to rise upward, to defend yourself, to at least put yourself in some position that wouldn't leave you open to attack.

For what?

You didn't know.

Because all Billy did was peer up at you from the crack in his door. Nothing significant yet his stare was nothing less than striking. Those blue things could put the oceans to shame, rivaling even the sky in its vivid colors. They were a mirror.

They shifted to the food, briefly. Then immediately returned back to you as the speaker could barely emit its sound.

You watched as the boy straightened, sighed and then opened the door wider, leaving the frame unguarded as he trailed off into his room.

The door held open but his gaze disappeared into the space on his mattress, and the music lowered a touch, no longer loud enough to break the door from its hinges but loud enough that Billy had to raise his voice over it to be properly heard.

You took a cautious step forward after staring at the boys backside, his attire didn't leave much to imagination but his half nude state was the least of your discernment seeing as one, you were fashioned the same way and two, Billy Hargrove was wordlessly inviting you into his room.

You thought maybe this was some kind of trick, a ploy to get you cornered, so your eyes danced over him in brief, consistent glances as you proceeded forward.

He was sitting by his window, a cigarette stuck between his two fingers as he silently stared off into the the darkness the world outside offered.

It was strange. Seemingly off guard as he propped the knee of one leg against the window, giving a free range to his left to lean. Hair swept over the shoulder to show part of his sharp jawline, which dimmed only with each intake of the deadly nicotine.

The room was bland save for a few posters, white walls, brown dresser pressed against a corner and a night stand tucked at the opposite. Clothes were tossed about, either on the floor or hung up half assed on something that you could only guess as a proper hanger.

His nightstand was covered in trash and empty beer cans and you thought of shoving them away before deciding to place the plate on his bed instead.

You spared him a last glance after the action, perplexed by the fact he was just so— quiet. Which, was certainly odd to everyone at least within half a mile from here. Usually the moment you entered his space, his bubble, he erupted like an animal defending its territory.

You decided not to push your luck. Because right now, it felt like the deadly cat across the African plains simply hadn't noticed you. And so your steps were as carefully placed as they had been when you entered. It was almost relaxing despite the looming feeling from the boys demeanor.

Billy felt a wave, a sort of ripple through the air as the presence of another remained in the room. He didn't bother to speak, only raised the unlit cigarette to his lips in a curious manner and took an unsteady puff, letting the wind carry the smoke out the screen. There was a storm, one he had sensed earlier but was hard to make out amongst the many things that had clouded his mind with anger.

Luckily, the only thing he could blame his outburst on earlier this morning was exhaustion, a clear sign of his lack of sleep from the night before which would easily explain his half dead posture and irritability that had pissed off nearly everyone around him.

Another explanation for his hideout in his room but one you couldn't quite understand.

You neared the exit when the floorboards creaked just as they had before and you almost wanted to freeze in your place. Like the cat would come pouncing now, mauling you to death.

"Not gonna make a show of it?" Came Billy's voice, it was low and calm but you caught the slight strain of it. As if he needed a clear of his throat to even be fully heard.

"A show of what?" You cast a glance over your shoulder, brows knit.

The blonde gestured with his lips, the subtle shift in his elbow drawing attention to the stick of tobacco. "I was waiting for some goddamn spectacle, L/N. "

"I don't know what you're talking about, Billy. " You sounded exasperated already and you stepped over a black shirt with a design you couldn't quite decipher from its crumpled up state. You made sure not to add anymore scratches to the ground and turned around, placing your back firmly against the door frame.

Billy's muscles became tense with the new body turned on him and he felt the wave again, the stirring of new energy entering the atmosphere.

But you had simply done so so that your back wasn't uncomfortably to him when you left.

"Whatever. " Was all Billy seemed to say before shutting you out, shoving that fucking piece of shit plate away from him. And in the split second your brain focused on how fast food was supposed to get cooled and not nearly three seconds after swallowing his cancer stick Billy must've caught the attention of the devil himself.

There was no denying the jagged yell, the shuffling in his voice like someone was gripping his head and holding it under water. You jumped away, eyes as wide as saucers as Billy's bedroom door flung open, smacking the adjacent wall with a loud slam that nearly cracked the plaster from the force.

And yet, his voice was a lot less louder than his grand entrance. "Hey, shit face. Why don't you make yourself useful instead of sitting around all day, having our guests, " he gestured to you, "bring you your own fucking food. "

You moved a step back, almost tripping on your own footing from your struggle to balance yourself without the solid sense of feeling. Your eyes darted frantically between the two people within your viewing distance, and you could barely make out Susan a few feet away who had her hand clasped on Max's shoulder.

She was ushering her daughter to their bedroom but Max refused, and the red head stood beside the door with a wary look.

"Get up. And give him a ride home. " Another gesture to you and when you looked towards the entrance of Billy's room again Neil was taking up the entire frame.

"That's really not–" You began but stopped as both of the parents turned to look at you with an appalled look. It was nothing personal but you doubted Billy even knew where you lived and the only time you ever rode with him was pervious to when he'd beat your ass.

"My dad–" You tried again.

"He won't answer the phone, much less pick you up. " Susan jumped in, though the hesitation on her voice made you doubt if that was her plan all along. "Your brother got a ride with the Henderson's. "

"Put on a shirt, stop acting like a balless queer, and go. " Again Neil thrust a drawn out, mocking tone, like his son couldn't comprehend basic sentences and he stepped out of the way to make room for your departure.

Billy's got a storm brewing in his expression and there was one moment where his eyes met yours and you were sure you'd drown in all the hate there was.

You didn't get a chance to argue about the amount of time it would take to get there and about how you would manage on your own. In fact, something in Max's eyes told you it'd be better not to. So you pressed your lips against each other as Billy grabbed his keys and pushed past you.

You watched Billy stalk past everyone, a gruff 'Yes, Sir' leaving his lips that you almost hadn't heard as he passed his father.

You exited the room shortly after, not sparing Susan or Neil a goodbye as you gingerly took your shirt from Max's hands.

She made a comment, something quietly spoken that not even your heightened hearing could make out over Billy's obnoxious slamming of the front door that he knew he would pay for later. You watched the young girl as she returned to her room.

Silence welcomed you when you first stepped into the driveway, stretching across the cement with a sense of uncomfortablity that didn't seem to fade as you entered the car and were met with a chilling quiet.

Billy didnt look at you as his ignition roared to life, nor did he speak to you as he pulled out the drive way. He stared ahead, chin down as he leaned just slightly forward, supporting an arm on the side door, palm rubbing soothing circles into his temple.

He was going 20 above the speed limit. You assumed you two were trying to get as far away from the house as you could. But, the further into the neighborhood you went, the lower the numbers on the radio dropped and the more the car filled with quiet music.

Hargrove was completely out of it, lost in some other space where you weren't welcome. And the car had filled with a tension you doubted he'd meant to cause, but given his current mood, you didn't think he could avoid it either.

Despite this, you chose to press yourself against the door with a turned head, the muscles in your body growing taut with discomfort the more you tried to make it seem as if you weren't even of existence in the passenger seat.

You wanted out of the car.

That much you could draw from your mind when you found that the speedometer was at 55 and increasing.

"Billy. " You tore your gaze from the meter, flickering over the silent boy who was intent on looking only at the road ahead.

No answer. His jaw was tightened and set. There were lines buried in the skin.

"Billy. " Your voice held a certain firmness that he didn't quite like.

Silence still and he tightened his grip on the leather, knuckles turning white. The streetlights were getting ready to cast those obnoxious eyes and like a perfect chain of events the little hairs of a certain song burst from the speakers.

His hand, fast with anger, whipped across the volume dial, ceasing the tune and replacing it with the rumble of the engine.

An inhale, then a single word. "What. "

Somehow you think that's the opposite of an answer. It's barely a question. With the tone of voice he held he shouldn't have phrased it that way because he clearly didn't want to know what you had to say, what you thought.

"Stop the car. I'll walk. " It was simple enough and on any normal occasion Billy might've done just that rather than wasting his gas on you. But tonight was different, and Billy, seemingly fueled by his own agitation, just blew past the stop sign and sent the speed at which the Camaro rolled up with you at dangerous levels.

