#My Piece out of Time; Ashy Threads

[stxriesfromasharchive]

@qceensofkings

A man sits behind a wide and long dark cherry wood desk, his back towards a large window that outlooks the city below him in a five stories tall building. The room he occupies is a study, books of various ages - some hundreds of years old - line the walls in beautifully constructed shelves around him. Next to him on the desk is an antique lamp, currently the only light in the room as is was about past midnight.

The man, a tall figure if standing, has in his hand a pen that he uses to elegantly write upon what appears to be old parchment - a sort of personal preference compared to modern day paper - writing several letters and marking down documents pertaining to business. Strands of short, ashy grey brown hair tickle his forehead though he pays no mind as he concentrates on his work, hazel hues staring almost intensely at the words he writes. He's only pulled from his concentration when the sound of flapping wings and the caw of a bird reached his ears.

The man sits back in his dark leather chair, sighing heavily as he removes rounded spectacles from his face, eyes look up at the black, silent feathered crow that has suddenly apparated on his desk. "Dust," he greets, voice smooth like velvet. "A long time it's been, old friend. What news do you bring me?" The crow caws once before bowing its head, dark beak pecking at the rolled up piece of paper attached to its foot by thread. The man unties and unrolls the small scroll, not bothering with his glasses to read its printed contents. Though the paper was tangible, it had a slight greenish glow to it and smelled of sulfur, ash, and decay. It said:

"Dear friend, I hope this finds you well. I have summoned Dust, your ever faithful companion, to deliver this to you from beyond the Earthly realm, from the Kingdom of the Dead where my eternal soul continues to remain; I reside at the Eternal Throne, an advisor to the Lord of Bones. From his court, I have heard many things from spirits that have passed through the Tree of Death - words that were once rumor turned truth as I have sought their legitimacy. I bring this news to you, Resurrector of Humanity, for your immediate consideration:

The prophecy of Man has come to pass. Earth's guardian has been found. The radiant legions of Heaven and Hell's demonic armies move through the tears of veil between their realm and Earth's. Summon your brethren, Death, the Horsemen shall ride once more. Find the Guardian of Eden before the angels and demons, lest the apocalypse rises anew.

Your old friend, Crowfather."

His jaw tightened, teeth gritting as he reads the note. When he finished, the chair he sat in scratched against the wooden floor as he stood, quickly gathering a coat nearby as well as a hat. He spoke no word to the avian creature that delivered the letter, yet it seemed to understand as it flew to perch upon his shoulder. The man swiftly exits him home. With the world around him asleep in this dead of night, no one would witness his next actions. With the wave of his hand, a flourish of greenish fire and smoke erupted out of thin air and when it settled, there stood a spectral horse - his beloved steed. "Lead me to her, Dust," he commanded of the crow, who took flight as a response. The man - The Horseman - pulled at his steed's reins and off it began to gallop into the cold, dead night.

[ourpieceoutoftime-blog]

Wolves in the Forest | Closed for Dcsidcrium

@dcsidcrium

Medical school had taken a little bit longer than it had the time before, despite the doctor knowing most of it all already. It almost seemed like, every time she enrolled, they taught more and pushed the students more. But, now she was done. Although going off of that degree she was a new doctor, freshly out of school, Ashy had used different credentials to get her current job. She’d been hired as a new doctor at a clinic, serving as walk-in services and an ER for the small to medium towns around it. None of the towns had a hospital, with the closest being a good half-hour away, so the clinic was where everyone went. 

Apparently, they’d recently had additions put onto the building, making them able to hire more staff. Despite her age making people think she was much younger than she was (more so given she’d told them she’d been working for 8 years already), she’d applied for the job.

Ashy had gotten herself a nice little apartment, right in the middle of the biggest town, over a little ‘Mom & Pop’ flower store. But, with no hospitals around, she’d have to fill up her fridge with blood from local animals in the woods and forests around the towns. Of course, the vampire knew enough to bring more than enough blood packs to last her enough time to settle down, but she’d still need to find a new source of blood. Hence her exploring!

She’d taken to stalking through the forests one by one, getting a feel for them, seeing what animals all lived there. Lots of small animals, some deer here and there. But each was different, of course. Specifically, in one wooded area, Ashy spotted what looked like a wolf! She was far enough away from one of the smaller towns that it made sense, but it had still surprised her, considering she’d previously been tracking deer footprints.

The vampire changed her goal; now she wanted to know where this wolf would take her, and if there were any more wolves! They could be a great source of blood, especially if there was a decent sized pack. She could kill most of them over time but leave enough for them to reproduce, which should hopefully keep her covered until people start to notice her age seemingly staying the same and she has to move away again.

[ginanosakka]

We Meet Again

Masterlist

Preview | Next

Updated!

Summary: You set up a meeting with Katsuki after all these years to tell him your little secret.

“Tch. This is getting old fast, and I’m tired of pretending I care about every little thing you do, you know.” Those red eyes you’d spent months studying and trying to figure out the emotions behind them refused to meet your own, but you could assume that was for his own good. . . “You’re nothing but a spoiled brat, and your old man’s money was nice along with his promises, but I don’t need to owe someone a debt to become number one.”

. . . I mean, what kind of sadist would want to watch someone’s world come crashing down right before their eyes?

You took a sip of your tea as you went over everything you needed to say, the dread that continuously washed over you like waves crashing on the sand becoming a part of your daily life. Six years ago, you wouldn’t have imagined facing him, Katsuki, again after he all but ran out of your life. Still, you owe it to Ryu, who wanted nothing more than to meet his father, to at least try and speak to him.

Getting a hold of Katsuki was hard, he was busy doing hero work day and night. You’ve seen his face on your television on many occasions — it still hurt like the day he left to see his face, but you learned to master your own composure — and it was clear that he made no bluffs about chasing number one. It probably didn’t make it easier that he wanted nothing to do with you, so you resorted to getting to him through Mina, finding it easier to contact her again after all these years out of all of your “old friends”.

She was apprehensive about speaking to you in the beginning, but you explained to her that you had no interest in buying her friendship or time. All you wanted was to have a one on one conversation with Bakugou, tell him what you failed to six years ago and see if he’d like to meet the child he never had. Where you’d go from there? You had no idea, but you’d find a way to make this work as long as Ryu was happy. The thought of someone else so close to the son you birthed and raised on your own certainly made your blood pressure rise, but there was nothing reasonable you could do about it that wouldn’t hurt Ryu.

The bell of the diner door rang as Katsuki walked through the door, red eyes scanning the area until they found yours. You looked up and he felt a sense of nostalgia hit him, remembering how different you used to look in your teenage years compared to now. He remembered you used to wear those ugly fancy threads that your mother would force on you like a Barbie doll, but today you were in a fitting long sleeved black shirt and sweatpants With your h/c tied up and your black sneakers on, it was clear that you weren’t dressing to impress him like he’d assume you would, but you still somehow looked better than ever before.

You met his eyes and gave him a nod of acknowledgement as he walked over and took a seat across from you in the booth, feeling odd to be out and about in everyday clothing since he was so involved with hero work lately. It pissed him off that on his day off he had to meet you, but Mina said that what you had to say was more important than him taking a day off to go to the gym or lounge around his apartment for the whole day. You used to talk too much when you were in high school, and he wasn’t looking forward to that. Everything he remembered about you was negative; from how you talked to how much time you spent on him.

“What is it?” Katsuki asked bluntly, red eyes glaring into your e/c ones not really caring how rude he sounded. He didn’t expect you to have a good reaction to that, but was silently surprised to see that your face barely expressed anything you were feeling.

For some reason he couldn’t understand, that bothered him.

“There’s something I’ve kept you from you after we stopped. . being on speaking terms, and I think it’s past time I tell you.” You said, trying to think of the right words to come out with what you needed to say, but he spoke before you could.

“Look, I don’t know what you didn’t get back then, but I want nothing to do with you. Whatever bribe you have, you can keep it. I knew you were going to pull something like this again,” he snapped.

If his glare could get any colder, it did, and you felt yourself beginning to lose your cool. If you had to deal with his hotheaded, above everyone else, attitude for too long, you were sure you’d be tossing the tea you were clutching tightly on the table into his face. You just had to remember this wasn’t for you, because if it was you’d have just gone to the media and presented this information as a scandal where you were the victim.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Dynamight,” you mockingly said his hero name but your face never showed even an ounce of emotion.

“I was pregnant when you left, and I had the baby.”

You watched his face that went from pissed to blank in seconds, and he stared at you like a statue. You leaned back in the booth and took another sip of your tea, waiting for him to regain brain power and glad that he hadn’t immediately started yelling and causing a scene.

“You’re lying,” was the first words out of his mouth when he came to, but the words were spoken in an apprehensive tone rather than belief.

Reaching into the left pocket of your sweatpants, you pulled out a picture taken on the day of Ryu’s birth with you holding him in the hospital bed that was dated. You slid it across the table towards him so he could see the boy that was growing to be his spitting image, inheriting nothing but your eyes and parts of your personality. Even in that photo he resembled his father, the head full of ashy blonde hair he came out with being the main indicator. It was obvious Katsuki couldn’t deny it either as he stared at the picture, feeling like an entire world had just been opened up to him. . .

And he was angry.

“You kept my kid from me?” He growled, and you raised a perfect brow at him with your arms crossing your chest.

“You wanted nothing to do with me, remember?” You responded smoothly.

He slammed the picture on the table but you didn’t flinch, “because I don’t. You’re still nothing but a spoiled brat that can’t handle getting her way! Is that why you kept him from me? Because I told you the truth?!” He began yelling, the eyes of customers now on the both of you who were beginning to record the interaction.

That familiar searing pain in your heart came back, the same one you felt the day he ripped into you and left you to piece yourself together. It was clear he didn’t see you any differently than what he did six years ago, and after years of becoming someone entirely different it hurt like hell to hear. Though, this time you could see that he was projecting his own insecurities onto you because anyone could tell that you weren’t entirely to blame for him not knowing about Ryu. Maybe if he hadn’t blocked you on everything and pretended like you never existed, he’d have met his child a long time ago.

Katsuki didn’t know what to feel after looking at his own son that he had never met before, but he believed anger was the right reaction to this situation. In his eyes, you selfishly kept him from his kid and left him in the dark until it was convenient for you. He didn’t know whether you actually kept him in the dark, or your father did so no one would know his daughter had a child at a young age. You were always under your father, getting whatever you wanted from and doing whatever he asked like a dog.

“I’m nothing like that anymore.” Those words brought him back from his whirling thoughts, and he was the one who nearly flinched at the chilling way you looked at him. “Maybe instead of assuming things about me, how about you actually ask some questions about who I’ve become, because trust me, everything I have is because I worked hard to get it.”

You slid out of the booth and pulled out the paper with your number written on it, ”here. Text me when you’re ready to think about my son and not yourself, Dynamight.”

Taglist <3 : @fandomgirllover @cloudsgathering @that-bipolar-renegade-romantic @jazzylove @that-chick212 @bonbonthedragon @hawksnugget @misssugarless @insomniac-nerd-posts-things @bakugous-bakahoe @pinkykookie17 @byakuyaswifee @animexholic @arielting @samkysnks @simpforeveryone @saucey-kneecapzz42020 @liznoonz427

[ikkaku-of-heart]

Who Are You?

NAME: Anubis

STAR SIGN: Virgo

HEIGHT: 158cm | 5′2ft

MIDDLE NAME: Leigh.

PUT YOUR SPOTIFY ON SHUFFLE. FIRST 6 SONGS?  (I don’t have a Spotify so we’ll just use my Youtube playlist)

Shadow Play - Poets of the Fall

Interrogation Song - The Muppets Most Wanted OST

Devil’s Backbone - The Civil Wars

Hand that Feeds - Nine Inch Nails

Wake The White Queen -  The Crüxshadows

The Highway Man - Loreena McKennitt

EVER HAD A POEM / SONG WRITTEN ABOUT YOU? Nope and I’m honestly very ok with that lol!

WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU PLAYED AIR GUITAR? Several years ago at least.

WHAT’S A SOUND YOU HATE & A SOUND YOU LOVE? I hate the sound of snoring and to a lesser extent, breathing. A sound I love is the noise the Spyro the Dragon games make when you collect gems.

DO YOU BELIEVE IN GHOSTS? No but I haven’t completely ruled out the possibility that they exist.

HOW ABOUT ALIENS? They exist but probably not the way we like to imagine them and they probably want nothing to do with us.

DO YOU DRIVE? Yup. Took me a while to finally get the courage to learn but I did it.

IF SO, HAVE YOU EVER CRASHED? Thankfully no and I’d like to keep it that way.

WHAT WAS THE LAST BOOK YOU READ? I literally started reading To Kill A Kingdom by Alexandra Christo yesterday. Picked it up on a whim because it was about a siren and I needed inspiration for my fantasy thread with Ashi, but even though I’m not very far into it I’m enjoying it a lot!

DO YOU LIKE THE SMELL OF GASOLINE? Not particularly.

WHAT WAS THE LAST MOVIE YOU SAW? One Piece Stampede.

WHAT’S THE WORST INJURY YOU’VE EVER HAD? Despite having done fencing, karate, and horseback riding at various points in my life, the worst injury I’ve ever had was a bloody nose I got smacking my face into a table during a game of hide and seek.

DO YOU HAVE ANY OBSESSIONS RIGHT NOW? One Piece, Don’t Starve Together, and The Sims 3. 

DO YOU TEND TO HOLD GRUDGES? I try not to. I’m very much for giving second chances and believing people can change, but there are some things I just will not forgive or let go, and at the very least I’ll forgive but I won’t forget if I’ve been genuinely wronged.

IN A RELATIONSHIP? No.

Tagged by @mediicusvitae​

Tagging: @rubidusmagnet​, @goshiikkuburcdo​, @distopea​, @regensia​, and anyone who feels like doing this!

[anthemxix]

whumpay day 22: mind control

hi there hello, may i offer you some hyrule angst in these trying times?

wasn’t able to write on the 22nd but wanted to do this prompt. i’m going to do at least 2 more whumpay prompts, time and technology permitting. (having computer trouble and had to write this on my phone. not ideal, lol.)

warnings: blood, major injury, death

Once he crosses into the next room, Hyrule is instantly on high alert. Sinister magic washes over him, raises goosebumps on his arms as the stone door thuds and squeaky metal bars slot into place behind him.

“It’s about time!” Wind’s exclamation reverberates through the massive, seemingly empty chamber. Grinning manically, he whips out his Phantom Sword. “I’m so sick of puzzle rooms. I’m ready to kick some monster ass.”

Sky sighs, drawing his weapon with much less enthusiasm than the Sailor. “Personally, I was content with the puzzle rooms.”

There are some nods and noises of affirmation, and Wind looks around the group incredulously. “Gods. Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“Left it behind three rooms ago,” Warriors deadpans. “I am very much over this whole ‘dungeon’ thing.”

Ignoring his companions’ frivolities, Legend sidesteps closer to Hyrule. He narrows his eyes, scanning the room, and privately murmurs, “Do you feel that?”

“Yes,” the Traveler says. The chilling magic wriggles and writhes beneath his skin. “I don’t recognize this type of magic. Do you?”

“No...but there is something very dark and very strong here. We need to leave as soon as possible.”

Beaming at Wind, Wild brandishes a rusted blade. “Well, I’m ready for adventure. I bet the Traveler is, too!”

Before Hyrule can answer, Four cuts in, mouth twisting in plain disgust. “Please tell me you’re not fighting with that. That thing is going to break after two hits.”

“Nah, she’s got at least four swings in her!”

“Guys,” Twilight interrupts. He stands braced at the front of the group beside Time; both of their weapons are at the ready. “There’s nothing here. Where is the monster?”

“Something is wrong,” Time states. His somber declaration sobers the others, has everyone bristling and glancing around.

“Listen,” