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ebodebo · 2 months ago

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Salt to the Wound

➛ next read⁀➷ The Conditioning: A Salt to the Wound Prequel

PAIR⁀➷ simon riley x fem!reader

WC⁀➷ 8.7k

CONTAINS⁀➷ 18+ SMUT MDNI, fem!reader, sex being used as a coping mechanism, heavy angst, no use of y/n, unprotected sex, established relationship, complicated grief, mentions of death, displaced aggression, marital issues, panic attacks, religious speak, mention of calories, unhealthy coping mechanisms, mention of dead relative, simon being pretty aggravating, purposeful omission of tags to avoid spoilers, & did i mention this is all angst?

AUTHOR'S NOTE⁀➷ oh my god, this has been such a bitch to complete! i’ve been working on this for months in between my nasty smut fics bc this truthfully made me so sad to write, so i had to take breaks in between. there is only angst; i cannot hold your hand…you must walk alone…i’m sorry. read at your own discretion.

Simon can't move on from Johnny's death…

"Johnny's dead."

You remember the line clear as day.

In fact, you remember almost every single detail about that day.

The weather had been docile, a change from the feverish heat the day before.

The air was slightly damp.

The weatherman chimed that a promising stormcloud was brewing in the distance, which could bring a couple of inches of rain, typical of January.

Your neighbor's son came to your front door, meekly asking to retrieve his ball from your backyard.

The postman had hand-delivered your new dress, complimenting the new planters Simon built in the front yard.

Your favorite body wash that smelt of fruit ran out.

You had made pie, apple instead of your usual cherry.

You had accidentally poured too much cinnamon in the apple mixture, shooing Simon away when you finally pulled it out of the oven because it was a "bad pie."

Simon had never heard such ridiculous words.

No pie is a bad pie.

He shoveled a spoonful into his mouth as you went to answer the house phone, quietly laughing as he hissed at the hotness.

Then it happened.

"Johnny's dead," the voice on the other end of the line announced, shattering the tranquility of the moment.

They were the only words that flowed through the phone line.

The very words you had selfishly cursed for the past year.

The words that had single-handedly eroded everything you and Simon had built together.

Because that day, on every level except physical, the Simon you knew had died with Johnny.

His mind merged with the very soil Johnny lay in, leaving his physical body on the surface while his soul wandered beyond your grasp.

So out of touch, so disconnected from reality.

Simon had become a shell of a human.

He wasn't living, merely surviving—going through the motions.

It was devasting to watch the man for whom you gave your heart slowly disengage right before your eyes.

Bit by bit, piece by piece.

Until there was no more man left to see.

Just mere flesh and bones.

It was such unfamiliar territory since Simon relied on you as he relied on oxygen to breathe.

You were his sustenance, his reservoir.

An eternal flame that burned with an unyielding passion.

Now it seems he couldn't get far enough away from you.

However, it wasn't always that way.

The evolution of his disconnect hadn't been linear; it was ever-changing.

Some days, he would act just like your sweet Simon before; other days, you felt like he resented you.

Resented you for what?

You're not entirely sure.

You didn't kill Johnny.

But with how Simon reacted to your mere presence, it felt as though you might as well have.

You can still recall Simon's noticeable change, apart from his defining silence, which occurred exactly two weeks after Johnny's death.

The bitter taste of anise, accompanied by the sharp taste of mint, coated your tongue; experimenting with new cocktail recipes had become something of a hobby for you.

Kept you occupied while Simon worked in his office.

You had insisted he take some time off, some real time off.

Price wouldn't let him return to work, so he supplemented by hiding in his office all day and doing paperwork and other such tasks.

It wasn't entirely what you had in mind, but it was the best he could give you.

He would have gone truly mad without his work to drown out his thoughts.

So, you bit your tongue every morning as he trudged out of the sanctity of the warm bed you shared, leaving you alone in the silence, and headed straight to the room across from yours that had him so consumed.

It was funny, really.

You always thought that perhaps a pretty woman would eventually come around and attempt to steal your Simon from your hands, not a spare room with cream walls.

Digression aside, you selfishly enjoyed the time alone.

Simon would only speak a couple words to you daily, the silence between you growing thicker with each passing day.

You fault him none, though it was exhausting trying to help someone who despises being helped to any degree, even if they so clearly needed it.

That was why you enjoyed the alone time.

Though it could be occasionally dull.

So, finding a hobby to fill your time was not just a choice but a necessity for your sense of fulfillment.

Even if it consisted of the occasion day drinking.

You'll repent later.

Now, you just needed the burning taste of rum down your throat.

Your face sourced at the combination before you scribbled, 'absolute shit,' on a small notebook you kept to keep track of all of your combinations and rated them in excruciating detail.

Hearing his office door creak open, you shoved the notebook into your pocket.

Not because you cared if he saw, but because his office door opening earlier than ten-forty-five startled you, abruptly shifting your emotions.

You heard his heavy boots thunk against the vinyl flooring, inching ever so close to the kitchen where you stood.

Your heart quickened from anticipation, and you tried to steady your breathing, not wanting to give away your guilt.

"You eaten?" His voice is deep and strained as he stands still across the island.

You stay completely still, refusing to budge even a little. Instead, you choose to shake your head from side to side slowly.

"Can pick up pizza?" He suggests.

His presence now stirred a strange mix of emotions within you.

He would never lay a finger on you.

It was the news that had thrown everything off balance, leaving you both in a state of discomfort and awkwardness.

Johnny was dead.

And you could feel his haunt everywhere.

"Pizza's good," you say softly, pretending to adjust a tilted bottle of tequila.

An uneasy silence lingers between you for a moment, and then you finally turn to meet his gaze.

He looks…like shit.

You let out a soft sigh as you take him in fully.

He has dark circles under his eyes, tinged with shades of purple and blue.

His once bright blue eyes have lost their luster, and his lids now hang heavy and fatigued.

His hair is unkempt, and his beard is starting to grow, giving it a scraggly appearance.

"You don't look so good," you find yourself saying without much thought.

"Just tired," he mutters, swiping his car keys off the counter.

You move to stand. "You've been working like crazy," you say, gently pressing your hand into his shoulder.

He tightens at your touch.

Whole body going taut.

You try not to take it personally.

You fail.

"Yeah…I, I'll get the pizza," he murmurs, moving towards the front door.

Then he leaves without a goodbye.

You thought it was just bullshit.

What the articles said about coping with a loss.

Dealing with grief.

They all seemed like distant concepts.

But, he was so evidently disconnecting from you.

You felt your head swarm at the admission.

Simon was isolated, lost in a vast ocean of grief and despair.

And you didn't know if you were enough to reel him back in.

Three weeks later, you're cozied on your sofa, a blanket draped over your legs, the soft cushions embracing you in their cozy warmth.

The clouds, heavy with water, have transformed from soft white to an ominous smoky gray, a stark contrast to your cozy sofa and warm blanket.

You have your favorite tea in your favorite mug, a book wide open though long forgotten on the cushion next to you.

Your eyes are now captivated by a trashy British reality television show, a guilty pleasure that adds to the coziness of your setting.

Usually, Simon and you snuggle up and watch the show.

Always on the edge of your seats, eagerly anticipating the outcome.

Will the man stay on the island, sacrificing his share of the prize fund, to be with the woman he's grown close to?

Or will he choose the money over her?

It's always more enthralling with Simon.

Though, you're not sure where he is.

He didn't say where he was going when he left about half an hour ago.

And you didn't bother asking.

Maybe that makes you a lousy wife.

Or perhaps, you're just exhausted.

It feels like you're tearing your own flesh, trying to get him to answer anything.

You guessed the latter.

The television crackles to life, the sound of synthesizers and strings filling the room, creating a sense of suspense.

"Henry's decision will be…" The host's voice begins.

You find yourself sitting up, the hot cup of tea between your hands, and your eyes glued to the television.

"…revealed right after the break," the host chimes as the camera cuts to a condom commercial.

You sink into the couch with a deep sigh as you hear the front door open.

The thud of heavy boots moves into the kitchen, near earshot.

You turn to see Simon grabbing a glass and slipping it under the tap for some water.

Your teeth dig at the flesh of your cheek, your foot steadily tapping on the vinyl flooring.

He takes a deep sip of the water, sucking it between his teeth and swishing it around his mouth before he spits it back in the sink, running the water to clean out the saliva now lining the metal sink.

You'd rather be shot than deal with the taciturn.

It was egregious.

You felt awkward in your own home.

With your own husband.

"Simon," you say with nerves on your tongue.

He turns towards you, taking a proper sip of the water.

"Sit. Our favorite show is on," you chime, a warm small growing on your lips.

He shakes his head. "Not feelin' it tonight, sweetheart."

"Come on," you urge, pointing towards the television with your pointer finger. "We're about to find out if Henry is staying or leaving."

"I'm—I'm not in the mood," he mutters, only with slight annoyance.

You decide to push your luck. "Come on. Would be nice to see you."

"Stop asking," he cuts sharply, setting the full glass in the sink.

You narrow your eyes slightly. "Why are you being so mean?"

"Christ, I already said I wasn't in the God-damned mood."

Ice and venom coat his words as his hand slams into the countertop.

He didn't yell, but you wish he did.

So, you could get some type of God-damn emotion from him.

Instead, his voice was low, commanding.

A voice a lieutenant would use on his inferiors.

Not on his wife.

His eyes widen as your lips purse.

"Well then," you murmur, eyes still on his. "Guess that settles it."

He releases a shallow breath, opening his mouth before shutting it promptly.

Your eyes squint as you take a deep gulp.

But instead of being a man and apologizing, he leaves for his office like a fucking coward.

You're left there, eyes still on the spot where he stood, cheek now bleeding onto your tongue as the television announces, "...leaving the villa."

And you can't even find it in yourself to care.

It feels awkward when you finally gather enough courage to slither into the bedroom.

You had been paralyzed to the couch even a couple hours after the whole ordeal.

Not a word was breached between either of you.

He had shut himself in his office while you had become one with the couch.

What a match made in fucking heaven.

You slip into some soft pajamas, then into the bed, the heavy comforter offering you comfort.

You rest your weary head on the pillow, eyes already heavy with emotional exhaustion.

Before you fall into sleep, you hear the same thud of his boots streaking along to the bedroom, where you catch a glimpse of him slipping something into his sock drawer.

The warm brown of the book cover in his hand catches your eye.

There was no mistaking what it read on the front: large, gold Cardo font with a cross hovering above the text.

"Holy Bible."

He shoves some loose papers overtop of the Bible and shuts the drawer, moving the flick of the light switch off.

His boots came off in a thud as he slipped off his shirt and jeans, slipping into the bed far from you.

Not a word was shared.

You should sleep, but instead, your mind is tormented by what you saw.

Had Simon prayed?

Prayed to a God he didn't even believe in.

If he hit his knees, splayed open the Holy doctrine, and prayed within the hopes that, by some miracle, he should get to see his brother again.

"Simon," you murmur lightly, regretting breaking the silence as his name leaves your tongue.

"Yeah?" He asks, back to you.

"Were you...praying?" Your question comes out fatigued.

"Ye—Yeah," he mutters skittishly.

You say nothing more.

Your weary eyes drift closed as you pull your blanket taut against your face, peacefully drifting off.

That night, you're plagued by a disturbing dream. Your teeth fall out one by one, leaving only protruding gums. A looming figure stands behind you, tightening your throat with fear.

You spring awake at 3:37 am.

You are drenched in your own perspiration, eyes lingering over to where Simon should be.

He's gone.

You should feel slightly relieved, but you only feel overwhelming dread.

Your skin crawls with a sense of unease, as if something is lurking just out of sight, watching you.

You blink, and it's March.

Two months since Johnny's passing.

You thought the time would pass achingly slow, but time has unfortunately moved forward at an exceptional pace.

It always felt like time should stop.

People should stop.

Because why do they get to carry on and lead an everyday life as if you aren't getting swallowed, eaten alive by the confines of your own home?

It's not fucking fair.

You are not only having to mourn the loss of a good friend but the loss of your own husband, who's still breathing.

It felt like some cruel joke was being played on you that you found no humor in.

But, regardless of the loss, you had to keep moving.

For yourself.

Or you'd probably drive yourself into madness, and nothing good ever came from a mad woman, or so they say anyway.

It was a Friday night, and you had decided to try a new recipe from your grandmother's cookbook.

You couldn't remember the last time you had a homecooked meal that wasn't full of M.S.G and far too many calories.

But tonight, you were about to change that.

With a simple button swipe, your groceries appeared at your front door, and you got straight into it.

The large russet potatoes were peeled and cut into chunks. They were then plopped in heavily salted boiling water and smashed along with many tablespoons of butter and cream.

Chicken thighs were seasoned and marinated for half an hour, not a minute less, before being seared on cast iron.

The asparagus and parsnips were lightly oiled before being pan-seared, and then they were sprinkled with salt, pepper, and parmesan cheese.

And before you knew it, you had transformed a handful of ingredients into a feast that was elegantly presented on some fine china you snagged from the cabinet for you and Simon.

You took a seat, admiring your hard work and savoring the delightful aroma of the chicken as it filled the room.

Hearing the same thud of the boots you had come to ignore coming from down the hall, your head shot up to see Simon with his keys in hand.

"Where are you going?" You ask, curiosity and a bit of disappointment evident in your tone.

"Out," his voice was snipped as he marched towards the front door, not sparing the dinner a glance.

You sit up with a frown. "I made dinner, Simon."

"Not hungry," he says mechanically, like he was planning on shooing away any plans you offered. "Don't wait up for me," he murmurs, shoving on his coat, moving out of the front door, and pulling it closed.

And suddenly, the optimism you had clung to like a lifeline died, wholly and truly, leaving you in a void of despair.

You sit at that comedically large dining table for what feels like ages, pushing your vegetables around with your fork until they're practically mush on your plate.

There's nowhere else to go.

You feel utterly stuck as if the weight of the disappointment has rooted you to the spot.

Your head flings to the front door, as keys get shoved into the keyhole, before the door is pushed open to reveal a flushed Simon.

"Where have you been?" Your voice is warm yet firm.

He doesn't respond, only throwing his keys into the bowl and moving to the fridge to grab a cold bottle of water.

"Simon," his name comes off your tongue almost in warning.

"What?" He turns to you, face red from the cold.

"Where the fuck have you been?" You snap, the sound of your chair scraping against the floor as you stand up, adding to the tension in the room.

His eyes widen at your tone.

Your mind was ablaze with conflicting emotions.

Tongue hot with accusations.

"Were you with another woman?" You tack on, crossing your arms over your chest.

"Christ, no," he says immediately with a scoff. "Why would you even ask me that?"

You knew it was ridiculous.

He may be a fool, but he wasn't a cheater.

"I never have a God-damned clue where you go!" You step from around the table, voice rising. "You're my husband!"

"You're my wife!" He tosses the bottle of water into the sink. The plastic crinkles against the metal, as his voice rises with yours.

"Then act like it!" You yell, throwing your hands in the air.

You're both practically heaving with anger.

Seathing with so much untouched and unsaid verbiage.

The silence hangs between your two before you hurdling yourself into his arms, slamming your lips onto his with so much devotion and heat.

His hands grip your cheeks tight as his tongue slides over your teeth and any piece of flesh he can.

You pant into his mouth as his hands move to grip the backs of your thighs, quickly pulling you up to lock your legs around his waist.

He moves to place you on the dinner table, standing between your legs, and you reach out behind you, sweeping your plate full of mushy food and wine glass onto the floor to make space.

The glass shattered, and the china burst into a thousand tiny pieces with a loud crash.

Neither of you cares in the slightest.

His fingers fidget with the hem of your loose top as your lips practically turn blue from losing circulation.

It had been months since you and Simon had been intimate.

Well, since...

You didn't think you needed it during this time in mourning.

Hardly ever thought about it.

Because you two rarely exchanged words, the silence between you became a barrier.

How could you be expected to share such an intimate moment when your words seemed to fail you?

Somehow, you found yourself yearning for it, a deep-seated longing that you couldn't explain or ignore.

It felt like an insatiable desire you couldn't shake.

And when his teeth sunk into your lips, you felt the soft, erotic sting of your skin break; all bets were off.

"Simon," you mewl into his mouth. "Please."

He doesn't answer in words.

Just moves to remove his belt, tossing it to the side where the leather slaps over the broken china and mushed vegetables.

Strips himself of his jeans, boxers following suit.

His fingers move back to grip the hem of your shirt, pulling it over your head, throwing it on the table, lips moving to skim between the dip of your breast as he moves to grip on the fat of your waist.

Your hands move to thread through the back of his air, earning a deep groan from him that rumbles against your skin.

"Shouldn't be touchin' you like this," he mutters into your skin, rough hand skimming down your stomach to slide under your pajama shorts.

"Why?" Your breathing is labored as his fingers push down into your cunt, underwear sticking to the skin due to your dripping arousal.

His finger presses into you further making you release a shallow moan.

He opens his mouth to speak before promptly shutting it, hesitating for a moment before finally speaking.

"Just fuckin' yelled at ya, bug," he grits out the first part, like he's angry at himself for ever raising his voice, no matter if you did the same thing, then says your nickname warmly.

"I yelled first," your voice is sweet like honeydew as your hand moves under his chin, gently forcing his chin up so he can look you in the eyes, and he wants to kill himself even more.

You're an angel.

A fucking divine entity, a wellspring of goodwill.

He doesn't deserve you now.

He's not sure he ever has.

"Needed to hear it," he mumbles, slipping your shorts and panties off in one pull, eyes taking in your arousal-soaked cunt. "Don't deserve ya," he murmurs, with a hint of despair.

"You do," you assure, sitting up more to kiss the corners of his mouth.

He turns his head to the side, almost in guilt; you don't have time to question why before he's lining himself up with your entrance, hand coming to rest on the back of your neck for support as he slips inside you gently.

There's no rush, no urgency to get off.

His movements are slow, unrushed.

This wasn't just a quick fuck.

It felt like he was trying to get a tangible connection to you.

Just bodies melting into each other with ease and familiarity.

Your moans echo off the walls.

Fingernails digging into Simon's back through his shirt.

The barrier does nothing to meddle with your touch.

Nothing could ever diminish your touch.

He lets out a curse, baring his teeth as his fingers dig into the tender flesh on your hips.

His name comes off your sweet tongue in a plea.

You're about to fucking erupt.

Stomach on fire, skin slick.

He shoves his finger in your mouth, collecting some saliva before using that as a lubricant to stimulate your clit.

You let out a string of incoherent words as the stimulation hits you everywhere, all at once.

His head dips back as he comes inside you, eyes shutting closed.

Your breathing is ragged as you both come down from your highs.

However, when you breathe, you feel tightness in your chest.

A squeezing pain that only elongates.

"You okay?" Simon presses his hand into your shoulder.

You nod weakly. "Must have overexerted myself," you jest.

You suck in a deep breath, desperate for more air or something to suppress the pressure you feel.

Simon quips a brow, opting to move away from you to grab you some cool water. "Drink," he commands, nudging the glass to you.

The water feels like a relief flowing down your throat and is so refreshing you can feel it move through every vein in your body.

"Better?" He asks warmly.

"Better," you agree, nodding as water drips down your lip and onto your chin.

But you can't shake the feeling something is off.

It almost feels like an impending doom looming over you.

"Feel like a shower?" He taps your thigh in question.

You nod with a smile, forgetting what you were even concerned with.

You shake off the feeling of doom as you wander behind Simon to the shower.

But doom is inevitable, a fate that cannot be escaped.

The following month, April, brought fickle weather with chilly rain and bright blue skies.

Along with the fruition of tulips and daffodils came your plan.

To finally speak to Simon about Johnny.

Even just thinking his name made you feel like you were indulging in some dark code.

It felt wrong.

Even though it was far from.

You had planned to talk to him a week ago, but you chickened out at the last minute, your fear of confrontation winning over your resolve, instead opting for an awkward conversation about cats.

Safe to say he had no idea you had other objectives at play.

Just thought you were a little kooky.

He had been more receptive to conversations since your sex-capade.

Felt connected to you again.

What a perfect time to ruin it all.

He's sitting at the dining table eating a sandwich.

With no pickles because he despises them.

You smile softly.

You know him so well.

Approaching him slowly, you pull out a chair adjacent to his.

"Nice weather," he says, looking out the window at the blue skies.

"It is," you hum in agreement, shifting in your seat.

"Might go for a run later." He takes a bite of a sandwich, and you chew on your cheek. "You want to come?"

"We should talk," you blurt, deciding you need to cut the cord as soon as possible before you chicken out again.

He quips a brow, sets down the sandwich, and wipes the crumbs off on a rag. "About?"

You chew on your lip nervously. "Johnny."

His eyes lock to yours in an instant, and his chewing halts.

And you can feel anxiety claw up your throat.

"You just—you seem," you try, stumbling over your words.

You knew you should have practiced more.

"We aren't having this conversation." His tone is low and carries a finality.

"It might help if you talked to me." There's desperation in your words.

"Stop," he holds up his hand like he's giving you a fucking command.

"I'm not a fucking dog," you grit. "You can't just give me a command to shut up."

"I know you're not a damn dog," he mutters, his voice a strained whisper.

"Good. Glad you could clear that up," you sit back in your chair, crossing your arms over your chest. "Since you can't clear up anything else."

You knew you shouldn't have said that the second it slipped off your tongue.

It's defensive.

You were supposed to sympathize, not defend.

He stands up abruptly. "Not taking this shit."

"What shit, Simon?" You throw your hands up in a shrug. "Your wife asking you to speak to her?" You let out a dry laugh. "That shit?"

He moves around to swipe his keys from the bowl, not uttering a word.

"Where the hell are you going?" You stand, moving over to him.

His eyes bore into your jaw clenched. "Anywhere but here."

And he was gone again.

Just leaves when times get too trying, apparently.

You stand there, your eyes brimming with tears.

What was to become of you two?

You let out an anguished yell before going to your room, hands planted firmly into the soft mattress, before letting your emotions overcome you.

You sink onto the floor, head in your hands, as you prop yourself on your elbows.

Knees becoming bare from the shitty carpet while your shirt moistens from your tears.

This—this can't be it.

What was life to be without your husband?

You'd be subject to destitution.

A life of isolation, a terrifying prospect, filled with unbearable loneliness.

Bile crawls up your throat, threatening to escape as the thoughts flood your mind.

Your heart pounded violently, threatening to crack your ribs.

You can't breathe.

Throat too tight to get any air through.

A stabbing pain erupted in your chest like it had before, but this was worse.

You clench your chest, tears spilling faster due to the physical pain.

You don't even process Simon hovering over you, hand clenching your shoulder.

Your head turns, and you see his mouth moving, eyes wide in concern, but you can't process what he's saying.

You can only focus on the crushing sensation in your chest.

His eyes are scrambling, watching you push your mouth into the mattress to release a deep, tormented groan.

You were in unbearable pain.

He wastes no time grabbing and holding you in his arms, bridal style.

You don't have it in you to scream at him.

You just sob into his chest.

This was surely going to kill you.

He grabs a stray blanket and tosses it on you quickly before swiping his keys off the counter. He then moves outside and places you in the car.

He drives in a rush, reckless.

His eyes darting over to you, curled up in a ball in the passenger seat, sobbing, hand resting over your chest.

He doesn't know what to do.

He can't crawl in your body and demand your body to be kind to you.

So, instead he brushes his hand over your wrist, attmepting to give you some comfort and he pushes the pedal further to get you to the hospital.

Desperate to heal you.

He pulls into the ER parking lot, not bothering to straighten his wheels, sprints around to your side and gently places you in his arms, all but sprinting to the ER door.

The receptionist greets you before she hears your cries and pleas.

"She, she needs help," Simon frantically says. "Please."

Nurses flood out from the large door that seperates you and Simon from the rooms.

"Sir, you'll need to wait out here," one of them says, helping you into a wheelchair and wheeling you back through the door.

"She's my fucking wife!" He shouts, though to no avail.

The door shuts in his face, shoulders dropping in defeat.

He doesn't sit, he can't.

The thought of him being comfortable while you're in agony disturbs him.

He instead stalks around the room, hands wiping across his face.

Surely, this wasn't...

Could it have worked so soon?

He grabs a trashcan, promptly puking in it at the thought.

It, it has to be a grim coincidence.

Yeah, yeah.

Has to be.

He waits in the waiting room for what feels like ages before a doctor comes in asking for a Simon Riley.

"Is she okay?" Simon searches the doctor's face.

"She's stable," the doctor says, his voice steady and reassuring. "For now."

"For now?" Simon echos the question.

"We ran some blood tests and did an ECG on her heart," the doctor reads over his papers.

"And?" Simon says impatiently.

"Does she have any familial history of heart disease in her family?" the doctor asks, scribbling on the paper.

"No, no," Simon stutters. "Why?"

"The ECG results showed that your wife has coronary heart disease," the doctor says.

Simon's eyes widen, his fear palpable. "Heart disease? What—what does this mean?"

"The arteries in her heart have become too narrow, which reduces blood flow to the heart. There are treatments available to manage the condition and improve her quality of life," the doctor reassures Simon as he sees him start to get frantic.

"Are you talking about fucking surgery?" Simon's hands move through his hair anxiously, his body tense with worry.

"Not necessarily. We can start with medication," the doctor says confidently. "A standard dose of Atorvastatin daily can help manage her cholesterol and fat levels." The doctor messily scribbles the prescription on a paper and tears it off.

"Along with some lifestyle changes to help manage her condition. If needed, we can discuss other options, like angioplasty or surgery. But first, let's see how she does with the medication." He hands over the prescription to Simon.

Simon grabs the paper, nodding his head. "Alright. Can I, can I see her?" His voice is desperate.

"Of course," the doctor nods his head reassuringly. "Follow me."

The doctor leads Simon through the hallway until he reaches your room, carefully opening the door to let Simon step through.

His stomach drops, a wave of concern washing over him, when he sees you.

Eyes swollen and red from your cries.

They hang low from your apparent exhaustion.

"Simon," you greet him with a weak smile, the familiarity in your voice comforting him.

Your voice is weak and raspy.

You look sick.

And he can't handle it.

"Hey, I'm okay," you assure, as you see him examine you, worry written on his face.

"I know you are, bug," tears brimming his eyes; he moves over to you, gripping your hand tightly. "I know you are."

To you, it felt like a source of comfort amidst the chaos.

And that's why Simon said it.

But deep down, he knew.

Nothing could undo what he had done.

No amount of praying, begging, or bargaining could change that.

He had selfishly sealed your fate.

And now, all he could do was wait.

It had been two months since your diagnosis, July.

Things had been decent in that regard.

No better, no worse.

The medication proved helpful.

It reduced the pain you get in your chest, so that was nice.

Over the two months, you persistently urged Simon to join you in counseling.

For your sake.

For the sake of your marriage.

At the beginning of July, he finally agreed, a hopeful sign after a turbulent period that had you ready to leave him.

"What are you doing?" Simon roughly asks as he follows you to your bedroom, hands anxiously running through his graying hair.

"I'm fucking leaving, Simon," your voice quakes, tears spilling down your face as you struggle to pack a duffle bag.

"Don't, don't do that," he stumbled over his words, moving over to you. "Just, just calm down," he placed his hand on your shoulder in comfort.

You shook his hand off before eyeing him. "Calm down?" You repeat his words. "You want me to calm down?"

"Yes. Please," he pleads, hand hovering on the drawer handle.

"You want me to calm down?" You repeat again, your voice dripping with anger. "Fuck you."

His eyes widen; clearly, he's taken aback.

You finish packing, wiping your tears with the back of your hand as you lean against the nightstand. "Simon, you need help," you say, grabbing your wallet. "You need to see someone. Anyone."

He exhales a sharp breath. "Fine."

Your head shoots up, eyes narrowing in disbelief. "What?"

He wipes his face with his hand frantically. "If that's what it takes," he shrugs, nodding. "I'll get the help. Just, just don't leave me, bug."

"Nice to see you again." You snap out of your daze as the therapist greets you.

"Likewise," you murmur, glancing over at Simon sitting beside you.

His leg is tapping a mile a minute.

He's nervous.

You're surprised he actually managed to get in the car and come here.

"Hello, Simon," she sticks her hand out for Simon to take. "I'm Doctor Shaw," she greets with a warm and inviting smile.

Simon takes her hand, giving her a firm shake, and nods in acknowledgment.

"Please," Dr. Shaw brings her hands up. "Follow me."

You and Simon both stand, a sense of anticipation in the air, as you follow Dr. Shaw to her office.

The office looks the same as it has since the last two times you came by yourself.

Warm and inviting.

Only some outside light spilled into the room, opting instead for a warm orange hue from a small lamp illuminating the space.

It exudes a sense of calm, wrapping you in its soothing embrace.

"Please," Dr. Shaw gestured to the couch as she sat in her chair. "Sit."

You and Simon both take a seat and you grab a pillow to hold. Simon leans timidly, his shoulders hunched and his hands fidgeting.

"So," Dr. Shaw begins, eyes moving to Simon. "Simon." His eyes flick to hers. "Talk to me about some of your hobbies."

Simon sits back on the couch, shifting uncomfortably. "Like to run, I guess," he mutters.

She nods with a smile. "Good, good. Exercise is good. It can help clear the mind," she scribbles some notes on a notepad. "Now, I would like to know more about you two and your marriage," she hums.

Simon takes a deep gulp, and now you're shifting into the cushions.

"How are we doing in that regard?" Doctor Shaw purses her lips as she fixes her pen to start taking notes.

You shift in your seat, glancing at Simon next to you. "It's been...hard," you breathe out nervously.

"Interesting," she scribbles in her notebook. "Can you tell me when you think it became difficult?"

You gulp. "Um...a couple, a couple months ago."

"Can you think of any factors that may have caused difficulties?" She tips her head back, offering you a comforting smile.

You tap your foot against the soft blue carpet, finger tapping anxiously against your thigh.

"Simon's friend, um, passed away in January." You choke on your words halfway through before completely finishing the sentence.

Her eyes flick to Simon. "I'm so sorry. That must have been very difficult for you, Simon."

Her voice grinds Simon's gears.

Simon is pessimistic, a cynic.

Has an excruciating time finding sincerity in anything anyone says.

This is no exception.

"Simon," she begins. "If you're willing, I would like to know more about your friend."

"Thought we were here to talk about my wife and I?" Simon's tone is dry without hesitation.

She nods lightly. "We are. It could be helpful for your wife to hear you talk about some of your feelings," she sits up in her chair.

"Did my wife tell you that?" He sits back in the chair, shoulders taut.

She quips a brow. "Tell me what, Simon?"

"That I don't share? Is that why I'm here?" He glances at you, already sinking further into the cushioning of the couch.

You don't say anything, opting to stay silent.

This was a setup.

A ploy to psychoanalyze Simon's psyche.

"You brought me so she could pick my brain," he voices plainly, pointing his finger lazily towards Dr. Shaw.

"No. I wanted you to come so we could fix our marriage," your voice is full of irritation.

"Because it's all my fault it's bad. Right?" His voice raises louder than he intended.

His eyes soften as you widen in surprise, your waterline brimming with tears.

"Shit," he exhales. "I'm, I'm sorry," he says to you with care, closing his eyes slightly as he wipes his face.

"I understand this is difficult for you," Dr. Shaw begins, voice solace. "And I want to acknowledge your discomfort. It takes courage to confront painful emotions," she shifts in her chair, leaning forward.

Simon's eyes narrow. "Spare me the shrink bullshit, doc," his voice is critical.

"It's important to express your feelings, Simon," The doctor urges, to Simon's dismay.

"Why?" He retorts coldly. "Because you won't get paid if I don't?"

Dr. Shaw sits up straighter as Simon lets out an irritated sigh.

"Look," he turns to you. "I know you think this is helpful, but it's not," he says with as much delicacy as he can muster.

"You aren't even trying," you murmur.

"Sweetheart, this is just...not for me. Never has been," he holds your hand softly. "If this helps you, keep coming. I'll pay whatever she charges, okay?" He moves to stand, pressing a soft kiss on the top of your head. "I just...I can't."

Your head flicks up to meet his as his voice cracks slightly, eyes glossed over, revealing his vulnerability.

"See you at home," he bid you goodbye, not sparing the doctor another look before stepping out of the room.

"There is no right way to grieve, and I can understand your frustration," Dr. Shaw says to you, offering a small smile. "Just be there for him when he needs you. He'll come back around," she affirms, turning to grab your receipt for the session.

"Thanks," you say meekly, hand reaching for the receipt.

"This isn't your fault," she confidently says before you step out the door.

You give only a small smile in response.

It was strange.

You and Simon had fiery love.

Two timid souls burning with such passion, desire.

A flame to a flame.

It was a love that felt like sparks igniting each other, creating a blistering and rapid heat that was impossible to ignore.

But in the end, the flames of love can burn each other out, consuming everything in their path, including the ones who ignited them.

Despite your prayers, you couldn't shake the feeling that this was your inevitable reality.

The rest of the summer and the beginning of fall blur through to September.

You were seething with anger.

The kind of anger that has you near in tears.

Simon had missed your sister's funeral, the one event that you had hoped would bring you both closer in your shared grief.

You had told him multiple times throughout the last week where and when to meet you.

He assured you he would be there for you.

He was a fucking liar.

You practically spring out of your car, parked next to his idle truck, taking heavy steps up to the house door.

The door pulls open, slamming against the house's side, making Simon awake on the couch.

The sight makes your eye twitch.

He lay dormant, several beer bottles strung across the coffee table.

And to think things were going pretty well between you two, but this was beyond belief, unforgivable.

While you were crying over your sister's casket, he was here.

Sleeping his drunkenness away.

"Don't tell me you're drunk," you ballistically say, tossing your purse onto the kitchen table with force.

"I'm not tellin' you a thing," he monotonously says like this is some joke.

"I needed you, and you were proper drunk?" Your voice rises. "I—I needed you, Simon," your voice shakes. "You gave up on me."

He says nothing, just lies there.

Your jaw ticks.

You rush over to him, forcing him to stand. "It's been—get up! It's been months, Simon!" You shout out, your voice filled with desperation. "Johnny is dead—gone," you snap out, eyes locking onto his. "He's been gone, and so have you. Except Johnny has an excuse. You don't," your chest is heaving.

Simon's eyes widen, noticeably aggravated. "I—"

"People die every day—and don't get me wrong, I am so fucking sorry, so fucking sorry, that it was Johnny—" You begin, sincerity in your voice as tears prickle down your cheeks.

"Don't—" He starts in a warning tone.

"Truly, I am. And I get it; you didn't need things from each other. But I need you. And I need to know you won't just abandon me when times get tough for you," your hands move through your hair, attempting to soothe yourself before more words flow out. "You need to grow the fuck up and talk to me like a grown-ass man and not a fucking pubescent boy!"

"Fuck, fine! Simon snaps. "It fuckin' killed me when Johnny died. I—he was my best friend, my brother. My only family. Gone." Tears spill down his cheeks as his arms flail around.

You stand silently before your tongue comes out, wiping away the salty tears coating your lips.

"Simon, I know you don't believe this, but we are family—me and you," you breathe out, trying to control your breathing.

"It broke me," he whispers solemnly. "Split me in half."

"I get that," you begin nodding your head, emotion clogging your throat. "But I need you to be whole."

"I, I can't," he stares at the floor, his hand closing into a tight fist.

"Simon. You, you can't let it fester. It's consuming your life. Our marriage." Your desperate eyes drift to him, filled with fear. "Let me help you," you beg. "I can help put you back together again."

"No. You don't understand," he lifts his head back to look at you, his eyes pleading for comprehension. "I think I'm broken beyond repair."

That was before.

It was December now.

You find yourself in the chilling hospital room, tears streaming down your face as you ponder the disintegration of your marriage with Simon.

You suffered a massive heart attack some days ago.

A complication from the heart disease.

It had weakened your heart muscle and lead to some brain damage.

The doctor said treatment options were no longer available.

So, instead of that, he switched his focus to comfort care.

Essentially, he's making it easier for you to die.

It's strange.

You know you're dying.

And you thought that death brings people together.

But you and Simon might as well be light-years apart.

You glance at Simon sitting in the chair across from you, anxiously tapping his foot.

He's nervous.

But not about you dying.

About something else entirely.

You can tell.

You can always tell.

Your eyes flick to the hospital room door, opening wide before your doctor beckons Simon to come outside with him.

Their conversation is muffled, but you catch the tail-end of it.

"It would be best to take her home. Keep her comfortable."

Now you have the confirmation.

You're going to die.

Just not sure when it will come.

You just have to sit and wait while slowly withering into oblivion.

"Hospice care can be provided to support and comfort her during this time," the doctor adds, his voice a distant echo.

A hot tear slips down your cheek, pooling onto your hospital gown.

You see Simon nodding his head along, finger resting on his chin in thought.

You want to scream.

And cry.

And punch someone.

And pray.

And move back home.

But you can't.

You feel utterly and hopelessly helpless in your own body.

Life works in a mysterious, fucked up kind of way.

It's not fair.

It's not linear.

And it's certainly not always kind.

All that's left to do is do what Simon did when Johnny died, go through the motions, the daily routine that feels like a never-ending cycle, and eventually, your physical body will leave you.

Your mind will wander far beyond anyone's grasp, yearning for a connection bond that cannot be.

MONTH ONE: January

You took up journaling.

Your hospice nurse suggested you take up the hobby.

So you did.

It wasn't as therapeutic as you thought.

It was just recounting what you ate that morning and what you planned to do the next day, the mundane details of life that seemed to stretch endlessly.

Boring, menial thoughts.

You didn't have much to say.

The only thing you thought of these days was what would happen in death.

Simon was kinder now.

Said he wanted to leave with you.

You feel guilty for having to leave him alone.

Even though you have no choice in the matter.

You hope you don't see him in the afterlife.

His life belongs here.

On the surface.

You've had some trouble walking.

Even fell in the hallway while trying to reach for a side rail Simon had installed.

You cried and pleaded for him not to help you up.

He managed to gather your heaving body in his arms and held you tight as you sobbed into his shirt about how you didn't want to die.

He didn't sleep that night.

Mind was too riddled with guilt; instead, he prayed.

With a cross to his heart, he hit his knees and closed his eyes, murmuring into the darkness to any entity who would listen.

You thought it was nice when you turned to your side to hear his hushed whispers.

He was praying for you to get better, you thought.

You didn't even realize he was praying for forgiveness for his own sins.

MONTH TWO: February

Your journal hobby has quickly dissipated as quickly as it began.

It's become harder to move.

You have to rely on Simon to do measly tasks.

It's humiliating, to say the least.

"You okay, bug?" Simon asks as the warm, sudsy sponge moves across your back, shining you clean.

"Yeah," your voice is hushed as your lips flatline. "I can do it," you assure, reaching for the sponge.

"You sure?" His eyebrow lifts. "I'm happy to—"

"Just give me the fucking sponge," you grit, ripping the sponge away from him to scrub your arm.

You find you're weaker than you thought.

You can barely hold up the light sponge to clean yourself.

Your hand sinks down into the warm bath water before you attempt to pull it up higher, over and over, until you toss the sponge over the lip of the tub.

It hits the tile, releasing water and bubbles on the floor.

Your head drops into your hands, tears mixing with the bath water.

"It's, it's really happening," you heave into your hands. "I can't even lift a fucking sponge, Simon," you say, disgust coating your words.

Simon leans forward, hand grazing your back. "I'm so sorry, bug," his voice trembles.

You turn to look at him, with red, puffy eyes and slick tears slipping down and into his beard.

"Don't apologize," you affirm with a sniffle. "You didn't do this to me."

He almost throws up but chokes down the bile to speak.

"Can I, can I finish?" He almost pleads.

You give him a soft nod and a gentle smile.

He grabs a fresh sponge and repeats the same process, this time being more gentle.

Like he's purposely trying to remember the feeling of your body under his hands.

It makes you feel loved again.

MONTH THREE: March

You were slowly withering away right before your own eyes.

You didn't even recognize yourself in the mirror.

Your skin has gone pale and blotchy and started mottling.

It's cold to the touch, void of any warmth.

"I'll be right back, okay?" Simon cooly says, pressing a kiss on your head.

"Where are you going?" You ask curiously.

"I told you I had to pick up Price's kid from school," he says warmly. "You don't remember?"

"Yeah. I, I remember," you nod your head, plastering a reassuring smile.

You really didn't remember.

Memory is a slippery thing these days, evading your grasp like a wisp of smoke.

The moment something touches your brain, it usually escapes within an hour.

It's a constant source of frustration, a relentless storm that rages within you.

Makes you want to throw a chair across the room.

He leaves, not even realizing the question has you spiraling.

Proding and pinching at your skull's skin to regain control of your brain.

You must look insane.

But to you, this is the only thing that makes you feel sane and in control of your body.

The feeling of inability is one of the most haunting prospects.

The hunger for control gnaws at you, a ruthless creature that refuses to be sated.

But it's slipping through your very fingers like sand.

Fast and all at once.

MONTH FOUR: April

By mid-April, your body feels hollow.

You can't do much of anything.

Though you did find some peace with your morality.

Finally, you came to terms with your reality.

And then, a spark of courage ignited, urging you to step out of the house for the first time in a while.

There was an unusual, almost compelling, need to visit Johnny's grave.

You had only done so once, but it would be nice to leave some flowers.

Your hospice nurse drives you and waits in the car as you find his grave slightly disheveled like someone had messed with it.

Maybe even crawled out of it.

You're too tired to investigate.

You sit in the soft dirt, legs crossed as the sun beats on your head.

The lull of sleep licks your brain and makes your eyes close and unclose lightly.

You yawn, stretching your arms out before the feeling of sleep becomes too strong.

You find yourself lying next to Johnny, separated only by a few feet of dirt.

You feel calm, peaceful even.

Though when your eyes shut for the last time, you don't see the bright, ethereal light you imagined.

You see nothing but darkness.

And smell brimstone.

It couldn't be.

This wasn't the heaven you were promised, a place of eternal peace and joy.

It was a cruel joke, a betrayal of the highest order.

You were supposed to be in a place of eternal love.

An incomparable beauty.

This looked more like—

"Bastard sold you out, m'afraid," a voice croaked in the darkness.

The figure was indistinct, a mere shadow in the darkness, but its presence was suffocating, a palpable sense of doom that felt all too familiar, like a nightmare you couldn't wake up from.

"Who—who are you?" You speak into the darkness, not paying much heed to what he said.

"I shall not speak my name, my dear," the voice remarks. "You shall find out soon enough," he assures, pure humor coating his tongue.

Your voice trembled with fear, barely audible in the oppressive darkness. "How—how am I here?" You managed to stammer, your terror evident.

A heinous laugh comes from the dark and shoots into your eardrum. "Your husband called upon me some time ago," he says. "He wanted his friend back, so he offered me your soul in return for him back." His voice is simple and casual as if it were ordinary.

Your heart thumps in your chest, and your lungs deflate quicker than they inflate.

"N—no. Simon...he loves me," you try to contradict. "He—he wouldn't do that," you speak into the darkness, voice tight.

"Loves his friend more," he casually says.

Your eyes widen as tears begin to pour down in a consistent stream down your face; you try to move your arms but find your arms are magically constricted to your side.

"Don't worry. We'll have fun—you and I," his tone is insidious.

Simon had bartered your life for his own selfish volition and damned you to an eternity in hell.

That—that serpent.

What kind of diabolical monster would do something so heinous.

He promised you a lifetime of love.

A baby that you would share.

A tangible tell of your love.

He was a false prophet.

When did he find time to do this deal?

Oh. Oh.

He did act skittish that night.

That—that night that you asked about him praying.

You just assumed he was praying to God to help him cope by perhaps showing some signs of Johnny.

Help him deal with the trauma in any way he could.

He was instead striking up a deal.

And it wasn't with God.

MINI AUTHOR'S NOTE⁀➷ do share your tearful thoughts in the comments! divider by @plum98

1K notes · View notes

aventurineswife · 5 months ago

Note

Aventurine, Sunday and Ratio w/ a Memokeeper...? 👀

“Memory is the diary that we all carry about with us”

Tags: Ratio x Reader, Sunday x Reader, Aventurine x Reader, Memokeeper!Reader, Character Study, Existential Themes, Introspection, Emotional Growth, Intellectual Tension, Mysticism, Loss, Haunted Past, Unresolved Regret, Journey of Self-Discovery, Temporal Manipulation

Warnings: Existential Crisis, Trauma, Philosophical Discomfort, Emotional Weight Vulnerability in Characters, Mature Themes (regret, guilt, and self-worth).

Ratio, with his signature plaster sculpture concealing his face and his wavy hair cascading just past his shoulders, was a figure both revered and feared within the Intelligentsia Guild. His sharp eyes, the color of fading twilight with a ring of yellow at their core, saw everything and everyone, evaluating, analyzing, dissecting.

It was here that you, a Memokeeper from the Garden of Recollection, first encountered him.

You had come to this world, as you did with every other, to preserve memories, to seek out moments that spoke of the lives lived, the forgotten faces, and the stars that fell into oblivion. In the endless cycle of existence, you had learned that the only thing that truly mattered was memory. To think, to feel, to exist—those were not just ephemeral things, but imprints on the fabric of reality itself.

But when you met Ratio, it was as if all the weight of time had been condensed into a single moment. He, too, had an unyielding belief in the importance of knowledge, in the idea that ideas, too, were immortal. He understood the power of remembrance, but to him, it was intellect, not memory, that was the truest form of immortality. A fascinating paradox.

"You're a Memokeeper, aren't you?" His voice was smooth, like velvet over steel, his eyes locking onto yours, seeing straight through to your very essence.

You nodded, concealing your true form beneath your disguise, as was customary for those like you. In this world, you were just another scholar, another wanderer with a collection of knowledge to trade. But unlike the others, your knowledge wasn’t of facts or figures. It was of memories, of moments suspended in time, of people long gone and forgotten.

"You believe that memory is everything, don’t you?" Ratio's gaze never wavered, as if he was testing you. "You think that by preserving memory, you preserve the soul of a person. But memories are subjective, fleeting. They are not absolute. Ideas, facts, theories—these are what endure. These are what define existence."

His words were confident, dismissive even. But you knew there was more behind them, a deeper yearning to understand what lay beyond the limits of mortal comprehension. You could see it in the way his hands gestured as he spoke, the sharpness of his thoughts revealing a man who, despite all his brilliance, was searching for something more.

"You misunderstand," you said, your voice calm but full of a quiet intensity. "Memories are the only things that cannot be erased, not by time, not by entropy. They are the proof of existence. Without them, what are we but ghosts, vanishing without a trace?"

Ratio's eyes glinted with something unreadable—was it interest? Curiosity? You couldn’t tell, but it was enough to pique his attention. "And how do you preserve them? What makes your memories so… important?"

You smiled faintly, an ethereal expression. "I don’t just remember, Dr. Ratio. I preserve. Through the Garden of Recollection, I collect and store memories, not just from the world I come from, but from all worlds. I can live through them, feel what they felt, see what they saw. I can carry the memories of thousands, and in doing so, they live on."

For a moment, there was silence. Ratio’s gaze remained fixed on you, his expression unreadable. "And what of your own memories?" he asked, his voice softer now, though still brimming with intensity. "Do you ever remember yourself? Or are you too lost in the memories of others to even recall your own?"

It was a question that struck deeper than you had anticipated. You, who had shed your mortal form long ago to live as a memetic entity, could not remember the life you once lived. The body you had was but a vessel, an illusion of the past. Yet you held the memories of countless lives, each one a thread in the grand tapestry of existence.

"I remember," you said quietly, your voice distant, as if recalling a long-forgotten dream. "But only fragments. I carry the memories of all those I've encountered, of all the lives I've touched. And in that, I live."

Ratio stared at you, his expression unreadable, but there was a flicker in his eyes—a momentary crack in his armor. "Fascinating," he murmured, as if the concept of your existence challenged everything he had ever known. "You are a paradox, then. A being of memory, yet unable to fully grasp your own existence. How… tragic."

You tilted your head slightly. "Perhaps. But in some ways, it’s beautiful. Every life I encounter becomes a part of me, and in that, I become part of them. A perpetual exchange, a never-ending cycle of remembrance."

Ratio’s lips quirked upward slightly, a rare and almost imperceptible smile. "Perhaps," he echoed, his voice tinged with something akin to admiration. "You might be right, after all. Memory is the only true form of immortality. But don’t forget, my Memokeeper, that intellect and knowledge are what shape the universe. Without them, memory would be meaningless."

You met his gaze, a soft chuckle escaping your lips. "And without memory, even the greatest intellects would fade into obscurity, leaving nothing behind."

For a moment, you both stood there, two beings of immense knowledge and power, staring at one another in the midst of a universe that seemed both infinite and fleeting. In that fleeting moment, there was no need for words. You understood each other, in a way that few could.

As you turned to leave, your final words lingered in the air, like a soft melody, echoing across time itself.

"Remember me, Dr. Ratio. After all, that is the only way I can truly exist."

He watched you disappear into the endless flow of time, his mind racing with questions, with curiosity. The Memokeeper had left an impression, a memory etched into his mind. And though Ratio would continue his work, seeking to change the world through intellect and knowledge, something had shifted within him.

Perhaps, in the end, the preservation of memory and the pursuit of knowledge were not so different after all.

The Astral Express hummed with the faint rhythm of its journey through the stars, its steady pulse a stark contrast to the turbulent thoughts that swirled within Sunday’s mind. He stood by the window, watching the unending expanse of the cosmos pass by, his eyes reflecting distant stars. His thoughts were as fractured as ever—an unyielding dissonance between his ideals and the weight of his past. Yet, there was something different now, something new stirring in him, as if the winds of change were gently sweeping through his world.

You, the Memokeeper, stood just a few steps away from him, an enigmatic presence, yet somehow, your existence felt more real than anything else. Your presence was like an anchor in a sea of uncertainty, a testament to a truth he had not yet fully grasped.

To think is to exist.

He had never truly questioned his existence in this way before. For all his lofty ideals about dreams, suffering, and the balance between them, there was something about you—your quiet, eternal purpose—that made him reconsider his place in the universe.

You had explained, on occasion, the nature of your kind. A Memokeeper’s task was to collect memories, to preserve them as proof of existence in a world where everything, even stars, would eventually fade. Unlike most, who viewed reality and imagination as distinct, Memokeepers saw them as one. It was a perspective that intrigued Sunday deeply, yet he struggled to fully comprehend it. Perhaps because, in the end, he wasn’t sure what was real anymore.

"How do you hold on to something so... fleeting?" he asked softly, his voice carrying a weight that betrayed the many layers of his thoughts.

You turned toward him, your expression serene, but there was a flicker of something deeper in your eyes, an understanding of the burden he carried. "We don't hold on to it. We let it flow through us, and in doing so, we become it."

Sunday looked at you, his gaze lingering on the delicate curve of your cheek, the ethereal quality of your being, and how it seemed as though you were made of light itself. "Do you ever feel... trapped by your memories?" His voice faltered at the question, as though he were reaching for something he couldn’t quite touch.

For a moment, there was silence, save for the distant hum of the train and the occasional flicker of stars outside. You took a step closer, your fingers brushing lightly against the air as you spoke, your voice gentle and calm.

"Trapped?" you mused. "No. We are the keepers, not the prisoners. Memories are not chains. They are bridges."

His brow furrowed slightly. "But what if the memories are of things you can never change? Things that haunt you?" His words were quieter now, as if he were speaking more to himself than to you. The weight of his past—of the choices he had made, of the lives he had shaped, for better or worse—pressed down on him once more.

You studied him with a knowing gaze, as though seeing through the veil of his facade. "Hauntings are but echoes of what was, Sunday. The question is not whether the memories are painful, but whether we let them define us." You paused, letting your words settle. "What you choose to do with them—that is what matters."

Sunday’s eyes flickered as if a distant thought had just emerged, one that had been buried beneath layers of rationality and philosophy. He had spent so long trying to change the world, trying to create a place free of suffering, that he had neglected the simplest truth: he could not change the past. He could only move forward.

"But how?" he asked, his voice filled with quiet desperation. "How can I move forward, when the past keeps whispering in my ears?"

You smiled softly, a knowing, almost maternal expression on your face. "You are already moving forward, Sunday. Your journey on the Astral Express is proof of that. The question is not if you will move forward, but how you will choose to remember."

There it was again: remember. It was a word he had often associated with pain, with the weight of regret and guilt, but somehow, in your presence, it felt lighter. It felt like a possibility, a way to reclaim something precious without being bound to it.

For the first time in a long while, Sunday allowed himself to truly look at you. Not just as a fellow traveler aboard the Express, but as someone who embodied a truth he had yet to accept.

"I... I think I understand," he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Memories are not the end of us. They can be... a part of something greater."

You nodded, your eyes fluttering slightly as you gazed at him with an expression of quiet encouragement. "Exactly. And sometimes, the greatest gift you can give to the past is to let it go, while still carrying it with you."

Sunday fell silent, his mind now processing your words, considering their implications. Perhaps this was the true path to redemption—not the erasure of pain, but the acceptance of it, and the ability to carry it without letting it define him.

As the train continued its journey through the stars, Sunday found himself standing a little taller. He wasn’t sure where this journey would take him, but for the first time in a long while, he felt like he might finally be on the right path.

In the labyrinthine corridors of the IPC, where deals and schemes wove through the very fabric of power, Aventurine stood as an enigma, a master of manipulation with a heart haunted by the ghosts of his past. His smile, enigmatic and ever-present, was a mask that concealed the fractured man beneath. The ‘Aventurine of Stratagems,’ a name he wore with pride, was a title earned through unrelenting gambles and sacrifices, yet it was the one thing that kept him from truly losing himself.

But on this particular day, something—or rather, someone—was pulling at the threads of his carefully constructed world. Someone who didn’t need to gamble to see through the veil.

You. The Memokeeper.

A fleeting figure, a whisper of another existence, you moved through worlds unrestrained by physical boundaries. Memokeepers were creatures of memories—preservers of the immortal, the eternal. You had no flesh, no true form. Only the shifting remnants of memories you carried with you, the fragments of countless lives you had touched and stolen.

When Aventurine first encountered you, he had been intrigued. Memokeepers were not common, and your mysterious nature had piqued his interest. But it was your ability to navigate through time and space, your unflinching grasp of memory as a permanent artifact, that truly captivated him.

"You never forget, do you?" Aventurine's voice was smooth, laced with his signature mix of challenge and curiosity as you stood across from him in a darkened room, a flicker of memory flashing in your eyes.

You tilted your head slightly, a soft, almost imperceptible smile gracing your lips. "For a moment, I thought you would say 'never forgive.'" You said it with an air of knowing, your voice gentle yet profound. "But no... you are too familiar with your own regrets to seek forgiveness."

Aventurine’s smile faltered for just a fraction of a second. The hint of vulnerability did not go unnoticed. The last surviving member of a lost clan, haunted by survivor's guilt—those wounds ran deep. His facade was usually flawless, but before you, it felt fragile, a thin layer barely holding back a flood of emotions he hadn’t let surface in years.

"You speak as though you understand me," he remarked, his voice regaining its usual confidence. "But I’ve played this game for too long to be an open book."

"Yet, here you are," you countered, stepping closer, the air thick with the power of your words. "A man who wagers lives as easily as others breathe. Do you think I can't see the stakes you're playing for? The past you can never escape?"

There was a moment of silence, one where Aventurine’s usual bravado seemed to crack slightly, revealing the ever-present tension in his posture, the subtle guarding of his left hand behind his back. He wasn't ready to expose his fragility, not yet.

"You play with the illusion of luck," you continued, your voice almost hypnotic. "But I know what you really seek. You gamble because you fear being forgotten, because you fear that if you stop playing, your existence will cease to matter."

Aventurine’s eyes narrowed, gleaming with a mixture of challenge and intrigue. He tilted his head slightly, as if contemplating your words, but his tone remained steady. "And what of you, Memokeeper? Are you truly immortal, or just a collector of lies?"

You didn’t flinch. "Memory is the only true immortality. Everything fades—worlds, stars, even gods. But memories... memories last longer than anything else. They are what make us real. What make us matter."

He chuckled softly, his lips curling into that all-too-familiar grin. "I suppose you would say that. After all, you're in the business of making things last forever."

Aventurine’s eyes lingered on you for a moment longer than he intended, and for a brief instant, he wondered what it would be like to have his memory preserved—not his reputation or his empire, but his very essence. Would someone like you, a Memokeeper, truly see him for who he was beneath the layers of strategy and artifice?

"I’ve seen countless memories," you said, your voice soft but heavy with meaning. "But there's something about you... You're not a mere gambler, not just someone who risks it all. There's something darker in you, a longing for connection, yet a fear of it."

He looked at you with raised eyebrows, a hint of amusement playing at the corners of his lips. "You really think you can see all that from just a glance?"

"You show more than you think," you said, your gaze steady, your words unshaken. "And it's those little things—the way you hide your left hand, the pauses in your speech, the smile that never reaches your eyes—that tell me you are more than the games you play."

The silence stretched, an unspoken challenge between you. He couldn’t deny it. He had always thought of himself as untouchable, an orchestrator of every move. But you? You had no need for power or control. You simply existed, transcendent and free.

And yet, despite all that, Aventurine felt something strange stirring within him—a desire to be remembered, not just for his gambles, but for the man he truly was.

"Perhaps you're right," he finally said, his voice quieter, more contemplative. "Perhaps there is more to me than even I realize."

You smiled, a soft, knowing expression, and for the first time, Aventurine’s smile seemed a little less rehearsed, a little more genuine. The idea of someone, a Memokeeper no less, understanding the depths of his soul was an uncomfortable yet fascinating thought.

"I don’t need to gamble to know your worth, Aventurine," you said, your eyes twinkling with an almost imperceptible warmth. "But perhaps, just once, you might stop playing and let someone else remember you. For who you really are."

For the first time in a long while, Aventurine didn’t immediately respond with a quip or a strategy. He simply watched you, his mind turning, calculating the possibilities. What would it mean to be remembered? To be seen beyond the mask of the gambler, the strategist, the survivor?

In that moment, Aventurine felt the first stirrings of a gamble he had never before considered: the gamble of letting someone in.

Oh damn, this was long af... 🫣😨

Also I couldn't come up with a better title so yeah...🧍‍♀️

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gigglesandfreckles-hp · 2 months ago

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mostly jily, with some random marauders shenanigans, some fleamia, and a healthy dose of james and sirius being insane about each other

in progress

one more time now, with feeling // jily, second chances, fake dating, fww “Why us?” “If memory serves,” Dumbledore says, with a gentle, knowing smile, “you two were once rather good friends.” Lily feels something twist painfully in her stomach. Dumbledore’s gaze moves pointedly toward James. “And forgive an old man’s nostalgia, James, but I seem to recall you having quite a profound affection for Miss Evans at some point during your time at Hogwarts.” His blue eyes twinkle slightly, corners crinkling behind his half-moon glasses. “Whether that holds true today, I cannot say—but I find that such history can be remarkably persuasive when circumstances require...believability.”

it's brighter now // jily, modern muggle au, footballer jp, enemies-to-friends-to-lovers, potter fam “Oh, come on," James says, grinning. "I know you know who I am." Something strange flashes across her face. “Is that so?” He drops into the open seat across from her and gestures toward his face, smiling widely. “This doesn’t ring any bells?” “Your…face,” she clarifies slowly.

completed multi-chap

fever dream high // jily, failed fwb (sorta), summer before 7th yr, 43k The detail—his red ears, the tremor in his movements—lodges in her brain and refuses to leave. Even as he tries to cover it, the thought takes root, half-formed but persistent. James Potter, with his broad shoulders and sun-browned skin, his stupid hair that begs to be pulled, and his tendency to look at her like she’s the only thing in the room worth noticing… Huh.

tripping and falling are mostly the same // fleamont x euphemia (fleamia?), marriage of convenience, friends-to-lovers, 1930s, 36k “That was rude of me,” Fleamont says, wincing slightly. “It was,” she agrees without hesitation, raising an eyebrow. His shoulders drop a fraction. “I didn’t expect to see you here.” “Evidently,” she says dryly.

stumbling, though, is not so quick // fleamia, through the years, fertility issues, pureblood politics, 20k She’s lost the baby, she hears a healer explain. Baby? Fleamont’s voice cracks, startled and full of disbelief. What baby? There’s a tugging at her clothes, a wand pressed lightly against her abdomen. A potion that tastes dreadful. Gentle murmurings surround her—Fleamont’s voice, a healer’s, maybe even her mother’s. It couldn’t be her mother’s, but part of her aches for it to be. And then— Nothing.

every single time // jily, 31 prompts, some canon compliant, some au, 61k unrelated drabbles, fics, ficlets, and word dumps in response to jilytober 2024

a few of my favourites

because i couldn't begin to link all my one-shots. everything else can either be found over on ao3 or under the #my fic tag here on my tumblr!

we suffer in silence // angsty 7th yr jily, canon compliant pre-dating "It's fine, Evans," James interrupts, waving off her apology and offering a reassuring smile. "You've always been an exception to the rule." A hint of warmth spreads through Lily at his words. "You've never liked rules." He chuckles softly, his lips quirking up in a lopsided grin. "Which is why I never had a difficult time liking you."

keep pace // jily, canon compliant, 7th yr, friends-to-lovers, platonic jilypad (or romantic if you want) “So,” she says after a moment, her voice light, “is this a thing you do? Invite girls to kill themselves on a run after you find them crying. Or am I special?" Sirius laughs. It’s a sharp sound, almost surprised, but it makes her stomach loosen. “You’re special,” he says dryly, finally turning to look at her properly. He watches her for a beat longer than she expects, like he’s searching for something in her face—some answer she doesn’t know how to give. Whatever it is, he seems to find it.

just before dawn // platonic lilypad, fww, canon compliant “You can’t just sneak into someone’s house and steal their baby." Sirius looks up, his dark eyes glinting with exhaustion but holding a stubborn edge. “This isn’t just some baby. This is Harry,” he says, voice rough but resolute, as if that explains everything.

my church offers no absolutes // jily, canon compliant, 7th yr, pre-dating, grief/mourning She stares at him, her eyes the only ones open as the priest prays, but she can’t look away. James Potter is here.

amenable parameters // jily, canon compliant, seventh yr “Truth or dare, Lil?” “Dare,” she replies without hesitation, leaning back into the worn leather booth. “Obviously.” Hestia’s eyes gleam. “Go snog Potter.”

here lies // jily, canon compliant, seventh yr, established relationship, potter fam “Were we expecting you?” He looks slightly horrified, as if he’s forgotten an important appointment, and turns to his wife for help. “I’m sorry if— “No, dear.” Euphemia shakes her head, moving toward him and running a smoothing hand through his mop of messy, white hair. “Lily here was just depositing our highly inebriated son.” “Oh, that’s rather charitable of her."

#my fic #pinned post #jily #jily fanfiction #finally did one of these!!

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utilitycaster · 6 months ago

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Do you think this episode is so boring because they brought back the Nein and reminded us how good they are? I keep thinking about this as I'm absently watching this episode, saw your post and would love to hear your thoughts on it. Because like, at least to me, most villains this campaign are painfully boring. But the Weave Mind are also boring. That was fine, M9 handled it perfectly and I loved it. Ludinus is arguably the only kinda interesting bad guy and a PC's mom is in mortal danger and I can't manage to care.

I don't find Ludinus and the Weave Mind boring! I don't find Liliana boring either! And I found Ozo Cruth and Otohan Thull DREADFULLY boring but actually, the fights with them are pretty fucking great. I mean, I have a LOT of criticism about the first Otohan fight that boils down to "this was EXCEPTIONALLY poorly signaled and I'd be PISSED if my character was killed for someone else's arc at this point in the story" but Otohan being boring is about the non-combat elements; she felt very real and compelling as a THREAT, just, she could have been a giant blender of magic knives that the party was going to be dumped in for all she had an impact on the story as a person. But I do think it is because we've seen the Mighty Nein and Vox Machina recently and remembered that they're orders of magnitude more compelling.

I think it's really like...I don't even want to say Bells Hells isn't bonded, but they lack something. I think I alluded to it in the tags of one of my posts but there's no banter between party members or sense of urgency. Like, I enjoyed the whole All-Minds-Burn/Myceit scenes a lot, actually, but after Imogen's initial (justified) panic the pacing felt unbelievably slow until we got to combat. I have found that really, for a good deal of the campaign, you have to kind of take things episode by episode and enjoy the good set pieces and scenes because it simply does not make for a pleasing and rewarding whole. The reason I didn't care about Liliana is, to be fair, partly because I think having her die would be an interesting development, but also because there wasn't a sense of "we can't stop and fuck around with mushrooms, LILIANA IS DYING" within the episode itself. No one was comforting Imogen as they ran through the tunnels. The Mighty Nein showed more personality and investment in the lead up to a fight that really, they had no more stake in other than the broad world-ending ones. As someone who's been playing a LOT of Veilguard which is all about building a close-knit team, and who's had VM and the Nein the past month to compare Bells Hells with, that lack is immediately apparent.

I said, over a year ago (possibly over two, I don't recall) now about one of the relationships in the campaign that it felt like when I see a single episode from a soap opera I don't follow. The actors are imbuing lines with emotion, but everything feels kind of disconnected. Like, this is all in a deeply subjective realm, I cannot give you a strong argument based on logic here as it's very much vibes-based, but I feel like when I watched this, my thought process was "BAFTA-winning Actor Laura Bailey is doing an excellent job of conveying the emotions 'terror and anguish over a dying relative' in this line read, and not "Imogen Temult, a character I've been familiar with since October 2021, is devastated over the potential demise of her mother.' " And I never had that issue with C1 and C2. Like, you can call it je ne sais quoi or the juice or the sauce or chemistry or the spark or whatever the fuck but Campaign 3/Bells Hells simply doesn't seem to have it for a huge number of people who have adored pretty much every other Critical Role work, and that means something. My personal thought is that it's because this has been such a plot-focused campaign without strong DM prepping of what kind of characters would be appropriately invested that we've had the problems we did (rampant indecision, lack of party chemistry due to lack of early opportunities to mingle and meld, lack of investment in each others' lives due to insufficient time focused on backstory-related plotlines), but I could be wrong, and ultimately the root cause isn't super important to this question, which is just. they don't have the it factor.

#cr spoilers #cr tag

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littlexdeaths · 11 months ago

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the shire is burning - e.m.

eddie munson x fem reader

is it the end? or only the beginning?

a soulmate and reincarnation au

warnings: mentions of war and destruction, blood

a/n: this is meant as more of a set up chapter, or introduction into eddie and reader’s future lives. so it’s a bit shorter than the rest of this series will be. each separate chapter will have their own warnings, but be aware— there will be a lot of hurt/no comfort in this series. the universe isn’t very kind to them.

also shout out to @strangerstilinski for constantly listening to my ramblings about this series and with helping me to eddiefy that greek name. and the lovely @joshlmbrt for also looking this over when i was doubting myself. 💕

eras of us masterlist. | next chapter.

TROY - 1184 BC

Blood and dirt.

It has soaked through the thin linen of your nightgown and is caked against your skin. Piercing screams fill the air as you rush through the palace, but the sounds of the war raging outside only draw nearer with each step you take.

He had told you to run, to flee. To get as far away from Troy as possible, and leave him to burn with his city. But how could you? How could you leave the one person that made your soul complete?

Your love was doomed from the start, a young prince and a servant girl. Two souls who were never meant to intertwine the way that they did. But as Troy crumbled around you, none of that mattered anymore— only him.

Once you made it past the palace walls your lungs began to burn from the rising smoke in the air. The ashes of a once great city swirl through the night sky and stain your cheeks with soot.

Soldiers, both of Sparta and Troy clash in a blur of swords and bloodied flesh as you continue through the streets of your burning city. His father and brothers are dead, his city destroyed— you knew there was only once place he would be.

And you would risk your life to get him.

After evading enemy soldiers and crumbling buildings you finally reach the overlook, the highest place in the city. You can recall the many occasions he had taken you there in secret.

But the view was vastly different than the one you had admired between heated kisses. A sea of flames, that was once the great city of Troy.

And him, watching it all with great sorrow.

“Edaphroditus!”

You call his name, and everything fades away when your eyes meet. You rush to his side, and he envelops you in his arms.

He’s bruised, soot is smeared along his jaw and his dark curls are soaked with sweat but he’s never looked more breathtakingly beautiful to you.

“You must’n be here,” he pleads softly, pulling back to take your hands in his own. “It’s not safe.”

“I will not leave you.”

Tears brim in your eyes and slowly slip down your cheeks while he cradles your face between his bloodied palms.

“But my love, you must. Troy has fallen… I cannot protect you here.”

You can see the pain swirling behind the warmth of his irises, which reflects back in your own.

While you knew that the last prince of Troy would be slaughtered on sight if caught, you could not let him slip between your fingers. So you merely shake your head, clutching onto his armor to urge him closer. There was no you without him. And if death came for you, so be it.

Your choice had been made the moment the Spartans invaded your home, and not even the gods themselves could dissuade you.

Shaky hands move to cradle his jaw, brushing away the tears that begin to spill down his cheeks.

“I would live and die a thousand deaths, if it meant one more life with you.”

And when your lips collide, your fate is sealed.

series tag list: @lokis-army-77 @xxbimbobunnyxx @joshlmbrt @bastardstevie

#the freak writes 🫧#eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x fem reader #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson au #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie munson angst #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fanfic #[ the munson files ]#[ series: the eras of us ]

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demonslayedher · 6 months ago

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You might recall I made a comic about Tanjiro's most dastardly Taisho Secret being that he adds charcoal as a secret ingredient in his rice.

EDIT: Please note that charcoal itself is indigestible, and Japanese charcoal is cooked to a very high level of purity. Please do not randomly stuff for lighting a barbecue into your rice, as I cannot make any claims about how safe that stuff is.

@reicchel remembered the aforementioned comic, and when we saw bamboo charcoal being sold with this advertised purpose, she gave me a look that said she wasn't going to let me get away with not putting it to the test. After all, I am kind of passionate about Japanese charcoal and its cultural implications, as well as how that gets used in Kimetsu no Yaiba (see here and here and here). I also usually only bother cooking if I'm doing a Kimetsu Kitchen thing (the posts specifically about the characters' favorite foods are here, but everything KnY-food related is in the tag.)

I have had no chance to even open the package of bamboo charcoal until now. This is partly because I have been busy out of my brains with work and partly because I hate cooking and am therefore loathe to add even one more step. However, this was the easiest Kimetsu Kitchen experiment I've ever done.

Bamboo charcoal is often sold as a natural dehumidifier, odor absorber, and bug-repellent to throw in your cabinets and stuff, but this was sold as clean enough for using in rice cookers and jugs of water for making mineral water (which I haven't done yet, seeing as I was too lazy to even open the package until today).

Speaking of today, I was having Mugen Ressha feels so I decided to recreate Tanjiro's dream meal, which happened to include Rengoku's favorite, satsuma-imo miso soup. That's become one of my favorite Kimetsu Kitchen recipes, though I haven't made it for a while, because I am lazy and busy. I do make a lot of miso soup because once you open a container of miso you have to use it really consistently to have any chance of using it all up, but satsuma-imo miso takes a little extra time and effort to get the potatoes all nice and soft, so lately I just through in some tororo konbu (Iguro's favorite food). I also picked up some nice big yellow takuan to make it closer to the Mugen Ressha meal, and since I was experimenting with bamboo charcoal and Takeo has bamboo in his name, might as well as what dream!Takeo likes to snag from big bro.

So anyway, the charcoal!rice got done.

Since I'm been so busy with work, that means I am in the habit of slamming food quickly instead of taking the time to enjoy it, so I'm just eating quick and easy and not especially enticing food while distracting myself with YouTube videos. This evening, after doing more weekend work, cleaning up the kitchen so I could set up the above photo, and putting aside leftovers, I was pleased with the photo result but then automatically went back to the YouTube video I had been semi-watching as I sat down and started putting food in my mouth without pausing to consider saying something like "itadakimasu."

But then I paused--

----what had I put in my mouth?

Why was it... so heavenly????????

Like, I legit froze with my chopsticks in the air as I started chewing that first little bite of white rice. It was exactly as I had Tanjiro describe it in that silly piece of fanart: "The natural minerals in the charcoal act on the rice to make it soft and fluffy."

Softest, fluffiest rice I've ever had, easily. But it's also exactly as the other Corp members cannot help but exclaim--how is it so freaking good!?

So like... I took my time with that meal. I chewed, slowly, thoroughly, like you're supposed to. The takuan and satsuma-imo miso soup likewise tasted simple and wonderful. It was best while the rice was warm, and I don't know how my leftovers will taste tomorrow, but I'm looking forward to it.

And I'm gonna make some mineral water too. The charcoal enthusiasts sure were not kidding about this rice.

#Kimetsu Kitchen #charcoal #I guess I too am a charcoal enthusiast #even if I don't actually do much with it or have much

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aziraphales-library · 5 months ago

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Hi!

Such amazing work the lot of you are doing. I'm both impressed and very, very grateful. <3

I'm looking for fics exploring what could happen next in the story. The fic Factory Settings absolutely blew me away. It's so faithful to both style and canon (well, almost), the characters really seem like themselves, and it's heavily plot driven while at the same time keeping their relationship at the centre.

Do you have any recommendations for fics like Factory Settings, that explore a possible season 3 storyline for me to indulge in until we get the real s3?

Hello! We have a #good omens s3 speculation tag, so check that out for loads of recs. Here are more to add...

When a Ripple Becomes a Tidal Wave, the Reason is to Blame by DiscombobulatedBard (T)

Six months after Aziraphale leaves Crowley for Heaven, he finds a way to secretly speak with him. The supreme Archangel has changed his mind; heaven and hell cannot be fixed, cannot be changed. Instead they must be rendered obsolete. There’s only one weapon in the cosmos with the power to destroy the Book of Life and the power it holds over all supernatural beings: the flaming sword of Eden. But Aziraphale’s sword has been… relocated. In order to find it, Crowley must journey to the darkest layers of Hell where horrors and temptations alike await him. He will get home. He will return to Aziraphale no matter what it takes… right?

the right thing to guide us by NotAWriter6 (G)

Aziraphale returns to Earth after several years to enlist Crowley's help to undo Heaven and Hell. Crowley, who is holding on to a lot of anger, reluctantly agrees to aid him one last time.

But You Are An Ocean by megzseattle (T)

After Aziraphale's defection, Crowley tries to figure out how to live life for himself.

Grand Theft Angel by doraminatook (E)

“Here’s the thing, Muriel," Crowley barked, "Do you know how many times over the past however-many eons, I have dropped everything that I was doing - even if it was more important or far more interesting - so that I could go save Aziraphale? Do you know how many times I went out of my way to help him? And what did he do? He just left. Because he got a better offer. Why should I risk my neck and help him out when he clearly wouldn’t do the same for me!?" “Because you love him.” Muriel said it so nonchalantly, as if it was so obvious…because it was. : Deep in the vaults of Heaven is the Penal Institution for Ungodly Behavior (AKA Heaven's prison system). Following Aziraphale's attempts to undermine The Second Coming, he has been stripped of the Supreme Archangel title and left to rot there for all eternity. That is unless Crowley and Muriel's plan to rescue him succeeds. It's a dangerous plan (bordering on idiotic, complete with a mysterious package, a science experiment gone wrong, and a little demonic possession), but if it means bringing his angel home, then Crowley is willing to burn all of Heaven to ashes.

Good Omens - Corner Office with a View (Broke My Wings so You Could Fly) by Noli_Timere031754 (M)

A year after season two, Aziraphale is trapped in Heaven. He sees Crowley living on Earth, all alone and in trouble. With help, he manages to act accordingly. Crowley’s heartbreak leads to him to being a damsel in distress. Excerpt: Aziraphale recalled what he’d seen out his office window. With it’s close and clear view of London, Earth. He hadn’t meant to zoom in, where he did. The scene had appeared against his will. A certain demon. All alone and buying several cases of the worst scotch he’d ever tasted. Oodles of it. Something he drank when he didn’t care about quality, only getting drunk as fast as possible. Crowley looked bad. Aziraphale didn’t think he’d ever seen him with a hair out of place, and certainly never in dirty clothes and flip flops. But there he was. The only familiar part of his attire had been his sunglasses.

Three Is Not Enough by haleinedelail (T)

Ten months after the Metatron blew up their lives at the end of season 2, Heaven has placed a temptation in Crowley’s path. It's a trap, of course, and Crowley knows it, but not the kind of trap that he thinks. And, bless him, he can't resist walking straight into it. Literally physically injured, Crowley must jump headlong into saving... something. But he'll have to make a terrible choice. The story has a healthy dollop of Crowley working through his (ahem) personal demons, and grief. It has some romance, but also some harsh truths for Aziraphale, several jaunts back in time (though, not too far back!), and some exposed fuckery on the part of Heaven (the good guys, right?). I promise a happy ending, but it might be a rough road getting there... but would we have it any other way?

- Mod D

#good omens #good omens s2 #good omens s3 speculation #ineffable husbands #long fic #mod d

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marcia-11111 · 4 months ago

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Daffodils. IV. Love the way I lie

I apologize for the very late update. However, 2024 had been one of the hardest years in my life thus far, and I couldn't have spared a moment to focus on writing outside of academia.

Tag list: @idk-bro-gay @kiopanxp @hellothere9597 @hsxhype @mareonyan @is2sae

TW!

Breakup, angst, and heartache

Sae Itoshi is a Japanese prodigy pursuing his dream of becoming the world's best midfielder. In the race to his own goals, he loses the person dearest to him: you.

(y/n) (l/n) - Sae’s ex-partner. You are an exchange student from a Spanish university who came to Japan. You met him a few years ago during your year abroad in Spain and became his partner. You have moved on, or you thought you had. However, what will happen when the one who wanted you to avoid him the most finds himself again in your life? Is he going to prove his love to you? Or will everything turn into another heartbreak? Does your heart want the Japanese prodigy back?

All "Blue lock" characters belong to the authors of the manga and anime "Blue lock".

Please don't translate, plagiarise nor use my works on other social media platforms, etc.

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

Sae's POV

Fate’s beloved activity used to be meddling with people’s affairs. I wouldn’t have come back to Japan if it wasn’t for the fact I had to renew my passport. Although I did not fancy my homeland, the situation forced me to come back for a short while. An overwhelming feeling of missing something has overcome me, but I couldn’t grasp the reason. In the end, I decide to ignore it.

All the feelings in the world have morphed into a hassle over time. Everything had become mundane without someone’s presence in my life. I continuously executed my routine, attempting not to recall the past. However, has it ever been possible? If a significant factor of one’s life disappears one day, how can the individual return to the usual schedule?

…

Throughout my time in Japan, I met my younger brother Rin, who still hasn’t outgrown me in skill, which concerns me a bit. Even if so much time has passed, he is still unbaked and lukewarm… It annoys me, given the potential he possesses. In order to find out if Japan has finally found one true striker, I accepted the offer to participate in the Blue Lock vs U-20 match. Yet a certain emotion cannot leave my body. I just hope any idiots (teammates) won’t hold me back.

Because the indistinguishable feeling pissed me off, I’ve decided to go for a run. The damn diary only increased the level of my frustration. I couldn't have even taken a look inside of it because of how much guilt had accumulated in my body over years. As much as I didn’t want to admit it, thoughts of the past y/n and I shared haven’t dared to leave my mind. Even though they weren’t there, their lasting presence has haunted me for years. I’ve remembered all the promises I had broken and all the sweet words that molded in the ash. I start to accelerate due to the mess in my head. I, Sae Itoshi, the genius midfielder, couldn’t have gotten over my first love. My heart betrays my body and mind... And what’s worse, it almost wins against my ego. They were everything I ever wished to have and all I was afraid to love, but now it was too late...

It seems almost impossible to run into each other ever again, or so I thought...

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ahyperactivehero · 4 months ago

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tag for @atelierdemoras for the Make Me Write Game for the hockey au and the charles survives au!

Butterflies roared to life in his stomach. What was it about seeing Edwin, normally so put together Edwin, all rumpled and drowsy that made him realize how much he cared for him?

“Don’t sleep yet,” he said. “You’ve gotta have your hot chocolate.”

Edwin squeezed his eyes closed, almost like he was being contradictory for fun. “You’re going to make it in the microwave aren’t you?” he asked.

“It’s not like I got anything else to make it in,” Charles asked. “You think they just let us have burners in here?”

There was the lounge area, with its small kitchen. He could always go down the hall to make it if he really wanted to. But that would require leaving Edwin, and he looked so tired at the moment. He didn’t know if he would even make it to the lounge at this rate.

“We should have just gone to mine,” Edwin said. “I have a stove, a kettle. All proper ways to make warm drinks.” His voice slowed, taking some of the heat from his words.

XXXX

“What did you wanna be?” Charles asked. “When you grew up?”

A thoughtful look came over Edwin’s face, although really, everything Edwin did seemed throughout and calculated. “I cannot recall,” he said.

Charles’s heart twisted in his chest. How could someone just forget something like that? Then again, Edwin had been dead for a long time, and Charles supposed Hell didn’t exactly do any favors in that department.

Edwin, who must have seen the distraught look on Charles’s face, tilted his head to the side. “What do you wish to be?”

Do. Not did because Charles was still alive. Still had a future, no matter how much this godforsaken school or his dad might wish otherwise.

Yet he’d never really thought about it. Something that made good money, something he could actually see himself doing for a long time.

Something that got him away from his dad.

#v speaks #dbda fanfic #make me write game #dbda #charles survives au #dbda hockey au

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permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88 · 9 months ago

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The Abhorred | Adar/OC (part 1)

Summary: It is a moment Maethoriel never imagined, but the empty raiment at her feet proves that it had, indeed, come to pass. Sauron is dead. She should feel relief, but all that she knows instead is a sense of fear over a world that will see not only herself, but her companions as monsters to be eradicated at any cost. It is a fear that will pull her away from the only one who ever kept her safe. And she is hardly blind to how holding on to that fear almost certainly risks keeping her forever adrift from the one that she loves.

Warnings: angst, some hints of Stockholm syndrome, references to torture, it's gonna get pretty dark in here, folks. Warnings will be updated as the series goes on.

Tag-list: please let me know if you would like to be tagged for future updates! dividers by @zaldritzosrose

A/N: Whelp...I've gone and done it. And I am freaking terrified that I will somehow mess this up! The vision in my head is something I am so, so very excited about, but imposter syndrome is a thing, and I'm not 100% confident I can pull it off. I suppose only time will tell?

Either way, though, this one is for all of my fellow Adar-girlies! He deserves all of the attention and love he can get, and I really hope that the demented little plot gremlins running amok in my mind have created something that at least some of you will enjoy!

It was not supposed to end like this.

That is the only thought the woman seems capable of as she stares down at the place where he once was. Where the one who had caused her so much pain had rested, dead. Gone. No more. Some small part of her knows that she should feel relief. That she should be pleased at his demise.

Now, though, all that she can seem to understand is the bone deep feeling of regret.

"I am your only future!"

The words ring inside her mind like the clamor of bells, a warning against any thought of breaking free. Of even attempting to seek another path that did not align with his plans. His plans, that only ever brought dissent and terror and pain. Still, she stares at the emptiness of the fabrics at her feet, shallow breaths rattling inside of her chest as her mind recalls that those fabrics once held his form. Sauron's form.

She cannot move. Cannot tear her eyes from the ground. She can barely even breathe, and the walls seem to close in from all sides. Silence surrounds her as all those that had been in the hall from the start take in what has just transpired, though they can hardly believe it to be true. It isn't until she feels the presence of another, moving to stand beside her, that she begins to return to herself, but when a hand rests upon her shoulders, everything within her is suddenly possessed by a desire to wrench herself away.

"Maethoriel—"

"What have you done?"

Muted though it may be, the inquiry lands like a blow upon the person standing beside her. Someone she once trusted, but the one who had now blown apart every last bit of the world she once knew. Her eyes search his face, desperate. Pleading for some sign that this was not, in fact, his plan all along, but she finds nothing. Nothing to indicate her wild hope is warranted. Nothing, save for the vindication of one who has, at long last, achieved a goal.

"What have you done?"

"I have done what was necessary to secure our freedom."

"Freedom," The woman scoffs, another step creating still more distance between herself and the one who stands beside her, something not all that far from pity more than apparent within his gaze, "What you have done is cast us out into the world to live in exile."

"We will survive, Maethoriel."

"As beings who are to be turned away by everyone we meet? As those who would be hunted for crimes that are unforgivable?"

"The true mind behind those crimes is dead."

"And we are the poorer for it!"

Bile rises to the back of the woman's throat as soon as the words are spoken, because even though a part of her believes them, there is another, private part of her mind that wishes with everything she has that she did not. She would be a fool to deny that acting in league with Sauron had brought them nothing but misery. That he had been a terror, holding everything he touched in thrall with an iron fist.

Still, after everything, there had been a sense of—if not belonging, then at least one of temporary respite. They had a home, even if it were not the most desirable.

Hardly able to stand those thoughts as they rise to the forefront of her mind, Maethoriel attempts to rebel against them. She tries with all her might to understand that what her companion has just done was exactly what was needed all along.

Silent, he watches her carefully. An expression that she cannot decipher appears in familiar features, and cuts through her, down to her very bones. Mere moments ago, the two of them had been standing, united, or so she had believed at the time, and now?

Now, it is as though a chasm exists between them. One it seems nothing can bridge.

It was not supposed to end like this.

"I am your only future! And my path, your only path."

The man standing before her had all but destroyed that future with a single blow.

Confusion flares within her as Maethoriel continues to stand rooted to the spot, chest heaving with the effort of continuing to breathe. With the effort of forcing herself to recall every moment of torment—every scar earned—the longer she had remained at Sauron's side. She reminds herself of each day spent hunting. Spent killing. Nights, consumed with another sort of conflict best left unspoken.

Every last one of them in the hall with her had suffered the same, and the prospect of freedom from such pain seemed far too alluring to be real. It was too alluring to be real, given the reality of facing judgment from those who had once flocked to their side.

Men, and elves, and dwarves alike would look upon them with nothing shy of hatred. She knows this as surely as anything else she has seen in her lifetime. But in spite of it, she also knows that she should feel relief that Sauron is gone. She should feel relief that the one who would see them all enslaved will never be able to harm any one of them ever again.

The regret she feels over her inability to genuinely give in to such a thing is nearly enough to bring her to her knees.

"...my path, your only path."

All of the deception—the betrayal at Sauron's hands—and even still, Maethoriel cannot seem to rid herself of the notion that this coup had been folly. That it would serve to do all of them far more harm than good. She cannot help but feel the flames of a dull sort of anger towards the one still standing beside her, and that more than anything else feels like the serrated edge of a knife slicing against her heart.

"What—what am I to do?"

Her voice cracks over the words, and the sting of unshed tears burns at her eyes, forcing Maethoriel to avert her gaze, rather than continuing to look the man beside her in the eye any longer. The idea of facing the betrayal he likely feels over her outburst is simply too much for her to bear.

Already, her heart yearns for forgiveness, though she begins to suspect that is a thing that will not come easily. Not when this apparent victory had been so hard-won. And even when she feels the warmth of fingertips not encased in a gauntlet's cold grip come to rest beneath her chin, turning her face upward once more, Maethoriel hardly dares to breathe.

"I will not force your allegiance, Maethoriel. Not as he did."

The fingers beneath her chin move, for a moment, so that the warm callouses of a familiar palm come to rest against her cheek in their stead, and Maethoriel wants to lean into that touch. She wants to savor that small bit of gentleness, and keep it close, forever.

Before she can make any move at doing so, however, the sensation is gone. Pulled from her at such speed she can hardly reconcile herself with its loss. Again, she averts her gaze, this time to avoid looking directly at the sight of her companion turning to depart. A low chant begins to echo around the hall while she struggles to choose. Stay with the empty raiment resting at her feet, or follow after one who, in spite of recent acts, she has come to love beyond reason.

Her thoughts are an amalgamation of pain, and regret, and confusion, but even then, she does not miss the words spoken to her, and clearly intended to be said in parting, spoken so lowly that even she nearly struggles to hear.

"I cannot choose your path for you. You must do that for yourself."

"I am your only future!"

A sob works its way up Maethoriel's throat whether she wishes it to or not, the sound drowned out amongst the tramp of feet as those who had waited in the rapidly emptying hall move to depart. A singular glance shows her that her companion is now entirely gone from her sight, his tall frame swallowed completely by the throng of those he called his children.

Slowly, she turns to depart as well, though her path leads in the opposite direction from the rest. She steels herself against the pain that winds its way like a vice around her heart.

Knowing that at least one of them would not be alone serves as meager reassurance when compared to the cost of her own choices. The cost of her own inability to free herself from Sauon's hold, even now. Now that he is gone.

The strange sense of grief that she feels over his passing only adds fuel to the fire that is now lending speed to her movements as she makes her way through darkened hallways. As she begins to consider the reality of an eternity spent in the shadows. And even if she knows not where she should go, or how she will spend that eternity now that it is staring her in the face, Maethoriel does know one simple thing.

Of the two of them, she is abundantly grateful that it will be her, and not Adar, that must endure it alone.

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cirphu · 2 years ago

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Drunken Kisses & Mixed Feelings cont'd

In my last post, I talked about how Kawi's penchant for kissing Pisaeng while drunk might lead to the argument that prompts Pisaeng to say this line:

To my point, @captain-xandis dropped an absolute gem of an analysis in the tags about this scene:

#i totally think this is why kawi stops pisaeng from kissing him in the past #their argument in the future might go along the lines of 'every time we've kissed you were drunk' or something like that #and kawi not wanting to make the same mistake again will only kiss p when they are both sober

This sent me spiraling so I'm hopping back on the meta train once more. Wanna come with? Stand clear of the closing doors. The next stop is...

Why did Pisaeng go AWOL?

Max tell us that Kawi knows/is the reason why Pisaeng goes off-grid, but we never get an exact answer. So here's my two-point theory.

Emotional Exhaustion

In the scene before the second drunk kiss, Pisaeng remarks that Kawi hasn't been free to hangout in last three years? Well, that got me thinking. During the last three years, has Kawi only gone to find Pisaeng when he's drunk and in need of comfort (and kisses)?

Being someone's "comfort zone" can be emotionally exhausting, especially when there is no reciprocity and the comfort-seeker is your longtime crush who is currently in a relationship with your childhood friend. Needless to say, the internal conflict and resulting emotional toll is strong in this one, which brings me to the second point.

Guilt

We know from the 8-year flashback scene (anniversary of Pisaeng's confession) and Pisaeng recalling the day Pear broke up with Kawi that he goes to their apartment often (he even has a key card) which is why this look between him and Pear gave me pause.

Pisaeng's facial expression goes from slight shock to what looks like guilt when he realizes that Pear is leaving. On the other hand, Pear's body language (the way she releases and tightens her grip on the suitcase handle) tells us that she's angry but not surprised by Pisaeng showing up at this exact moment (the fact that she's standing between the two of them in this scene also says a lot).

Then we see her facial expression. She is visibly angry but there's something else. She definitely knows about Pisaeng's feeling for Kawi and their more-than-friendship situationship (her knowing about Kwan and Not alludes to the fact that she's always aware of what goes on behind her back).

And if that wasn't enough, when Pear leaves the apartment Pisaeng ends up being flanked by Kawi on all sides but is closer to a larger-than-life picture of Kawi while the real Kawi still remains (romantically) out of reach like he's been for the past twelve years.

It's no wonder our boy needed to get away. It no wonder he was feeling conflicted during that second kiss. It's no wonder that he will finally reach his limit and cut Kawi off?

And as @sparklyeyedhimbo points out in their post, it's no wonder Kawi is so distraught when returns to the past and is determined to "set everything right" because he simply cannot bear the thought of losing Pisaeng again.

Is it next Friday yet?!!

#be my favorite #pisaeng x kawi #be my favorite the series #kawi x pisaeng #pisaengkawi #kawipisaeng #raemakes #s:bmf #t:meta #bl drama #thai drama #thai bl

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kckt88 · 1 year ago

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Take My Breath Away IX

Summary:

Vaeryna returns to Kings Landing and encounters problems within her marriage to Aemond after he is named Master of Laws.

Warning(s): Language, Anger, Running Away, Kissing, Smut - Rough P in V Sex, Oral Sex - M Receiving, Remorse, Regret.

Word Count: 4743

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!

GREENS WIN - ENEMIES TO LOVERS.

Tag List - @a-beaverhausen, @ammo23, @immyowndefender, @watercolorskyy, @toodlesxcuddles

Smut scene from Dynasty has been reused.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon or Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used.

Comments, likes, and reblogs are very much appreciated.

Aegon talked nonstop for over two hours about his time at Winterfell.

He’d made friends with Rickon and some other boys, there was one girl who picked on him sometimes, but he ignored her.

Cregan would sometimes take him and Rickon out on the horses and they would play for hours in the snow, they would also train with wooden swords, and watch as much older boys would spar with the smelly bearded men that liked to stand around and complain about everything.

He also told her about learning to sew, because even though that was something girls normally did, he wanted to learn very much. There was also chance for him to learn how to hunt but he didn’t like that very much, as it made his tummy feel funny.

He told her that sometimes he would cry at night because he missed mother and father, he missed his brothers and most of all he missed her.

Aegon seemed a little unsure of Rhaegar at first, especially when he found out who his father was, but he eventually came round when Rhaegar wrapped his tiny hand around Aegon’s finger.

“I-I’m an uncle” exclaimed Aegon in awe.

“Yes, you are” replied Vaeryna softly.

“I wish we could stay together” muttered Aegon.

“So do I little one, but you need to stay safe” said Vaeryna.

“I know” mumbled Aegon sadly as he buried his face In Vaeryna’s shoulder.

“Here I had this made for you” said Vaeryna as she passed Aegon a wrapped package.

“B-But you didn’t know I was coming” squeaked Aegon in surprise.

“No, but I was going to ask Lady Jeyne to send it on my behalf” said Vaeryna as she watched Aegon tearing open the brown wrapping paper.

“I-It’s-mama” exclaimed Aegon as he pressed the material to his nose and inhaled their mother’s scent.

“I’ve been visiting Dragonstone and I managed to gather some of mothers things, I turned one of her dresses into a blanket for you and I found some of the oils she used for her hair so I thought you might like it” replied Vaeryna.

“I love it, thank you sister” whispered Aegon.

“I apologise for the stitching; I was never any good at sewing” said Vaeryna.

“It’s perfect” gasped Aegon happily.

“Princess, I think we have smelly situation over here” said Cregan crinkling his nose.

“Seriously-you hunt and skin animals, yet you cannot handle a babes soiled cloth” said Vaeryna rolling her eyes.

“I handled plenty of Rickon’s when he was a babe, but I do not recall them being this foul, what are you feeding the boy” said Cregan smirking.

Vaeryna furrowed her brow and Cregan and then shook her head, she lifted Rhaegar from his cradle and then placed him on the bed.

“Indeed, you are a stinky dragon today” cooed Vaeryna as she changed Rhaegar’s soiled cloth.

“You’re a natural mother” said Cregan.

“I learnt from my own” muttered Vaeryna.

“Now that Aegon is distracted, how are you doing?” asked Cregan.

“I’m doing fine” replied Vaeryna.

“Are you sure, because this is me your talking to, and if things are bad, I don’t care what the usurper levies against me, I will do whatever it takes to protect you and the boy” said Cregan.

“I appreciate your kindness but really, I’m fine” urged Vaeryna.

“Just know Princess, that the North will always be your ally” said Cregan sharply.

“You have my thanks Cregan truly” muttered Vaeryna.

“Good, now may I have the honour of holding your son?”

Vaeryna smiled and placed Rhaegar in Cregan’s arms. No doubt Aemond would throw a fit if he knew.

But what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

Vaeryna’s time with Aegon and Cregan was short but sweet, she had thoroughly enjoyed seeing her little brother, and knowing that Cregan was taking good care of him was a great comfort. Keeping the promise, she had made to her mother was of great importance, they were the last of her living children, but they would not be the last of her legacy as Rhaegar was living proof of that.

Aegon had been a little teary on his departure from the Vale, but Vaeryna had promised that they would see each other again.

The rest of the week went by in the blink of any eye and soon it was time for her and Rhaegar to return to Kings Landing, lest she make good on her threat and never go back. But of course, Aemond would most likely come to the Vale atop Vhagar, if she did such a thing and that was not the kind of trouble Vaeryna wanted to incite.

Of course, there were other more pleasing ways to annoy her husband and after going a week without seeing him, she knew it was long overdue.

After bidding a sombre farewell to Lady Jeyne, Vaeryna mounted her Cannibal and departed for Kings Landing.

Rhaegar was once again strapped to her chest and fast asleep as she snuggled against her.

Dreamfyre had thoroughly enjoyed her time in the Vale, and Vaeryna giggled softly to herself at the memory of seeing both dragons snuggled up to one another as they slept.

Eventually Kings Landing appeared in the distance and instead of feeling apprehensive, Vaeryna felt contentment, she had really enjoyed her week in the Vale, but she had missed Aemond, even though he was a complete twat the last time she saw him.

After both dragons circled the Red Keep a couple of times, roaring loudly to announce their arrival, Cannibal and Dreamfyre landed just beyond the city walls, where Vhagar was currently sleeping.

She opened one large eye, when the two dragons landed and huffed in annoyance at being disturbed.

Vaeryna bid farewell to Cannibal and Dreamfyre and made her way back to the Red Keep, luckily it was a nice day, so Vaeryna enjoyed the walk.

Rhaegar appeared to have woke up but instead of screaming the place down, he silently observed the world around him.

Vaeryna had expected Aemond to be waiting for her as she approached the entrance to the Red Keep, but he wasn’t there, only Ser Arryk appeared.

“Welcome back Princess, I trust you enjoyed your time in the Vale?”

“I did thank you” replied Vaeryna feeling a little put out that Aemond had not come to greet her or Rhaegar.

Vaeryna didn’t speak to Ser Arryk again, as she followed the guard to her chambers, trying to ignore the growing sense of unease swirling in the pit of her stomach.

However, when she entered her chambers, she let out a surprised squeak as she was greeted by the sight of her husband, pacing the room like a caged animal.

Upon hearing her, Aemond came to an abrupt stop. His face lit up as soon as he saw her, and he wasted no time in launching himself across the room and wrapping his arms around her and Rhaegar.

“A-Aemond” giggled Vaeryna as her husband began peppering kisses all over face.

“I’ve missed you so much” exclaimed Aemond.

“I missed you too” whispered Vaeryna.

“How’s my boy?” asked Aemond as he looked down at Rhaegar who gave his father a gummy smile.

“He’s fine” replied Vaeryna as she lifted Rhaegar from the sling and placed him in his father’s arms.

“It’s only been a week and he’s changed so much” gasped Aemond.

Vaeryna watched with mild amusement as Aemond began gazing at Rhaegar, seemingly committing his small features to memory.

“How as the Vale?” asked Aemond.

“It was fine, Rhaegar seemed to enjoy it, when he wasn’t sleeping or eating of course” replied Vaeryna smiling.

“Hm” muttered Aemond.

“What did you get up to whilst we were gone?”

“The usual, training and such” muttered Aemond.

“Sulking then” laughed Vaeryna.

Aemond shook his head and then placed a now sleeping Rhaegar in his cradle.

“I feel I must apologise for my actions the day you left” mumbled Aemond.

“-Oh, really” exclaimed Vaeryna smirking.

“I should not have reacted the way I did”.

“No, you shouldn’t, but what’s done is done and I’m home now” replied Vaeryna softly.

Aemond gazed at her intently for a few moments, he almost seemed to be contemplating what to say or do next.

“Tell me you love me” muttered Aemond as he pulled Vaeryna too him.

“I love you”.

“Tell me you need me” begged Aemond as he lowered his head and pressed his face into Vaeryna’s shoulder.

“I need you”.

“Tell me you want me” whispered Aemond placing gentle kisses along the column of Vaeryna’s neck.

“I want you”.

“Hm” muttered Aemond as his fingers began untying the laces of her dress.

“I-I haven’t bathed yet” said Vaeryna shivering as the and shift slipped from her body, leaving her standing naked.

“I don’t care. I need you” muttered Aemond as he began pulling off his own clothes.

Vaeryna nodded wordlessly as Aemond kissed her, walking her backwards towards the bed.

Aemond had a ravenous appetite, he kissed, licked, and fucked her well into the hours of the night. Never fully satisfied until he’d filled her with his seed three times, and he had been so loud during their love making, that Vaeryna had to pass Rhaegar to the wet nurse.

Aemond was absolutely insatiable, even the next morning he had reached for Vaeryna and had her again.

He muttered nonsensically as he thrust his hard cock into her, begging, and pleading with her not to leave him again.

Afterwards, Aemond had wrapped his arms around Vaeryna and held her close.

At some point Vaeryna had managed to fall back to sleep, she eventually awoke some hours later to find Aemond sitting at the table, eating his dinner with one arm, and holding Rhaegar with the other.

“You should have woke me” muttered Vaeryna as she kissed Aemond on the cheek.

“I didn’t want to disturb you” replied Aemond.

“I’m surprised Ser Criston hasn’t come banging on the door, as I assume you’ve missed your morning training session”.

“Missing one training session won’t hurt, besides I had other things to occupy my time”.

“Glad to hear it” muttered Vaeryna as she reached for the cup that Aemond slid towards her.

“I requested moontea for you” said Aemond.

“Oh” exclaimed Vaeryna surprised.

“As much as I enjoy the idea of my seed taking root and seeing you grow round with my child again, I think it’s best we wait until Rhaegar is a little older before we grant him a sibling” replied Aemond.

“I agree” said Vaeryna grimacing as she downed the moontea.

Vaeryna had hoped that now she was back from the Vale, she could spend time with Aemond, and things would return to normal.

But as it turned out that wasn’t the case, as the Master of Laws Aemond had been swamped by continuous council meetings and having to fly across the realm to assuage the concerns of Lords who were still dealing with the fallout from the war.

For months there were days Vaeryna didn’t even see Aemond at all. Of course, she had Rhaegar to keep her occupied and even Jaehaera, but she still missed the presence of her husband, it was almost like he didn’t have time for her or Rhaegar anymore, and Vaeryna did not like being ignored.

Aemond had been so desperate when she had returned from the Vale, but here he was putting his duty to the King and the realm above his duty as a husband and his duty as a father.

Vaeryna even tried to talk to him about it, maybe even distract him but he let his anger get the best of him and he lashed out at her, calling her a desperate whore, so she thought she’d play him at his own game. He wanted to act like she didn’t exist, well that was exactly what she was going to do.

Vaeryna waited until she knew Aemond was in one of his usual council meetings, and she strapped Rhaegar to her chest and simply left the Red Keep on the back of her Cannibal with Dreamfyre following close behind.

Not too far of course, just to Dragonstone. But she wanted to see how long it would take for Aemond to realise that both his wife and son had gone.

Aemond hated this, ever since his brother had named him Master of Laws, he’d been bombarded by problems.

Problems which often kept him away from Vaeryna and Rhaegar, sometimes for days at a time as he had to fly about the realm and attend to moaning old cunts who couldn’t sort out their own problems.

In the beginning Vaeryna would reach for him during the night, but as time wore on, she stopped seeking out his warmth.

There were times when he would attempt to spend time with her, but he would often be called away and the crestfallen look on his wife’s face would break his heart every time.

He also missed important moments with Rhaegar, and it made him angry.

Vaeryna had tried to talk to him about what was going on and his rage and frustration had simply reached breaking point and he ended up lashing out at her.

She had tried to provide him with comfort and distraction, but he pushed her away and called her a desperate whore.

Of course, he regretted it immediately, but the damage had been done and Vaeryna furiously wiped the tears away from her cheeks and returned to their chambers without a word.

He needed a break from his duties for a few days, if only to make things right with Vaeryna, but when he entered his chambers, she wasn’t there.

Odd, his wife was usually in bed at this time.

Aemond went across the hall to the nursery, as sometimes Vaeryna would be there watching over Rhaegar as he slept, he was almost eight moons old now and he no longer slept in their chambers.

But the nursery was empty.

Where was she?

Aemond loitered around his chamber door for a moment before he went to find Ser Arryk.

The guard who was assigned to his wife was currently standing outside his mother’s chambers.

“Is my wife in there?” asked Aemond.

“No, My Prince, she dismissed me earlier and I haven’t seen her since” replied Ser Arryk.

“-And you didn’t think to tell me?” raged Aemond.

“Is she not in your chambers?” asked Ser Arryk.

“No, she isn’t, and Rhaegar isn’t in the nursery either” exclaimed Aemond.

“My Prince I-“

“-I want the entirety of the Red Keep searched now. I want my wife and son found” ordered Aemond.

“Yes, My Prince” said Ser Arryk as he rushed off.

Soon there were guards and servants searching the Red Keep for Vaeryna and Rhaegar.

Aegon and Alicent were in a flurry of panic, as Rhaegar was heir to the Iron Throne, and he was missing.

Aemond was pacing his mother’s chambers like a deranged animal and Jaehaera seemed indifferent to the whole situation.

The entirety of the Red Keep had been searched and still there was no sign of Vaeryna or Rhaegar.

So, Aegon rounded up his Kings Guard and under Ser Criston’s command they began to search the streets of Kings Landing.

Aemond donned his cloak and spent hours combing the streets, praying for any sight or sign of his wife and son, but again their search proved fruitless.

Aemond grew desperate and even held up several street beggars by a knife to the throat, before someone eventually came forward and claimed to have seen the Cannibal fly over Kings Landing some hours ago.

Why had no one thought to check the dragons, Aemond was furious with himself for not thinking of it before.

Sure, enough when he arrived at the spot where Cannibal liked to rest, the dragon wasn’t there, and neither was Dreamfyre.

“So, she just takes off from Kings Landing without a word” raged Aegon.

“I swear if anything has happened to either of them, I will rip the world apart until I find the ones responsible” snarled Aemond.

“Lets just try to calm down, she’s obviously left for a reason” said Alicent.

“It’s my fault” admitted Aemond.

“What?” asked Aegon.

“I haven’t been spending much time with her or Rhaegar lately, and I guess she felt like I’d been neglecting her-“

“-So, she just what-takes off with your son and my heir?” snapped Aegon.

“We had a big argument and I upset her-“ said Aemond solemnly.

“No excuse to just up and leave-“ exclaimed Aegon angrily.

“-Your Grace”

“WHAT” snarled Aegon.

“A local fisherman has claimed that he saw the Cannibal flying over Blackwater Bay”.

“Blackwater Bay, why would she-“ said Aegon.

“-Dragonstone” mused Aemond.

“Aemond” urged Alicent.

“I will take Vhagar and see if she’s there” replied Aemond, not waiting for an answer as he rushed out of his mother’s chambers and headed straight for his dragon.

In the hours it took him to fly to Dragonstone, Aemond’s mind was awash with worry.

This was his fault; he was too involved in his duties to even notice that his wife had absconded from the Red Keep with their son. He shouldn’t have lashed out at her; he shouldn’t have neglected her or their son.

The word failure kept resonating round his mind as Vhagar glided effortlessly through the sky.

It was well into the morning before Dragonstone appeared on the horizon and Aemond’s heart skipped a beat.

‘Please be here. Please, please’ begged Aemond internally as he had Vhagar circle the island.

It was on the second pass that he spotted the Cannibal and Dreamfyre. Aemond let out a sigh of relief and directed Vhagar to land.

After he had dismounted his dragon, he was met with a ferocious growl from Cannibal who promptly turned his back on Aemond.

Normally the dragon was quite pleasant towards him, but not today and Aemond knew he deserved it.

Even Vhagar who normally would have protected him against such a display seemed unbothered.

“Charming” muttered Aemond as he adjusted his weapons and headed towards the castle.

Since the war had ended, Dragonstone had mostly been left unoccupied, except of course for a group of people that consisted of a Maester, a couple of maids, a cook and a few guards that would swop with some of the guards in Kings Landing every so often. Not enough to provide adequate protection, but it was mostly to oversee the upkeep of the castle, as it was a symbol of Targaryen ancestry and needed to be looked after.

The guards directed Aemond to the throne room, and when the double doors opened, he was greeted by the sight of his wife sitting upon the ornate carved throne.

“Husband” said Vaeryna formally.

“Wife” replied Aemond politely as he folded his arms behind his back.

“I do hope that you weren’t too distressed upon the discovery of my absence”.

“Vaeryna. Please” said Aemond.

“So now you call me by my name, and here I thought I was nothing but a desperate whore”.

“I should not have called you that” muttered Aemond as he walked towards Vaeryna.

“No, you shouldn’t” snapped Vaeryna as she rose from the throne and slowly descended down the steps.

“But you should not have left the Red Keep without word”.

“Surprised you even noticed” muttered Vaeryna as she turned away from Aemond and began walking down one of the adjacent corridors.

Aemond followed Vaeryna in silence, despite it’s provenance he did not know this castle.

Vaeryna pushed open a large ornate wooden door and soon Aemond was standing next to a huge carved map of Westeros.

“The painted table” said Vaeryna as she ran her fingers over the stone map.

“I’ve read about this” said Aemond.

“Aegon the conqueror planned his invasion of Westeros at very this table” replied Vaeryna.

“Your mother also made her plans at this table” said Aemond.

“Yes, she did, she used to sit right there” replied Vaeryna as she pointed to the elevated singular chair positioned to the side of the table.

“Where is Rhaegar?” asked Aemond.

“With Maester Gerardys” said Vaeryna.

“We need to return to Kings Landing”.

“No, we do not. This castle is the seat of the heir, it belongs to Rhaegar, but as he is not yet of age, I’m within my rights to claim it” said Vaeryna.

“So, what? Your just going to stay here with Rhaegar”.

“It would suit you wouldn’t it, your desperate whore of a wife out of sight, leaving you free for your duty as Master of Laws” quipped Vaeryna.

“Vaeryna. Stop” said Aemond his lip curling.

“No, I won’t stop. For months now you’ve been treating me as if I don’t exist, even your own son hasn’t been enough for you to bother” snapped Vaeryna.

“I have a duty to the King and the realm-“ answered Aemond.

“What about your duty to me? To our son?”

“I’ll admit that I’ve been distracted recently but-“

“-No Aemond. I do not care for your excuses. Go back to Kings Landing” snarled Vaeryna as she walked out of the room.

Aemond took a deep shuddering breath and followed his wife, until she stopped so abruptly that he almost crashed into her.

“I’m-sorry for the last few months, I did not mean to leave-“

“-Your apologise mean shit to me, because as soon as the King whistles, his loyal dog will come” said Vaeryna as she opened the wooden door and stepped inside the dimly lit room.

“Do not speak to me in that way” snapped Aemond.

“I shall speak to you anyway I please. I am not someone you can simply command, and I’m certainly not afraid of you”.

“Oh really” challenged Aemond, drawing himself to his full height.

“Yes-really, now do yourself a favour, and fuck off back to your King” said Vaeryna.

“No” replied Aemond sternly.

“Fine. I will take Rhaegar and leave Dragonstone. Leave you and your fucking King”.

“YOUR NOT FUCKING GOING ANYWHERE” snarled Aemond viciously.

“Going to stop me, are you? How exactly are you going to do that when you barely pay me any attention. I bet you wouldn’t even notice that I’d gone” balled Vaeryna.

“You will not leave me. You will not take my son” ordered Aemond his lip curling.

"I will fly my Cannibal across the narrow sea and you will never see either of us again" threatened Vaeryna as she stood against Aemond, her body pressed against his.

"NO, YOU WON'T!"

“What are you going to do about it” snapped Vaeryna.

“YOU WILL NOT LEAVE ME”

“I shall and you will never-“ stuttered Vaeryna as Aemond suddenly lunged forward and pressed his lips to hers.

Vaeryna ripped herself away from Aemond. Staring at him as she put a hand to her mouth.

The resentment swirling in the pit of her stomach was now morphing into something else. The dormant fire of their relationship was roaring to life once more. Coursing through her body.

One kiss, that was all it took. She needed more. She needed him.

Suddenly Vaeryna wrapped her arms around Aemond's neck and drew him in back in.

Their kiss was rough and vicious. Consisting of teeth and tongue.

It had been so long since they’d shared any form of intimacy.

Aemond backed Vaeryna towards the bed, his hands tearing off her dress until it was a ragged mess on the floor.

It was an eruption of frustration and passion. Hands everywhere, grabbing, scratching, and pulling at one another.

Aemond took a brief minute to yank off his leather tunic and shirt before he shoved Vaeryna on the bed, her back colliding with the mattress with a soft thump.

His body covered hers as he sucked and licked the delicate skin of her neck, leaving red marks in his wake.

Vaeryna moved her head to the side and moaned loudly as she felt Aemond’s teeth nipping at her skin.

Aemond pulled away to unfasten his breeches and push them down, freeing his hard cock.

Vaeryna lay back on the bed, her heart thumping wildly in her chest.

Aemond runs his hand up and down the length of himself, eyeing his wife with an animalistic hunger, a smirk on his lips as she parts her legs for him.

As he guides himself to her entrance, she barely has a moment to adjust before he is pressing his cock forcefully inside and stretching her brutally, causing her to cry out.

“FUCKING TAKE IT!” spits Aemond, wrapping a hand around her throat while the other digs into her hip, pulling her aggressively against him to meet each one of his hard thrusts.

Vaeryna can’t think of anything but the intense pounding thrusts that greet her, causing her to wail and moan, causing tears form in her eyes, before running down her cheeks.

Aemond sets a brutal pace, his hips crashing into hers.

“YES! YES! AEMOND!” screams Vaeryna.

“FUCK!” shouts Aemond as he feels her cunny clenching around his cock.

As Aemond’s hips begins to falter in their movements, Aemond snakes a hand between their joined bodies, his long fingers expertly circling her pearl, causing heat to bloom across her stomach.

He presses down more firmly, making faster movements against her bud making her shudder, as a sudden warmth crashes over her in waves making her cry out, her cunny tightening around him.

“AEMOND!!” screams Vaeryna as her hands claw at his back.

“Fuck!! baby, that’s it come all over my cock!” growls Aemond as he moves to grab the headboard, bracing himself as he continues to pound his hips against hers.

“A-Aemond” gasped Vaeryna.

With a loud animalistic groan, Aemond stills, leaning over his wife, his cock pulsating as he spills his seed deep inside her.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” asked Aemond quietly as he observed the reddened marks that littered his wife’s pale skin.

“No” whispered Vaeryna, the tears rolling down her cheeks.

“Y-Your crying” muttered Aemond.

“I-I’m not crying because I’m hurt. I-I’m sorry for what I said” whispered Vaeryna as she pressed her face into Aemond’s side.

“Vaeryna” exclaimed Aemond, wrapping his arms around his wife’s shaking form.

“I would never leave you and take Rhaegar. I just feel like I’m losing you. Ever since Aegon named you Master of Laws everything has gone wrong” sniffed Vaeryna.

“I know” murmured Aemond pressing his lips to Vaeryna’s head.

“When I came to Kings Landing, I never thought I would love you so much, but I do, and it hurts when we can’t be together” said Vaeryna sadly.

“It hurts me too, but what hurt more was you just disappearing with Rhaegar, I had no idea where you were or if you were ok-“

“-That was the point” muttered Vaeryna as she once again pressed her face against Aemond.

“My love we need to sort this out, I cannot have you running off every time we fall out”.

“I shall stay here with Rhaegar and then we won’t be a bother too you” replied Vaeryna her voice muffled as she pressed even closer.

“Vaeryna we must talk” said Aemond trying to shift away but his wife refused to let go.

“No” squeaked Vaeryna as she ducked beneath the covers of the bed.

“Yes, we need to work this out. With most of the Lords appeased and satisfied with new taxes and supply chains, I will not need to travel as much and my presence in the council meetings will not take as long” said Aemond.

“Are you sure about that?” asked Vaeryna, her soft fingers running along Aemond’s muscled thigh.

“Y-Yes-gods Vaeryna what are you-oh” gasped Aemond as he felt his wife’s tongue gentle lick the tip of his cock.

“I can always stop?”

“N-No keep going” exclaimed Aemond as his wife’s hot wet mouth engulfed his half hard cock.

“I’m not so sure you realise how serious this is”.

“Yes-I understand fully, please Vaeryna do not tease me” moaned Aemond.

“I don’t know, you don’t seem very convincing”.

“I promise, I will not let my duty overrule my family again, just please-oh fuck” huffed Aemond as Vaeryna took his cock into her mouth once again. Vaeryna smirked deviously as she continued to tease her husband, she was determined to make him beg and plead for her mercy and only when he was on the brink would she finally grant it.

#house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #aemond x oc #hotd fanfic #aemond fanfiction #aemond fic #aemond x original female character #hotd aemond #hotd fic #hotd smut #aemond targaryen x oc #prince aemond #aemond #aemond one eye #aemond smut #house of the dragon aemond

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autisticalastor · 7 months ago

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The Moon Will Sing

Chapter 1: Is This All There Is?

Fic Rating: M

Relevant Relationships: PolyVees, past Vox/Alastor

Chapter Tags: Angst, Computer Gore, Toxic Relationships, Discussions of Intimate Partner Violence

A/N: Welcome to what I'm referring to as my Vox redemption fic! These early chapters will just be laying the groundwork to push him towards the idea of redemption, so don't get your hopes up for him joining the Hotel just yet. We've got a lot of ground to cover! I do hope you'll stick around for the ride! Special shoutout to @normystical for being the one who pushed me to turn my crazy ideas into a fic in the first place!

It cannot be understated just how painful it is to respawn after dying in Hell. Stiff muscles contracting once again; rigid bones cracking back out of their newly-set places; that violent first pump of blood through the body, a pounding so hard it puts heart attacks to shame. Fatal wounds stitch themselves shut, scarred new tissues filling in the gaps. That first, gasping breath, as frightening to the seasoned sinner as it is to the freshly-delivered newborn. Every bit as overwhelming and terrifying as the realization that one's torment truly is eternal in this place.

Vox takes a deep, gasping breath. He's never going to get used to the feeling of respawning. Everything he's ever been through, alive and in Hell, and not one bit of it compares to the pain he feels as life shoots back into his body, crackling and blindingly bright.

It takes a moment — an oddly quiet moment — before he finally pushes himself up, surveying the area around him. He can't quite recall what he got into such a rough fight over, or who he was even fighting with at the time he was killed. An arduously slow systems check reveals his memory banks haven't fully redownloaded yet, and he groans in frustration. He turns to ask Valentino or Velvette what exactly happened… But finds he's all alone amid the rubble of God-knows-what building he must've been fighting in.

That's… strange, to say the least. At first, he chalks it up to his screen being absolutely shattered. Part of the pain of respawning is that it only fixes what's absolutely necessary to bring you back to life, so his vision being limited by a broken screen was something he always had to get fixed later on.

“Val? Vel?” he calls out, hoping knowing one of them is there, just out of sight. He waits a minute. No response.

Vox slowly gets up, an uneasy feeling taking root within him. He staggers through the rubble, more feeling his way than anything else with his vision currently segmented into fractals of shattered crystal. He continues calling out for the other Vees, tone growing more desperate as it becomes more evident he's completely alone. He shouldn't be here alone. They promised he'd never come back alone.

Keep Reading

#hazbin hotel #hazbin vox #hazbin hotel vox #hazbin hotel vees #poly vees #radiostatic #staticradio #hellaverse #my writing #x #tmws #<- fic tag!

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macabr3-barbi3 · 8 months ago

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God, That's Good!

Chapter 8: Pentious' Death

Pentious has dirt on Lucifer- and that just won't do. Something shifts in his relationship with Alastor.

Tags: EXPLICIT DEPICTION OF MURDER (I CANNOT STRESS THIS ENOUGH. A MAN IS DYING); followed by Explicit Sexual Content™️

Sweet Lord this chapter was a lot! Please be mindful of the tags above before continuing. There is a smut scene in this chapter- I'll include dividers surrounding it in case you want to skip over that section!

Also just as a note- everything from chapter 7 to chapter 12 is taking place on the same day! I tried to figure out a way that it would make sense to space things out but ultimately just having a bunch of fuckery on the same day is what worked out the best xD

My weekly thank you to @fraugwinska for her eternal love and support, as well as to @minkdelovely for being so supportive and sweet about this story 🥹

(this divider doesn't count for the smut lol)

Act 1: Chapter 1 🥧 Chapter 2 🥧 Chapter 3 🥧 Chapter 4 🥧Chapter 5 🥧 Chapter 6 🥧Chapter 7 🥧 Chapter 8 🥧 Chapter 9 🥧 Chapter 10 🥧 Chapter 11

They stand there in an uncomfortable silence for a few moments before he speaks. “So, what can I do for you?” Lucifer asks the other barber, and Pentious’ smile somehow gets even wider.

He straightens his shoulders. “I have come to check out your establishment,” he says, and Lucifer’s eyebrow quirks up. “Despite what Niffty may have claimed, it’s not much to look at- though I presume you’ll have it in top shape in no time!” He steps further into the shop, trailing his fingers over different surfaces, inspecting Lucifer’s razors, moving around until he’s within an arm’s length. “I have also come to collect my money back- the five dollars.”

And he’s been trying to be polite, but the request makes him laugh out loud. “Do you not know how a contest works, Sir Pentious? You lost- the money is no longer yours.”

“Furthermore,” Pentious continues, as though Lucifer hadn’t spoken, “I shall expect half of your earnings every week, delivered to me via Niffty, once you start getting customers in. You’re welcome to use your remaining share to make the place a little nicer-”

“Just why, exactly,” Lucifer cuts in, “would you expect me to do that?” He spoke as though Lucifer owed him something, when their contest had been cut and dry- Lucifer had won fair and square, he hadn’t cheated in any way, nor had he stolen the money.

Pentious holds out his hand to Lucifer, waiting for the money to be dropped into it. “You see, I thought I was wrong until you mentioned Fleet Street to the crowd asking where they could find you! I was but an apprentice- you taught me the tricks of the trade!”

For a moment Lucifer has no idea what he was talking about- then the memory hits like whiplash, causing him to dig his fingers into his palm, the faint pain of it keeping him grounded. Young Eddie- a slip of a teenager that he had given a few dollars a month to assist him in cleanup one summer when his business had been booming, his free time limited when it came to the state of the shop. He had been going through a late puberty, his facial hair growing in patchy and uneven around his red spots of acne, and he- Damien- had taken pity on the boy and taught him how to shave in the most basic of manners.

He feels the blood drain from his face as he staggers back towards his chair, and Pentious barks out a harsh laugh. “Ha! So you recall my face at last, Damien Diggory- and you’ll adhere to my terms or I ssshall fetch the Beadle and tell her of my findingsss!” He stalks closer, his frame towering over Lucifer far less pleasantly than Alastor did, his words hissing through his teeth in his excitement. “You think you’re ssso much more clever than everyone else, coming back here, but I know who you are! And I ssshall have you on the first ssship back to the wastesss of Florida if you don’t do as I sssay.” He straightens his shoulders again, smile pleasant once more. “I ssshall like to have my money back now if you pleassse, Missster Diggory.”

His plans, his goals, his vengeance- they slip through his fingers like sand with every word from the other barber’s mouth. He’s still talking but Lucifer can’t hear him over the buzz of anger, of wrath, that fills his mind, his eyes going dark around the edges. Pentious would ruin everything that Lucifer had worked for if he wasn’t stopped; even if Lucifer did as he said the threat of it would loom over his head constantly, forever in the back of his mind, never sure if he would fulfill his plot before it all came crashing down around him.

And Lucifer does raise his hands from where they’ve been ramrod straight at his sides, but not to reach into his pocket for his wallet- he feels like a man possessed as he lunges instead for Pentious’ throat, the man letting out a choked off grunt when Lucifer tackles his tall frame to the ground. There’s a resounding thud that shakes the shop walls, and Lucifer is distantly conscious enough to hope that Alastor doesn’t hear it and come running, or God forbid the little girl come up to see this. But more pressing is the deep thudding inside his head, dark whispers saying to silence this man, that he was going to destroy everything that Lucifer had done if he didn’t stop him. Even now his past chased him as he tried to outrun it, this lowly charlatan that he had tried to help as a young man coming back to haunt him all these years later.

Pentious releases a hand from those encircling his throat, opting to rake his fingernails down Lucifer’s arm rather than dislodge his grip- he can feel bones shifting beneath his palms, the red of the man’s face ensuring that he couldn’t speak beyond the garbled noises that escaped his throat. He tries to twist his body, managing to knock Lucifer from his position and try to scramble away. The smooth fabric of his suit slips against the wooden floors, not giving him the traction he needs to truly escape. Lucifer tackles him once more, this time bringing his arm up to wrap around Pentious’ throat and finally, finally, his movements slow and eventually stop, his body hanging limply in Lucifer’s arms before he lets him gently to the floor.

He was well and truly fucked, he realizes, his panic rising when he hears the girl shouting something from downstairs. In a frenzy, he grabs Pentious’ boots and drags him across the floor to the half-open door of the apartment, scrambling to shove his body inside and ease the door shut before the door to the shop opens. He pulls his sleeves down in a rush so she can’t see the marks that her employer has left on him, and when she flings the door open she glances around curiously.

“Where’s Sir Pentious? He told me to make sure he wasn’t late for the tailor- I think it was supposed to be yesterday actually, but I know I have the time right at least!” She stands with her arms behind her back, rocking gently forward on her toes then back on her heels.

Lucifer clears his throat, hoping he doesn’t sound as panicked as he feels. “Sir Pentious had to leave,” he says in what he hopes is a reassuring manor. “Perhaps you should run along after him!”

She whips her head back and forth, red hair splaying in every direction. “No, sir- if he comes back and I’m not here I would be in some trouble! I mean- he says that, anyway. But between you and me, I think he’s a bit of a softie.” She gives Lucifer a conspiratorial wink, her smile fading when he doesn’t return it. “He’s okay though, right?”

“Oh, he’s fine! Just had to step out-”

He hears a soft noise from behind him, perhaps too low for the girl to pick up but he hears it clear as day- Pentious was waking up from his short bout of unconsciousness, Lucifer’s strength not enough to permanently put him out of commission. “-rather suddenly- why don’t you wait for him downstairs? Or, like you said- if he’s a softie, surely you wouldn’t get into any trouble for returning to his home or base of operations.” He returns her wink finally, and that seems to put her at ease- she flashes him a smile and is off in seconds, the door slamming behind her and the stairs thumping as she bounds down them. He breathes a sigh of relief, taking a deep breath for the first time since he had learned who Pentious was, steadying himself to go back into the apartment and try to talk reason into the man.

He doesn’t get a chance. Pentious charges him from the doorway of the apartment, Lucifer landing hard on his knees while Pentious tries to claw at his face, his throat, anything he can reach. His own throat is bruised, dark shades of purple and mottled green that makes him look like a dead man come back to life, his eyes red rimmed and furious as he tries to take Lucifer down. In a moment of desperation, Lucifer manages to grab his razor- he flicks it open with practiced ease, one hand adjusting the grip he has and the other reaching out to fist in Pentious’ hair, swinging his weight to change their positions. The force of the motion sends them both toppling backwards, Pentious still flailing in an attempt to get away despite the firm grasp Lucifer has on him, no true sounds coming from his ruined throat.

In a way, Lucifer’s mind clears as he lifts the razor. He stares at the ceiling of the barbershop, stray bits of hair obscuring his vision, but he feels for once like his body is at peace. He can hear his heartbeat in his ears over the muffled noises from the man above him- he doesn’t feel numb, or empty.

He feels justified. He brings the razor down in a swift, precise movement, a spurt of warm liquid that drenches his face before the body that rests on his chest falls still at last.

He’s unsure how long he lays there before he drops the razor, using the weight from both arms to shove Pentious off him. There’s the solid noise of something heavy dropping onto a hardwood floor, then silence. Lucifer can’t look at him, can’t face what he’s done yet even as the evidence coats his face, his chest, his hands.

It was necessary. That’s what he tells himself as he rises to his knees, body vibrating with the leftover adrenaline of the fight. And no one would ever have to know- he would clean up, hide the body until dark when he could try to take it somewhere to bury him. There was that killer on the news, the Bayou Butcher- it could be passed off as one of their kills if anyone ever found the body. Alastor would never have to know. He seemed complacent enough with Lucifer’s plans but to actually see it plain as day, staining Lucifer’s skin? The conversation they had had not even an hour ago would be for nothing- Alastor would be frightened of him, would surely kick him out, report him to the authorities. He needed to move now, clean this mess up, hide the body-

There’s no creak of the stairs or the door, nothing to alert him to Alastor’s approach until he hears the soft gasp at the entrance, looking up from Pentious’ body and the pooling blood to see Alastor standing there with wide eyes, his hand covering his mouth.

“Alastor,” he gets out, his voice low and rough. “Fuck, I- I didn’t want you to see this.”

“You killed him?” The baker asks, and Lucifer can’t identify the tone in his voice so he flinches at the sound of it. “You actually- you did this?”

He closes his eyes against the raw emotion in Alastor’s voice. “Yes. I- I wasn’t planning to, he recognized me from my past and he was going to blackmail me, I couldn’t just let him-” Alastor is still watching him, his eyes darting between Lucifer and Pentious, his hands trembling, and Lucifer’s chest aches with the possibility of Alastor being scared of him. He staggers from his knees to stand, his feet stuttering as he tries to approach Alastor, and he knows he must look a mess. “Please, Alastor, he would have ruined everything; you have to understand.”

And to Lucifer’s shock, he seems to. He removes his hand from his mouth to reach out and cup the barber’s cheek, his other hand coming up to wrap around his back and pull him into his chest. Lucifer could sob with relief, Alastor’s arms around him feeling like they were holding him together- like without them he would simply bust into pieces on the floor. “Fuck, I was- I’m so sorry,” he mumbles into Alastor’s shirt. “If you’re afraid, I understand; but please know that I would never, never harm you.” He places his own hand- coated in blood, he realizes, but he feels like he’s moving in slow motion, too late now to take the movement back- along Alastor’s face, stroking a thumb along his cheekbone.

To say he’s surprised when Alastor steals his mouth in a searing kiss would be an understatement; one he doesn’t have time to unpack as Alastor brings their lips together, a frenzy of teeth and tongue that has wires crossing in Lucifer’s brain, transforming the anxiety of the moment into something more heated that races confusedly through his veins. The baker guides him, walking him backwards towards the apartment until they cross the threshold, closing the door enough that they can’t see the body on the floor of the barbershop before shoving Lucifer onto the couch.

Dust puffs around them, tickling his nose, almost breaking the moment to let out a nervous giggle until Alastor starts pawing at his shirt, fingers fumbling with the buttons until he gets it open and slides his hands along the planes of Lucifer’s chest and abdomen. One of his hands drifts lower, brushing against sensitive skin through the fabric of his pants and Lucifer’s hips buck up without conscious thought, a broken moan pouring into Alastor’s mouth that the other man simply drinks down.

It’s not until he hears the clinking of his belt that he’s spurred into action, pulling off Alastor’s mouth with a gasp and stilling him with a hand to his wrist. “Jesus fucking- Alastor, wait-”

“I can’t,” Alastor groans, rolling his hips down against Lucifer’s, the friction against his clothed erection making Lucifer see stars. “I need you, need this, please…” He drags Lucifer’s hand away from his wrist, brings it to the hardness straining between his own thighs.

“Oh, fuck,” Lucifer manages before Alastor is taking his mouth again, tongue sliding against his, everything heated and moist and so much. “Fuck, I- we’re taking it slow,” he protests halfheartedly, already kicking himself for the possibility of the gorgeous man in his lap taking a step back. “We said we would slow down-”

“Slow down after, damn it,” Alastor near snarls, never ceasing the grinding of his lower body, and flashes of pleasure spark down Lucifer’s spine at the perfection of it. “Will you be so cruel as to make me beg?”

His head is shaking before he realizes it, soft words of affirmation spilling forth and spurring Alastor to finish removing Lucifer’s belt, tossing it carelessly behind him to clink onto the floor and shoving his shirt up. His hands are fast and deft, buttons undone in record time and reaching in to pull Lucifer’s cock from his pants, hard and aching in the slight chill of the room from the breeze that blows through the broken windows. He moans when Alastor gives him a stroke, his grip firm and perfect, and he finds the sense of mind to start working at the baker’s bottoms open as well.

The whimper that escapes Alastor when Lucifer gets a hand around his erection will live in his mind forever, he thinks, low and keening against Lucifer’s mouth. He shifts his seat in the barber’s lap, impatiently smacking his hands away so he can bring their cocks together between his own hands and buck his hips, bare skin hot and hard against one another, the way eased by the fluid that leaks from them both.

Lucifer is almost embarrassed by how quickly he’s losing control with this beautiful man in his lap, his fingers digging into the soft skin of Alastor’s hips- he’s sure to leave bruises, something he wishes he was a good enough man to feel sorry about, but the thought of leaving something that lasts on Alastor’s body was too delicious to pass up. He grips harder, and Alastor rips their mouths apart to let his head drop back and whine. “Touch me,” he asks earnestly despite his earlier despair at the thought of begging, freeing a hand from their lengths to bring Lucifer’s deathgrip from his waist to the buttons of his shirt, all but ripping them off in his haste to assist in undoing them. “Please, Lucifer-”

To have someone so lost in passion because of him that they plead with him for more, their release obvious and imminent in the tremble of their frame is a high Lucifer has seldom experienced. Even with Lilith he had never felt so desirable- but to think of her now was unfair to either of them. Right now he was here with Alastor, who was squirming and desperate seated on top of him, Lucifer would be damned if he didn’t give the man the attention he desired and deserved.

“God, you’re fucking gorgeous,” he breathes, taking over for Alastor’s nimble fingers and hastily opening his shirt, calloused fingers brushing against a dark, sensitive nipple, the motion causing Alastor to collapse forward with his head on Lucifer’s shoulder. He pants hot and wet in Lucifer’s ear as the barber lets his hands explore, trailing over beautiful, smooth skin that it was possible no one had ever touched before; his sounds are a combination of unrestrained pleasure and frantic whispers of Lucifer’s name. “You’re a marvel, so perfect for me-”

Alastor’s grip tightens fractionally, the rhythm of his hips faltering against Lucifer’s until his whole body tenses. Teeth sink into Lucifer’s throat- not hard enough to draw blood, perhaps more of an anchor to reality as orgasm crashes into Alastor, muffled noises escaping where he holds delicate skin between his teeth. The baker’s grip is so much wetter as he spills over his fingers, a hot splash of release that decorates Lucifer’s abdomen and makes the glide of their cocks against each other sloppy.

The pain of the bite, the sudden slickness to the friction of Alastor’s hands holding their erections together is too much for Lucifer as well. He throws his head back, his groan directed at the ceiling as his orgasm rips through him, body burning like he’s been set ablaze from the inside out. Ecstasy claws its way through him, sharp bolts of it that start in his abdomen and flash through his limbs and brain like explosions while he spends himself as Alastor had, hot and wet across his fingers and their cocks.

Lucifer isn’t sure how long they sit there, simply breathing one another in before Alastor withdraws his teeth from the barber’s throat. “My apologies,” he murmurs into Lucifer’s ear, and the shiver that races down his frame has little to do with the chilled air that resides in the apartment. “I’m not quite sure what came over me.”

“I have some idea,” Lucifer says on a laugh, slipping a hand into Alastor’s dark curls to pull him from the crook of his neck and look at him properly. He brushes sweaty strands away from his forehead, presses a soft kiss to his lips. “It was an intense moment for both of us- there’s no need to apologize for it. If anything, I should be apologizing; I said I would court you properly before we did anything more and I’ve given in to the first temptation you offered me.”

Alastor scoots himself backwards on Lucifer’s lap, grimacing at the mess that still rests between them. “You’re the one who chose to name yourself after the origin of sin in Eden; perhaps I was counting on that.” He winks before he climbs out of Lucifer’s space entirely, grabbing a doily from the sofa arm to haphazardly wipe himself down before he slips through the door back into the barbershop.

Lucifer hears him speak, and the dopey smile still on his face from the linger aftershocks of pleasure fades when he remembers what lay on the other side of that door- what he and Alastor now had to race to fix before anyone came looking.

“Oh dear,” Alastor exclaimed, and Lucifer could picture the worried crease in his eyebrow at the carnage. “What a mess!”

Act 1: Chapter 1 🥧 Chapter 2 🥧 Chapter 3 🥧 Chapter 4 🥧Chapter 5 🥧 Chapter 6 🥧Chapter 7 🥧 Chapter 8 🥧 Chapter 9 🥧 Chapter 10 🥧 Chapter 11

#rip sir pentious #hazbin hotel #alastor #hazbin alastor #lucifer hazbin #radioapple #human lucifer morningstar #human alastor #sweeney todd #ao3 writer #ao3 fanfic #ily frau <3 #God That's Good #GTG #slow slow slow burn #my stuff <3

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