The car vibrated lightly beneath you, air whistling as you tore through the neighborhood at an alarming rate.

"Oh for fucks sake. " It was a mutter to yourself because you hadn't exactly expected the boy to be cooperative but you didn't think you'd be forced to jump out of a moving car again. Yet, here you were; gripping the handle, poised like a god damn animal, eyeing the road as you built up your goddamned gallantry.

You didn't catch the surprise on Billy's face when he noticed you push the door open against the harsh winds.

Fuck it.

You fell with ease and with a soft oof! your limbs were somehow able to stand the blow rather than becoming mangled chunks of meat against the pavement. You could hear the car skidding to a stop five houses down as you took a moment to roll around in your own pain.

Your shirt had rode up on your torso, back pressed against the heated road as your skin made contact with the tar. You had a few scrapes along your spine, one over the delicate hip bone. And you were pretty sure the road had peeled the skin on your forearm all the way down to the elbow but hey, at least it wasn't your fucking face.

A few drops of blood gathered on a pebble directly to your right. Your nose gave a sharp twinge of pain.

"Dick. " You said that in regards to him, for every aspect of his personality. Because Billy Hargrove was what others considered a giant dick.

If you hadn't suspected it before you were sure when you heard the wheels start to turn again, the shift of a gear springing the Camaro back to life. And then footsteps, louder than the car itself, were slapping against the asphalt.

"Are you out of your fucking mind!?" You raised your head, eyes coming to focus on Billy's very fucking pissed form towering above you. Arms crossed defensively, face twisted with irritation as he glared down at you with something close to— well it looked a lot like anger but Billy only knew one of three emotions and that was definitely not concern.

"Fuck you. " You managed through a puddle of blood in your mouth that you promptly spit out, only having realized it was there the moment it began forming bubbles when you tried to speak.

Billy's voice stuttered in reply. "What the fuck is your problem? Do you want to fucking kill yourself or something?! "

"Better than death by fucking vehicular manslaughter on the account of Billy fucking Hargrove. " You muttered, hands pressing into the road to give you leverage when you attempt to stand up. Your body immediately yells a no to this action and you lay right back down on the road.

"What?" Billy is completely distraught in the sense that his brain has seemed to burst due the sheer incomprability of your actions.

"Oh I don't know, Billy, maybe the next time I feel like killing myself I'll call you and we'll go a hundred miles an hour off the fucking side of a cliff. "

The boys eyebrows were nearly touching his hairline as he stared at you.

"Watch me die like an old school movie where they're surrounded by bubbles and colors and shit. "

You spit the last remnants of blood from your mouth and Hargroves face ran red and blue. "Can you fucking shut the fuck up and get up already before anyone sees you. " He demanded, practically dancing around your form. Arms stretched out with a stance that reminded you very much of a gymnast.

"No. No. I think I'll lay here for a sec. " You roll onto your backside, a groan in your voice, arms folding over your body, posed like a corpse.

Billy stops in his antics and stares at you incredulously. "Are you serious?"

"Very serious, yes. " Your voice almost comes out like a sigh.

Billy reels, and if it wasn't for the fact your eyes were sealed shut now, you'd be able to see the absolute bewilderment of the teen as he stood there in the middle of the empty street. Arms half poised over you but not touching your form. As if he didn't know what do with you.

"...Get up. " He demands, standing straight again, his hands on his waist. This time he's not commanding you in that cold manner. There's a little rise to his voice like he's beginning to lose his patience, his forehead furrowing with anger.

You take another few moments to enjoy the silence. You swear you hear a cicada or something squeak from a window sill nearby and the air felt cooler than it has in weeks. Until it all becomes overbearing and your chest burns from a lack of oxygen. You didn't even realize you were holding your breath.

You open an eye to test the waters.

Billy's scowling now, a hand on his hip and the other resting across his forehead in disbelief. At you or the situation, you weren't entirely sure. Both you imagined. But there was a certain look on his face like he was ready to pull some kind of theatric, a reaction, throw a punch to knock some sense into you but ultimately decided against it.

"Where do you live?" He asked the question in such a manner that you couldn't help but be wary of his intentions.

"...Why?" You asked, the caution obvious in your voice. As he loomed over you like that... it wasn't doing a whole lot of trust building.

You almost hear the growl of frustration from his throat as he began rocking on the balls of his feet, hands swinging like he wasn't able to grab hold of something. "So we can fucking go. Before someone calls the fucking cops. "

You still hesitated.

"Before I fuck you up so hard they'll have to identify you by your fucking sperm. " Okay there were his threats. But they lacked the substance of his normal demeanor. He didn't seem overly angry like he typically did but still, his body gave some kind of look as though he couldn't quite will himself to control the way it trembled with adrenaline.

"Nice one, but you're not my type. " Another bite and a second of Billy looking absolutely befuddled as he tried to keep his voice down. His glare had weakened but only because he was taken off guard, and his cocky expression fell to a tight line.

You watched as he took a moment to look around the empty street. The lights weren't too bright so you couldn't make out that typical, telltale flush of his skin that you've grown accustomed to in his anger.

Your eyes flickered across his face, scanning every inch like a beacon. Curiously, you looked at him the same way he always did. Maybe you'd find some sort of answer hidden somewhere behind his icy blues.

The look on his face was strange. Pensive.

"Get up, Y/N. " An even voice this time. Calming maybe. And to think, all it took was a slightly gay comment in order to simmer the violent bastard.

You half wondered where the fag-bashing erratic moron went. Maybe he'd packed his bags and runaway. You could hope.

You did more than that infact, you put that right there on your bucket list, and with a frown, more for yourself than anything else, you looked away from the boy above you.

"Fine. Alright. " Your movements were stiff with pain as you moved to push yourself up by the palms of your hand, your arms trembling beneath the weight. The skin on your hand and forearm burned with a stinging sensation.

Billy watched at your pathetic attempts, a sneer or two on his face but he didn't seem to offer much help until it'd all get too pathetic and he had to reach out and aid you.

"Idiot. " His lip curled as his palm met yours, his fingers holding onto the back of your hand tight as possible.

You stumbled slightly upon becoming fully upright, teetering against Billy for a moment as you took a minute to regain your ground.

"Yeah, well whose fucking fault is that. " You've developed a lovely habit of hissing through your teeth with an unnecessary amount of spite. You're surprised Billy hasn't knocked you on your ass and left you for dead by now.

He scoffs, trying to put as much distance between the two of you while still having your arm linked through his, helping you along. To the ignorant eye, you suppose this would look platonic enough but anyone that knew the two of you well would certainly think otherwise.

Billy's all rigid limbs and stunted movements. Even when you'd finally started to walk on your own and your grip on his arm began to slack, he held firm with a grip like a vise.

And by the time you're at the passenger's side, he's shoving you into the seat and you nearly knock your head on the top of car.

You didn't bother giving a remark when he practically seethed through his teeth, slamming the door in your face. He strode around the car like a man on a mission.

"If you go more than 5 over the speed limit—" You felt the warning die on your tongue when you saw the look of pure anger etched onto Billy's face.

"You'll jump out. Yeah. " His hand came down on the shifter. "Got it. "

There was a part of your brain that you didn't recognize that was screaming in terror, completely and totally convinced you were going to die tonight at the hands of the ever brooding Billy Hargrove.

But much to your surprise, Billy maintains that 5 mile leway the entire drive home even when there's barely a car in the streets. He hadn't muttered a single word since throwing his angry body in the driver's seat.

Instead, he'd cranked up the music all the way as if it'd some how compensate for the lack of speed and conversation, not that there would be much to say anyway.

You hadn't bothered looking at him. He hadn't bothered looking at you. But somehow, in one way or another, the feeling as if you were watching each other was even more abundant in the silence.

Whatever hostility had remained from Billy's mood in the first half of the night had receded back into his depths for later. Though the occasional frown on his face never quite leaves no matter what, his eyes are softer now.

And by the time he's pulling into the dirt driveway of your home, the soft beams of amber and yellow from the streetlights dimly hitting half his face, there's no sign of anger or any real semblance of emotion. It's oddly quiet, and the only thing to really speak up was the steady rumble of the engine.

"Thanks. " You beckon quickly and with reluctantance as you awkwardly grabbed at the door handle, trying to turn as quickly as you could while still maintaining balance. Anything just to get out of his car and away from the guy.

"Y/N. " He voices and the moment you pull at the handle you come to find it's resistance. A dull tingle shoots up your spine and the hair on the back of your neck raises with tension.

You turn, facing the teen who kept an unconcerned façade. He was a calm still pond with blue eyes flickering like small waves in the face of a strong wind, and although most times they were ice and snow that held such a cold, unforgiving passion of arrogance, there were times they were the ripples of a breeze.

Now was one of those times.

"Don't go around pulling fucking stunts like that. "

That was definitely closer to a warning than anything else that had come from his lips the entirety of the night.

"This is coming from the guy who beat my ass into the concrete two months ago. " And at this point, you were too exhausted to be filled with spite for the boy.

His posture falters and not just figuratively. There's a shift to the way he's sitting but the flicker of his eyes remains. Even with you half turned, his stare remained. In fact, it seems to have gotten all the more intense.

"What's it to you anyway? " The way he tilted his head might have been endearing in another life. Now, it seemed to hold meaning, the way a predator stalks its prey with such observant behavior before sinking its teeth into its jugular.

His gaze on you could have bored into your brain, much like a drill for how quick your defenses seemed to start dissolving.

He'd always looked at you like this. Whether or not you caught his eyes on you was by chance.

In class, in the halls, it was all the same to him. He'd get one look and that was about all it took. He'd stare with the attention like an interrogation, as if trying to decode some secret behind your stature, trying to pick you apart bit by bit with those watchful baby blue's of his. And if there was no easy route to doing that he'd dig his little meat hooks into you until there was.

You were all he'd focus on. Not you in particular. More so the idea of you.

Whatever that meant.

Of course the only instance Billy looked at you without fail, hard looked at you like the blue was about to spill out of his eyes and swallow you up like a tsunami, was when he was a little tipsy or riled up with heat and fury. But like most of Billy's emotions, they were very intense. Too intense for something as simple as just a fucking stare. It almost gave you the illusion of a dangerous threat that made your skin buzz with goosebumps, your nerves rattling in their sockets.

He was doing the same now, except, the only difference was that he wasn't pissed faced or smoldering with alcohol this time. In the confines of his car, beneath the yellow white shine of the nearby street lights, he couldn't tear his gaze away even if you begged.

Billy was the sort of thing to stop you mid thought when you glance and feel your limbs freeze, suddenly petrified with all this uneasiness and sudden confusion as to why there was only one sort of definition to put on why you felt such things whenever his presence was met with a hundred paces of distance.

"I..." He starts but his voice falls flat. Something beyond frustration, something between anger and concern. The sort of look that told you he was working something out in his mind. Or he just couldn't find the proper word choice that didn't end in an f-bomb at the end of his sentence.

He's still staring, his eyes flickering back and forth between yours, like a candle wick in the night. Wavering. Stuttering. Inconsistent uncertainty.

Like he's just asking for guidance to fill his barren vocabulary, the words never existing like an undiscovered civilization in his brain, unable to conjure up the sort of speech that would get him what he wanted.

An abrupt sense of panic washed over you. You inhaled sharply and you didn't let the breath go until your next move was placed in front of you like a chess piece on the board and you couldn't take the time to think out any future moves on your part.

All of your attention was pulled to him, focused entirely. The way he moved, the way he breathed, it left a tingling feeling trailing behind him like some faint breeze of emotion.

Everything stilled, it was him and you. Him. And you.

And he's just looking at you like that. Mouth halfway opened and the noise of shallow heavy breaths were the only sounds falling from his lips while he's looking at you all wide-eyed, like some fresh-faced virgin whose never seen one in person before.

You cursed yourself. Cursed the wind. Cursed the ground. Cursed Billy and his stupid face. And every corner of his stupid car and everything else about him. You can curse the sun but that'd probably be a step too far. Especially the moment you met those watchful pools of sea foam.

Fucking Billy Hargrove and his stupid, fucking car and his even more stupid...

Lips.

Lips and teeth.

Teeth, pale pink lips.

Blue eyes, long lashes.

Stupid fucking curly hair.

The sort of curly where it always managed to get you by the tips, tangling its brambles in your fingers and refusing to let go.

Which is why the second Billy made a small noise– not even really a noise, it's a breath. A single exhale that hits your nose, hits you the way nothing has before, and it causes a wave of heat to wash over you, overtaking your senses.

You grab those curls, your fingers entwine them and his breath is alot heavier, alot hotter as his hands grip tightly onto your shirt, like he's a frightened child.

His lips are wet.

He's messy.

Sloppy.

Like he's never kissed before in his life. Lips that keep moving, and his tongue is too sensitive, too eager.

Every sharp inhale of breath reeks of sweat and chlorine.

There's no time to stop and make sense of the situation.

He's scrambling over the middle console, desperate hands gripping on your collar and in any other scenario, this would've been the step before he plummeted his fist into your face. But there's hardly anything suggesting that. At least not without the time to see the tiny trail of tears lining Billy's eyes, glossing his cheeks.

He tastes as he looks. Like liquid gold with his tongue rubbing against yours in a hot mass of burning motion. And any semblance of a rational train of thought was chucked out the window.

There was enough room in the front seat for a teenage boy and then some. Billy Hargrove was not such a teenage boy. There was barely enough room to shift and breathe and wriggle around in this half straddle.

You can faintly hear a heavy car pass over a mound in the road, an off balance tire or perhaps someone forgot to inflate it and the uneven troll on the road, not entirely deafening, but it's there. And Billy hears it and he jumps from you, leg grazing the shifter, head knocking into the top of the roof.

His ears are steaming red as he all but falls into the driver's seat, face flustered and hair slightly disheveled.

He's looking around like a wild animal caught in a trap and he can't escape, eyes flickering back and forth; from the gearshift all the way to the rear view mirror and then to your face.

Pupils shot open, dark and wide, and a hand coming up to press on his forehead, eyes squinting.

"Billy‐ " It's a start, but it doesn't stay long enough to be deemed a full sentence, not with his name lingering on your lips while you try to swallow down the heat in the pit of your stomach. Billy's looking at you, breathing heavy.

"Get out. " He mutters forcefully, the lock clicks open and when his hand comes up to rub across his face, it's shaking.

"Billy. " More insistent this time.

He looks a few shades redder than when he was before, his head snaps back to meet your stare, hair curling beneath his ears in a gentle mess, curls threatening to fall into his face.

"Get out!" His voice pitches, breaks into something close to a sob and Billy swings his arm wildly, fist connecting with the steering wheel and there's a loud honk as a warning before he shouts again. "Get the fuck out, you fucking faggot!" His voice reverberates across the entire neighborhood, shattering your ear drums in the process.

There's dogs barking from far away, probably due to the horn.

You hesitated but only for a moment before swinging the door open, just barely missing the opportunity to knock the shit out of your leg by the time Billy decided to slam down his foot on the pedal. The door shuts fast. The car speeds off before it has the chance.

You watched him drive away, with just as much intensity as the boy inside the car watched you in the rearview.

As your house began to shrink away into the distance, and the glare of the car grew smaller and smaller. You could hardly see those searing blue eyes the way you did in class. Though this time, instead of a look of hatred or scorn, it was one of fear and dread.

And maybe, just maybe, if there were more light shining on his face, it would reflect a thousand scenarios playing on his cheeks. Not that you would've been able to tell from all the way out here.

"Fuck. "

[joces-wrld]

𖦹✶𓏲ּ꩜ .ᐟ midnight shopping

✩ blurb!

IN WHICH— fratboy! chris hits the jackpot and decides to take tomboy! reader shopping

| no warnings! enjoy <3

"i got bandssssss" chris announces, nonchalantly walking into your dorm, spreading a stack of hundred dollar bills on his arm

"hello to you too, christopher"

"lets go shopping, wanna spoil you" "its literally almost 11pm?" "and? i know these outlets that're opened till like 2am, its 30 minutes away, cmon ma?"

"chris im in pajamas and i already took my makeup off" you protest, watching him shake his head. "already told you you dont need that shit", you sigh, "give me 10 minutes to do my eyeliner and mascara?"

the boy rolls his eyes, grabbing your hand and dragging you out the door. "chris! what the hell?!" "you look good like this ma. barefaced, in spiderman pajamas and uggs, prime y/n right here" you roll your eyes, "well its like 40 degrees out here, imma freeze to death" "relax will you? i have an extra jacket in the car"

minutes later, the 2 of you were on the way to the outlets, chris allowing you to have aux. "where'd you even get all that money from? like i know you make money selling, but never that much, not in less than a week at least" "oh yeah, there's more by the way" "WHAT?!?" "yeah, got this new shit and it's selling quickly" "i can tell..." you mumble, putting the sun visor down and opening the mirror

"EW! chris what the hell?! i look so ugly. i no joke look deceased, i NEED my makeup", you can practically hear chris' eyeroll, watching him shake his head in annoyance. "you're so dramatic. i think you look pretty" he mumbles that last part, ears turning red. you smile slightly, deciding to spare him by changing the topic. "so where's your jacket?" "behind your seat"

you reach back and see a black zip up, you grab it and quickly shrug it on, taking your uggs off to cross your legs on top of the seat. "if you were anyone else, i would literally kick you out" "awww, im special" you snicker, watching as he shakes his head, smiling nonetheless. the 2 of you fall into a comfortable silence, watching as cars pass by, that is until Open Arms by SZA comes on. you gasp dramatically, repeatedly hitting chris' arm

"what the fuck?!" "i LOVE this song!!" you turn the volume up to max, grabbing the boys phone and opening snapchat, recording yourself and chris singing along

"i hate myself to make you stay. push me away, i'll be right here" you sing, admiring chris through the screen, watching as his head bops along to the beat. "with open, open, open arms. open arms, you keep me open, im so devoted, you keep me open, open arms, im so devoted to you, to you, to you" you motion towards chris with your head, a big smile plastered on your face

"no matter what come between us, yeah, i decided, i'm forever riding, we forever guided" chris raps, stopping due to a red light. "drew my favorite color, now you seeing every shade of me" he quickly turns his head, clearly dedicating those lyrics to you. his mouth opens wide in surprise when he notices you were recording, "locked in for life, on God, no replacing me" you rap back, watching him hide his smile by turning back to face the road, stepping on the gas as the light turns green

the song soon ends, you stopping the video and saving it to his camera roll, sending it to yourself before closing his phone. "you really love sza, dontcha?" "hell yeah i do. she's like, one of my top 3 artists" the boy nods to your words, turning onto some street. 10 minutes later he turns into a parking lot. "we're here, ma"

you and chris exit his car, walking towards the stores. they were surprisingly not too empty, of course they weren't packed, but you could tell there was a good chunk of people at every store. "where to?" you mumble, slipping the hood of chris' jacket on. "they have a starbucks, so lets go there first, get something warm"

-

"what happened to something warm" you sarcastically ask, watching as chris sips his caramel frappuccino. "change of plans" he mumbles, watching as you sip on your macchiato. "come on, they got a lids somewhere"

you happily follow him, not a thought in your mind as you admire your surroundings. walking into the store, you notice it was fairly empty, no more than 7 people in there. "hey guys, need any help?" an employee asks, chris shaking his head no. "no thank you" you verbally say, offering a small smile. "alright, well if you do just let me know"

you slightly zone out after that, just staring at chris as he pick hats up and down. he does that for a while, finally settling on a light grey one with a light khaki visor. he nods his head and looks for another one, quickly finding it and calling out to you

"try this on, ma" you nod your head and take your hood off, popping the hat on. chris does the same with his hat and pulls his phone out, going to the camera app. "oh they're the same!" you exclaim, a big smile immediately forming on your face. chris quickly snaps a picture before putting his phone away, "yeah dummy, thats the point"

your mouth falls into an 'o' shape, realizing thats why he took a while to settle on a hat, he was searching for one that had your hat size. "stay here, imma go pay" he instructs, walking off to the register. he returns moments later, no hats in hand??

"had to embroid sum on them" he mumbles, grabbing your hand and leading you out the hat store and towards a bath and body works. "nicks been wanting some new candle that came out so imma go look for it. get whatever you want, dont matter how much" he says, going off towards the candles

you smirk slightly, grabbing a bag and getting to work. walking towards your go to scent, you grab 2 bottles of the fragrance mist, a bottle of lotion, and another bottle of body cream. you then go towards a thousand wishes, grabbing a body wash and a mini fragrance as you needed a restock. with a nod, you go find chris

you're quick to spot him, 3 candles in his grasp. "for nick," he shows you the pistachio honey milk candle, "for matt," mahogany coconut, "and for you, saw you were running low" you smile, your favorite candle being placed inside the bag alongside the others

"is this it?" the boy asks, slightly disappointed in how little you got. "i think so?" "you get that strawberry shit you like?" your eyes widen, how could you forget about your soap and hand sanitizer?!? you quickly run to get them before standing in line with chris

-

it was now 1:50am, 10 minutes before the outlets closed. you and chris loaded with shopping bags, he truly had spoiled you. you got 3 new pairs of jeans from levi's, some 2 pairs of jorts from gap, along with overall shorts, 3 or 4 shirts from h&m, a restock on your skin care items, the one size setting spray, another liquid eyeliner, elf lip oils, pimple patches, face masks, a pair of ugg minis in the color chestnut, some timberland boots, white crocs (with random jibits chris liked) the stuff from bath and body works and the hat; which had a small C♡ embroidered into it (his had your initial with a heart as well)

"i think you bought me too much stuff" you say, stuffing bags into the trunk and backseats. "not all of it is for you, i bought matt and nick stuff too" "yeah, but the majority of the stuff is mine.....i feel bad" "nonsense" he waves his hand, dismissing your statement like nothing. "now lets go get some food"

a/n: STOP THIS SUCKS but this is like my LONGEST draft, its been sitting in my drafts for a fat minute. feedback is appreciated :) i hope you enjoyed!

—check out my masterlist! foe the rest of this series!

[once again, dividers from @dollywons]

[httpvomitello]

Request: Snippets of Rhaenyra x son of Daemon and Rhea Royce throughout various stages of life as they grow up and eventually fall in love and their life leading up to the Dance. Reader is the "black sheep" of the family for lacking any and all Valyrian features and has pretty much been forsaken by Daemon who wants nothing to do with him. Mainly just fluff stuff like playing together, Rhaenyra teaching him Valyrian, him showing her around Runestone or her showing him around Dragonstone, supporting each other as they mourn the death of their mothers, flying together, etc.

Hello, hello! Hope you like it ~ ♡

Kindred Souls *⁠.⁠✧

rhaenyra targaryen x m!reader

Childhood:

The first time Rhaenyra saw him, he was sitting alone in the godswood of Runestone. A boy of six, with unruly brown hair and eyes too bright to belong to a Royce but too distant to belong to anyone else. His shoulders were hunched, his small hands gripping a stick he used to draw aimless shapes in the dirt.

Rhaenyra, barely older, was visiting with her father, King Viserys, and her mother, Aemma. She had grown tired of the formalities of her stay and wandered off to explore. It was the sight of him, this boy so strikingly out of place, that stopped her.

“You’re him,” she said boldly, stepping closer.

The boy looked up, startled but wary. “Him?”

“Daemon’s son,” she clarified, tilting her head. “He doesn’t speak of you much.”

He flinched, his fingers tightening around the stick, but he said nothing.

Rhaenyra sat down beside him, uninvited. “I’m Rhaenyra,” she said, ignoring the tension. “And you are?”

He hesitated before muttering, “(Y/N).”

Rhaenyra smiled, her young face full of warmth. “It suits you. You should come with me. I’m going to explore the cliffs.”

For a moment, he just stared at her, as though trying to decipher her intentions. But then he stood, brushing dirt from his tunic. “Fine. But I know the cliffs better than you.”

“That remains to be seen,” Rhaenyra shot back, already tugging him along.

That day marked the beginning of something neither of them could name but both would cling to for the rest of their lives.

(Y/N) didn’t have a dragon, and for years, he thought he never would. Daemon never deemed him worthy of even standing before one of the Targaryen beasts, let alone bonding with one.

“You’re not less for it,” Rhaenyra said firmly one day as they sat together.

“I am,” (Y/N) muttered, tracing a crack in the stone with his finger. “Everyone else thinks so, even my father.”

Rhaenyra turned to him, her violet eyes sharp. “Your worth isn’t measured by a dragon, (Y/N). If you had one, you’d be unstoppable, but even without one, you’re more than enough.”

He didn’t believe her then, but her words stayed with him, replaying in his mind every time he felt the sting of Daemon’s indifference.

Lessons in Valyrian:

“You’re not saying it right,” Rhaenyra insisted, her nose scrunching in frustration.

(Y/N) sighed, his fingers digging into the dirt beneath him as they sat beneath the shade of the weirwood tree on Dragonstone. “It’s just a stupid language.”

“It’s not stupid,” she retorted, crossing her arms. “It’s our language. You’re a Targaryen. You should know it.”

(Y/N) looked away, his jaw tightening. “I’m not like you.”

Her expression softened, and she shifted closer to him. “You’re more like me than you think,” she said gently. “Now, say it again. ‘Dracarys.’”

“Dracarys,” he muttered, the word awkward on his tongue.

Rhaenyra grinned. “Better! Now, if only you had a dragon.”

(Y/N) snorted. “I’ll take a hawk over a dragon any day.”

“That’s because you’ve never flown.”

“And you’ve never had to clean hawk droppings out of your hair.”

Adolescence:

When Rhea Royce died, (Y/N) didn’t cry. He simply disappeared. Rhaenyra found him hours later, hidden away.

He was sitting on a ledge overlooking the sea, his knees pulled to his chest and his face blank.

“(Y/N),” she called softly, approaching him.

He didn’t turn, but he didn’t tell her to leave either.

She sat down beside him, the silence stretching between them. Finally, she said, “You'll always have my support, you know that, right?”

(Y/N)’s jaw clenched. “She was all I had,” he said, his voice raw. “And now she’s gone.”

“You have me,” Rhaenyra whispered, her hand covering his. “You’ve always had me.”

He looked at her then, and the tears he had been holding back finally fell. Rhaenyra wrapped her arms around him, holding him as he wept.

Flying Together:

“You’re scared,” Rhaenyra teased, her hair whipping around her face as Syrax shifted beneath her.

“I am not,” (Y/N) shot back, though his hands clung tightly to her waist as he sat behind her on the dragon’s saddle.

“Then stop squeezing me so hard,” she said with a laugh.

Syrax took off in a burst of movement, her powerful wings carrying them high into the sky. (Y/N) gasped, his grip tightening even further, but Rhaenyra only laughed harder.

“Look!” she called over the wind, pointing toward the horizon. “You can see all of King's Landing from here.”

(Y/N) dared to open his eyes, and the sight took his breath away. The city stretched out beneath them, the sea glittering like molten silver in the sunlight.

“It’s beautiful,” he admitted.

Rhaenyra turned her head to smile at him. “Told you.”

Confessions:

They were older now, the years having shaped them into who they were meant to be. Rhaenyra, bold and determined, the Realm’s Delight. (Y/N), steady and fierce, the forgotten son who had carved out his own place in the shadows.

It was late, the two of them sitting by the fire in Rhaenyra’s chambers. The flames danced in her silver hair, casting her in an ethereal light that made (Y/N)’s heart ache.

“You’ve been quiet,” she said, breaking the silence.

“I’ve been thinking,” he admitted, his gaze fixed on the fire.

“About what?”

He hesitated before finally meeting her eyes. “About how I’ve always felt like I didn’t belong. Until I was with you.”

Rhaenyra’s expression softened, and she reached out to take his hand. “You’ve always belonged, (Y/N). You just needed someone to remind you.”

He smiled faintly. “You’ve been more than a reminder. You’ve been my everything.”

Her breath hitched, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. Then, slowly, she leaned in, her lips brushing against his.

The kiss was soft at first, tentative, but it deepened quickly, years of unspoken feelings pouring out in that single moment.

When they finally pulled away, Rhaenyra rested her forehead against his. “It looks like you know how to kiss.” she provoked.

(Y/N) rolled his eyes, but a huge smile was on his lips. “I say the same about you, princess.”

Dance Of The Dragons

As the realm fractured and war loomed on the horizon, (Y/N) stood by Rhaenyra’s side, his loyalty unshakable. They had faced every storm together, and now, as the winds of the Dance began to howl, they would face this one too.

The council chamber of Dragonstone was alive with arguments and heated debates, the voices of their allies clashing as they planned their next move. (Y/N) sat beside Rhaenyra, his presence as steadfast as it had been throughout their lives. He didn’t speak often in these meetings; his strength lay not in politics, but in his unwavering loyalty to her.

As the others dispersed to prepare for war, Rhaenyra lingered, her fingers tracing the edge of the war table. (Y/N) approached her, his footsteps soft against the stone.

“Will we survive this?” she asked, her voice low and unguarded, a vulnerability she rarely allowed anyone else to see.

(Y/N) stood beside her, his gaze fixed on the painted table before them. “We’ve survived worse,” he said, though even he wasn’t sure if that was true.

One evening, (Y/N) found her in the dragonpit, her hand resting on Syrax’s golden scales. She didn’t notice his approach at first, her face drawn and weary.

“Do you ever wonder if we’re doing the right thing?” she asked softly when she finally noticed him.

He stood beside her, his hand joining hers on the dragon’s warm hide. “What’s right and what’s necessary aren’t always the same.”

Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “And if we lose?”

“Then we lose together,” he said without hesitation. “But I will fight until my last breath to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

[lrithill]

Of Black and White (Art x gn! reader)

Hi everyone,

This is a fanfic I started writing after having a  bad day at university and realizing I desperately needed Art to... comfort me.

And honestly, I just realized how incredibly therapeutic writing can be, because it genuinely made me feel so much better. I was actually laughing and having a good time while writing it.

Summary: After a day that shatters you more than you dare admit, you come home, unsure how Art will face your sorrow. What you find is terrifying and beautiful: a love too deep for words, and a future as fragile as a candle trembling in the rain.

Warnings: Extreme fluff, free pizza (for reasons), violence (but in a joyful context), the deepest kind of romance, crying (both from sadness and happiness), true love.

I wanted this to be a gender-neutral reader fanfic so that everyone could feel represented.

I tried not to mention anything that could hint at the reader's gender.

I hope I did it right—it's my first time trying!

It's hilarious how you can literally see the evolution of my mood throughout this fic—it starts off all sad and gloomy, and then slowly climbs its way back up into my usual style, full of humor, romance, violence... cozy violence (yes, I’m calling it that).

I started this as something silly and quick, but as always... it had to evolve into a nearly 5,000-word emotional one-shot. I was honestly moved by the ending—like, wow... feelings happened.

So I ended up crying agaaaaain…

The title "Of Black and White" is not merely about colors, but about the fierce contrasts that shape the story: happines and sadness, love and pain, light and shadow, life and death.

Also, this was possibly the hardest fanfic I've ever written so far, because it was really challenging to write this more "human" version of Art without making him too OOC (though at the beginning I totally took some liberties, because I needed the fluffiest fluff ever to exist).

PLUS, I spent like two weeks just thinking about ONE SINGLE PARAGRAPH that was absolutely RUINING MY LIFE.

And trust me—you'll know exactly which one it is when you read it. It was insanely difficult.

I mean, it's already hard enough to pull something like that off in my first language... now imagine trying to do it in a language that's not even mine. Holy Christ.

But honestly, with Art, it could never have been any other way.

Those lines had to be precise, razor-sharp...

They had to go deeper inside than Art’s dick ever could (and that says a lot).

(I don't want to spoil anything, but I'll just say that every gif I use is for a reason).

It was a strange day. One of those days that can’t quite decide whether it’s the last breath of winter or the first yawn of spring. A dry, howling wind—as dry as the desert—scratched at your eyes and filled your lungs with burning sand.

And yet, in the shade, the humidity soaked you to the bone, as if sadness itself were trying to bloom inside you in the form of mushrooms.

But you’d be lying if you said that was what was bothering you. Your irritated eyes, your tight chest, your uncomfortable body... they weren’t complaining about the outside world—but the inside one.

And you realized—with a kind of cruel irony—that this dissonant weather was the perfect mirror of your emotional wreckage: a chaotic storm hammering at your temples.

You were heading home in a rush, with the urgency of someone who doesn’t want to be seen. You didn’t want to run into anyone, and if you had… you probably wouldn’t have noticed—because you didn’t have it in you to lift your eyes from the ground, let alone meet someone’s gaze.

Well… maybe one gaze.

You’re not a serious person. You don’t usually get angry at anyone, much less hurt them—you don’t want to.

And that person… He isn’t used to seeing you sad, to feeling you distant, to the silence of a shadow without arms—you have no idea how he’s going to react to all this. Will he become your emotional support clown? Will he laugh at you? Will he vanish for days like you’re some sickly plant that needs to be left alone to recover?

You stormed into the building like a burglar. You opened the door with the kind of anxiety that wants to phase through matter. You climbed the stairs—those endless stairs. Everything was a gray blur—no edges, no contrast—a tasteless fog you swallowed without thinking. A grayness you longed to turn into something more legible: a balance of black and white.

And finally, your front door. You made a beeline for your room—craving your pajamas, your bed, a splash of fresh water to rinse away the tears, anything that would feel soft against your skin.

You greeted Art in passing, who was half-asleep on the couch—probably recharging before heading out to cause his usual nighttime chaos. He barely managed to let out a groggy “Honk!” before you vanished upstairs without looking back.

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to see him…

It was that you didn’t want him to see you like this.

And that… that is what truly unsettles him.

Art is used to your greetings being full of kisses and laughter, with hugs and playful shoves. You, who speak to him like a well-tuned violin; you, who drown him in affection as naturally as breathing. And he—who is all flesh and expression, who loves through the body, who needs those gestures like a dancer needs music.

So, he slowly sits up, stretching and yawning in an exaggerated  motion. He sniffs the air, trying to detect any traces of menstrual blood in your scent—just in case it might explain your behavior—but no. Nothing.

It’s another kind of scent that reaches him—familiar and unfamiliar all at once.

He rolls up his sleeve to check the time on his invisible watch and nods with confident flair.

“Cue the sad music… it’s time for the clown to step into the spotlight. ”

Art climbs the wooden stairs, careful not to make a sound, dodging every creaky board—he knows them by heart, like a spider that knows each thread of its web.

Upstairs, your bedroom door is slightly ajar. He peeks in cautiously—scouting the terrain before making his entrance. He sees you lying on the bed, turned away from him, silently sobbing into a pillow, your arms coiled tightly around it.

An invisible knife cuts through his heart at the sight.

He can’t help but collapse dramatically against the wall, gazing up at the ceiling, one hand clutching his chest. Not because he’s sorrowful—but because he’s offended. 

Offense. Pure, undignified offense.

“What does that pillow have that I don’t? And why haven’t I turned it to ashes yet?”, he thinks, hurt.

But he collects himself. He’ll deal with that plush lover later—with all the fury a pillow fight can offer.

He slips through the door quietly—just wide enough to let his lean body in—and closes it back to exactly how it was, careful not to disturb the soft, shadowy cocoon you’d created.

He kneels by the edge of the bed, and—for one fleeting second—the thought of honking right into your ear crosses his mind. (Intrusive thoughts… are strong). But he resists—he’s clearly fighting for your affection against a dangerously cuddly rival.

Instead, he gently lets himself fall beside you, doing his best not to disturb you. His arms carefully wrap around your waist; you feel his chest against your back, his breath brushing softly across your shoulders. The sensation is warm, soothing, intimate… and it makes you blush, pulling an involuntary first smile from your lips.

His hands go searching for yours—as they always do—to interlace your fingers. Needing your warmth, your touch... connection.

When—

BAM!

To hell with the pillow.

Art runs into it before he finds your hands and hurls it against the wall at the speed of light—with all the jealousy and rage the world has ever known. Had there been a window, it would’ve landed in the neighbor’s house.

“I’ll pluck every feather from your body later,” he thinks, with the kind of anger he saves only for those foolish enough to touch you—already sentencing it to a slow, velvety death.

You look at him, stunned, blinking at the sudden, unprovoked assault.

His expression softens instantly when your eyes meet his.

Now his hands change course, reaching for your hair, gently brushing back a few strands from your face... just so he can really see you.

And he stays there, silent, watching you: Swollen lips, red eyes, tears still sliding down your chin...

It’s a face he’s seen a hundred times—on other people, in other moments, usually under flickering lights or right before a final scream—but somehow, seeing it on you... it’s like the first time. It doesn’t amuse him like it usually would, he doesn’t want to make it worse… in fact, he doesn’t even want to keep looking at it.

He leans in and kisses you—softly.

Sloppy kisses—silly, clumsy, innocent… One after another; like summer rain.

You feel his lips brushing yours gently—soft, playful. Kisses landing on your lower lip, at the corners of your mouth—like butterflies. His tongue peeks out timidly, just enough to graze you, never to intrude.

He’s not trying to seduce you.

He’s trying to comfort you… and somehow, he's doing a surprisingly good job.

His mouth finds the salty trail of a tear and follows it, drinks it, erases it. He cleans the droplets on your chin with trembling lips as if they were little stalactites—like he’s trying to absorb the pain directly from your skin.

You think about speaking. About telling him how grateful you are for this—how much his presence, his gestures, his way of loving you… actually calms you.

But you choose silence instead—letting your body say it all. Letting your fingers, your breath, the gentle movement of your mouth over his, speak for you. Letting your body language talk to him the way his talks to you—you speak the same language, the kind that doesn’t need translation.

Because in this moment—strange, warm, intimate—you both know there’s nothing more to say.

You bring your hands to his face—and gently—guide him, laying him down beside you. Never stopping the kisses… never breaking the spell.

Now you’re both fully lying down, on the same level. Eyes closed—though every now and then, Art sneaks one open to spy on your face (he still can’t quite believe how much you like kissing him).

Your bodies curl into a human nest, arms and legs tangled comfortably in a tight, warm embrace, full of tenderness—no urgency, no hunger, no desire. Just love.

You caress his face with one hand, and with the other, you gently guide his hand toward your lips—kissing his fingers, his knuckles, the back of his hand, his wrists… You feel the fine hairs on his arm rise, and how that wave travels upward, upward, like your kisses were a gentle electric current.

Art pulls back slightly and takes a deep breath—releasing it in a sigh that can only mean… peace.

There’s a soft, innocent smile on his lips now, and a light blush blooming on his cheeks—he can’t help it.

Then, he moves his hand away from your mouth.

Your brow furrows, just a little, puzzled.

But the confusion turns to wonder in an instant.

Because you see what Art is doing.

He lifts the pinky finger of his right hand. "I"

He crosses the index and middle fingers of both hands, then opens them wide. "love"

He points at you with his index finger. "you"

You don’t know much sign language—yet. But you had asked Art to teach you some important things.

And this—this one in particular—was one of the first you’d wanted to learn.

It’s the first time you see him doing it for real. No rehearsals. No jokes. No distractions...

And something in your chest melts sweetly.

Your eyes well up with tears—and this time, they’re tears of joy—and Art looks even more confused.

He watches you in silence, tilting his head with that trademark perplexed expression. His eyes scan your face with that curious look he gets when he doesn’t understand what’s going on—when he’s starting to suspect he might be the sane one in the room.

“Why do I always make people cry?” he wonders, proud of himself in the most frustrating way possible.

Then, as always, he decides the best way to handle discomfort… is to make it his own.

He throws himself at you with ridiculous theatrics and pulls you into a tight hug. So tight your face ends up smashed against his chest, barely able to breathe.

He starts repeating the “I love you” gesture again in sign language… but now in the most utterly chaotic, clumsy, exaggerated way possible—his hands flailing like a mute, stuttering ADHD octopus.

His movements are visual mayhem. Adorable mayhem.

And that—that pulls a laugh out of you, scattering the tears.

Art always seems like an emotional disaster, and yet he has this incredible ability to make you feel better—even when he has no idea what he’s doing. (A good clown, after all—if we ignore the whole “murder” thing—could probably brighten up a birthday or two.)

You try to mimic the gesture too, as best you can, but Art’s hugs aren’t bear hugs, they’re bear traps.

So all you can do is... shout.

“I LOVE YOU TOO! I LOVE YOU TOO!” you yell against his chest, hoping your ribs survive.

Your ribs will survive.

But your heart—most certainly—won’t.

That night, Art came back at a surprisingly reasonable hour—It was exactly 12:00 a.m. on the dot.

He rang your doorbell—as usual—covered in blood like a walking clot. He was in a great mood, even more than usual.

Art, unlike the rest of us mortals, always finishes work with renewed vitality—and, well… reduced vitality from others.

He kissed you carefully, trying not to get too much blood on you—though let’s be honest, nothing was going to save you from the butt slap.

He headed straight to the shower, no detours, which was… another sign that something was off.

Art’s just happy to see me happy again, and he doesn’t want to mess it up, you thought.

It had been a long day, and the only thing you truly needed now was something easy and comforting to eat.

So, in an act of pure wisdom, you decided to order pizza.

Art is sitting next to you on the couch when the doorbell rings:

DING DONG!

He doesn’t even need a second to think. His head snaps toward the door like a hunting dog that just sensed the delivery guy from miles away.

He throws you a knowing look, a mischievous little grin over his shoulder as he walks by. His eyebrows bounce playfully, his tongue shamelessly licking his lips.

I always have to be the one to order, but honestly? Worth it, you think to yourself, never taking your eyes off him.

"50 SECONDS IS YOUR RECORD!" you shout from the couch, stopwatch in hand.

Art strides toward the door with purpose, plants himself in front of it, and before opening it, does a few breathing exercises like an actor prepping for a major monologue.

And then...

CREEEAAAK...

He opens the door—slowly, dramatically. The hinge wails like a portal to hell. The door groans so loud, so cursed, it sounds like it’s haunted by its own misery.

On the other side, the delivery guy stands, smiling with the pizza in hand. But that smile lasts approximately 0.2 seconds.

Because facing him is not Art’s "few friends" face—it’s his "DEAD friends" face.

*In my language, there's an expression used to describe someone who looks unfriendly — we say they 'have a face of few. friends' That's where the joke comes from, because Art doesn't just have the face of someone with few friends; he looks like he killed them. I couldn't find a close way to translate it into English, so I'm explaining it here.*

“C-cash or… card, sir?” the poor guy whispers, holding the box out with visibly trembling hands.

Art looks up, feigns deep thought and then—

ZAS!

In an impossible quick motion, Art pulls his hands from behind his back and stabs the pizza from below, impaling it with something that is neither cash nor card.

“Big knife… or BIGGER knife?” his eyes say. 

The delivery guy goes paler than Art’s face. He watches the tomato sauce drip and suddenly… empathise—sees himself in that pizza’s place.

He drops the box—now skewered—and bolts down the stairs like a bat out of hell.

Art wipes away a tear from laughing too hard, soaking in the chaos.

“HONK! HONK! HONK!”

He curses out his mother through the horn, watching him run down the stairs, watching him completely lose it on the way down, watching more than one open fracture stick out, watching with absolute certainty that he won’t be making it to the hospital.

Finally, with the pizza in hand, he shuts the door and lifts the lid. The smell of melted cheese fills the room, blending with the lingering aura of natural terror and fresh trauma, setting the perfect mood for a romantic dinner.

Art sets it down on the table and plops beside you, sliding an arm around your shoulders—radiating the pride of an elite psychopath who plays competitively "Bring food, or become food.”

He looks at you like he just pulled off the stunt of a lifetime.

Which, to you, he absolutely did.

You’ll never have to pay for delivery again (though yes, you do need to rotate food places every two weeks to avoid investigations—but hey, free food is free food).

“48 SECONDS, BABY!!!!” you announce, stopping the timer, and clap your hands. “Gold medal for the champion,” you say, pretending to place an imaginary medal around his neck.

Art gives you a high five, already munching on a slice—still impaled, of course, because using hands is way too basic for him.

But now comes the interesting part—the reason Art was so cheerful when he arrived.

The movie you were watching suddenly gets interrupted by breaking news.

You glance at Art—who’s wearing a picture-perfect expression of surprise, his mouth forming a flawless "O." He turns to look at you, keeping that same face, as if he had absolutely no idea what’s about to be said.

📢 BREAKING NEWS — MILES COUNTY DIARY📢

"At 10:38 p.m., two bodies were found on the outskirts of Miles County, next to a video camera. The investigation team has confirmed that the footage shows the presence of Art, the infamous homicidal clown. Authorities are urging residents to stay indoors, lock all doors and windows. The following images contain graphic violence. Viewer discretion is advised. This material may be disturbing for some audiences. Watch at your own risk."

"What is this, Art?" you ask, genuinely confused.

Art simply points at the screen, smiling wide, eyes sparkling with excitement—he’s only missing a tub of popcorn, though the pizza works just as well.

"I love how they say ‘stay indoors, lock all doors and windows,’" you say, chuckling. "Because obviously I’m going to do all that… with my homicidal clown already inside."

You both burst out laughing at the irony.

The footage begins—Art raises a finger to his lips, signaling a “shhh”.

The recording starts with a jarring camera shake, as if someone had hit “record” by accident… or abruptly. The image wobbles for a few seconds before stabilizing, revealing a deeply unsettling scene:

A man tied to a chair, duct tape wrapped tightly around his torso, wrists, and ankles. He’s in a dark room, lit only by a single harsh, yellowish spotlight hanging above his head, casting a long, trembling shadow on the wall behind him.

“Please… I don’t want to diiiie,” he pleads through clenched teeth, looking straight into the camera.

Art swings the camera side to side, shaking it as if to say “no”—so even the audience gets the message… though he hasn’t shown himself yet.

He walks up to the man and gently strokes his hair—as if to comfort him—bringing the camera in close to capture his bruised face and glassy eyes—with dilated pupils. It looks like Art injected him with something to keep him awake.

It seems there are wires at the base of his neck—subtle, almost hidden—, as they trail behind his head.

“Wh-what do you want from me…?” the man whispers, trembling.

Art then pulls out a knife and shows it to him—the man freezes, eyes locked on the blade.

Art passes the knife slowly near his Adam’s apple, not quite touching it.

“I have a wife… she’s pregnant…” the man blurts out, trying to appeal to some flicker of mercy.

Art finally turns the camera toward himself for the first time. He makes an exaggerated pout, clearly heartbroken by the situation, clearly full of sympathy, clearly… performing.

“You’ll never know what love is!” the man spits at him, desperate and furious.

Art pauses.

He points to himself with a skeptical face…then points to the man’s face… then back to himself again—like a sarcastic seesaw, a pantomime of disbelief.

As if to say:

“Are you sure about that?”

Then, he lifts his hat and—

TADA!

He pulls out a photo of you. He doesn’t show it to the camera, but he holds it up to the man with a reverent gesture. So proud and happy.

He turns the camera back to his own face, now wearing a smug, satisfied smile. He kisses the photo with a dainty little “mwah”, presses it to his chest where his heart is, and tucks it safely away again.

Without warning, he points a gun at the man.

The man freezes in pure, bone-deep terror.

Art hands him a piece of paper, neatly folded.

But the guy’s wrists are still tied, so Art very helpfully proceeds to stab one of his hands repeatedly, destroying it completely before leaving it free enough to hold the paper.

The man screams in agony—his hand now practically useless, bones poking through like shattered twigs.

Art just laughs—though you don’t hear it. But you see it: shoulders shaking, chest bouncing, tongue poking out playfully from the corner of his mouth.

He steps back a few paces, angling the camera to get a perfect wide shot, making sure to capture every second of the show.

The man is trembling. Crying. Begging. Bleeding. 

Art makes a very clear gesture with the gun.

Read.

The man swallows hard, sobbing, and begins to read out loud the handwritten message from the killer himself:

“You are the sky stretched over my hell, the bloom that rose where my body fell, the nightmare I long for, night after night, the fall I crave, more than the flight. I no longer know if this is a curse— for every drop of blood forgets its path, and every stream, no matter how dire, leads back to you through pain and desire. It must be a curse—this aching delight, that makes me weak and steals my fight. It makes me fear what I never did: not monsters or death—but feelings I hid. I fear to die—drenched in endless black. I fear your death—I'd bleed the heavens to bring you back. Treachery’s the sin most deeply damned— a sin I never knew, until today. And now I’d drown, with pride and grace, in Cocytus’ cold, in death’s embrace— for you have made me turn on me, and crowned me my worst enemy. You were my first delicious mistake, and you’ll be the final breath I’ll take. So I ask you now—divine, unholy— Will you marry me, my one and only?”

*In Dante's Divine Comedy, the lake Cocytus is the ninth and final circle of Hell, an immense frozen wasteland where traitors are punished. This icy region is marked by the extreme cold caused by Lucifer's wings, meant to punish betrayal.*

You're completely absorbed in the recording.

And that last line—that line—snaps you back to reality like a bucket of cold water… or cold blood.

Your soul slams back into your body, and for the umpteenth time today, your eyes well up with tears.

Because when you turn your head…

Art is no longer sitting on the couch.

He’s not there.

He’s no longer beside you.

He’s kneeling on the floor… with a small black box in his hand, holding a beautiful ring that looks like it was forged in the most intimate corner of hell.

In his other hand, he holds a bouquet of ghost flowers—pale Monotropa uniflora. 

Their waxy, translucent stems trembling like glass on the verge of breaking—white, ethereal, eerie, spectral… yet real. 

Just like him.

Rootless things that bloom in the dark, feeding on decay, and yet… so full of beauty. He offers them with care, as if they were precious, impossible things. 

The recording is still playing, but nothing’s happening—As if even past Art is holding his breath, waiting for your answer.

“Oh… Art…”

You can’t find the words. Your throat tightens, but an undeniable smile blooms across your face.

“Yes. Of course yes! I’ve never wanted anything more in my life… I LOVE YOU.”

You kneel down to hug him, not even looking at the perfect ring waiting for your finger… honestly, nothing seems more perfect right now than your… husband.

Art sets the box and the bouquet gently on the table and lifts you up in a hug that sweeps your feet off the ground.

And he kisses you like it’s the first time—which, in a way, it is.

The first time—as spouses.

The recording flickers back to life: romantic music begins to play, a soft waltz worthy of an enchanted, bizarre wedding.

Of course Art planned this. Of course it went flawlessly.

You start dancing without thinking, without speaking… just floating.

The moment couldn’t be more dreamlike—you never imagined, as a child, that your proposal would look anything like this—but honestly… it’s unbeatable.

On screen, the other Art appears again—he’s applauding, blowing kisses at the camera, wiping away an invisible tear.

He signals to the man beside him, gesturing for him to clap as well—as if he knows—as if he can somehow see what’s happening right now on the other side of the screen.

While you and Art keep dancing, video-Art—visibly satisfied—, takes a step back.

With a final bow, he steps away from the man and pulls out a small detonator. 

He smiles wide, eyes darkening with a slow, delicious malice.

Your Art points to the screen, urging you to watch.

Video-Art presses the button and—

For a moment, nothing happens.

And then—

BAAAAM 

The man’s head explodes in a monstrous fireball, accompanied by homemade fireworks—a burst of color, violence and celebration.

His brains go flying, scattered through the air like confetti. Blood gushes out like a fountain, a crimson rain of eternal love.

Video-Art jumps with joy, twirling under the blood shower—it turned out exactly as he’d planned.

He holds up a finger in a 'wait a minute' gesture, then casually walks off, as if he's gone to get something

The music keeps playing.

Then he reappears, now dancing with… another headless body?

(Maybe the first take wasn’t good enough).

And the scene continues.

Music and blood.

Dance and delirium.

Death and the corpse entering and exiting frame with hypnotic steps.

And you, without thinking, keep dancing too—dancing with your own sweet death.

As you kiss him, as you caress his face, your hearts beat in sync—chest to chest, as if trying to merge into one.

Art reaches for the box again from the table. His eyes are glowing, eager to see how beautifully the ring fits your hand.

The ring he made himself.

He shows it to you, and this time, you finally take in every detail that the rush of emotion had blurred before.

It’s elegant—it’s perfect. Exactly the right proportions for your finger.

Tiny jewels are embedded in the ring: obsidian and pearls, mirroring his own colors—as if his essence had crystallized inside the ring.

His, on the other hand, is not nearly as ornate—you could say he poured all his effort into yours.

Or perhaps, for him, it was enough to have something that simply matched you.

And then you see the inside.

And on the inner band, there’s a detail so deliberate it actually frightens you—frightens you with how carefully Art prepared this moment.

Etched with almost reverent precision, something leaves you breathless:

Your names.

Together.

Engraved like a prayer—or maybe an eternal curse.

There’s no way to tell which.

It’s beautiful. And it’s yours.

You start to slide the ring onto your finger… but Art stops you.

He takes your hand gently, and he’s the one to slip the ring on, watching with deep satisfaction as it fits perfectly.

Of course it does.

He made it for you—maybe that’s why he was always staring at your hands with such devotion.

"I love you, Art. Forever," you whisper, admiring your hand—now complete.

Art kisses your hand in response, his eyes glowing with emotion.

"Your turn," you say with a soft smile, holding his ring now.

He offers his hand a little shyly, and you kiss it gently, reassuringly. You feel his whole body relax beneath your touch.

You slide the ring onto his finger, and yes—it fits perfectly too.

And then your hands find each other—fingers lacing together like puzzle pieces finally reunited after a long, winding search.

You look at each other, you smile and… for a moment, you see someone else. Or rather, you see something in him you’d never seen before.

There’s the faintest gloss in Art’s eyes, like something unspoken stirred him.

You’ve never seen him cry—and he certainly can’t remember the last time he did… if he ever did at all.

But you didn't get the chance to read it, to piece it together—to make sense of it.

Because, suddenly, the light fades—

The video ends at that exact moment—as if past Art had sensed a tear slipping out, and decided to protect himself in the future by cutting away just in time.

The music fades.

The tv-screen goes black.

And the room is left in total darkness.

There’s nothing left now… but this:

The kisses.

The embraces.

The darkness.

The silence dance.

The presence.

The warmth.

One for the other, forever.

The next morning, you couldn’t stop thinking about everything that had happened.

You’re not even sure Art fully understands what marriage means (besides owning a perpetual hostage)—and maybe, yes; it was impulsive.

But then you remember… Art lives every day on the edge of death.

That thought always brings a quiet, heavy sadness that settles in your chest, and you can’t shake it.

Because deep down, you know your relationship won’t last forever.

Not because the love will fade—but because he will.

Quite literally, any day could be his last. 

And he knows it.

Maybe that’s why he didn’t want to lose the chance to marry you—before he ran out of time to do it.

Before the day comes when you no longer have to worry about blood-soaked clown shoe prints to clean.

Before the day comes when he stops showing up at your door.

Before the day comes when there's nothing left of him but the quiet.

Before the day you realize he's already gone.

Thank you for reading all the way to the end.

You could say you just read a little piece of my soul—I truly poured my feelings into this, especially into Art’s poem.

I adore writing poetry, and even if it’s not exactly perfect, I believe I managed to express everything I wanted to in the best way I could.

While I was writing the ending, I couldn’t help but shed a few tears, because at that point, it wasn’t the reader speaking anymore—it was me, thinking about everything I had written and why.

I think I hadn't fully realized that someday, I’ll have to say goodbye to Art for real—that I’ll never see him on the big screen again.

But that’s necessary, and it can't be any other way.

This character truly is so special, and even though I want him to have the most brutal, torturous death in the whole franchise—because he absolutely deserves it...

I’m not ready to watch him die.

Also, this is what the bouquet of ghost flowers kind of looked like: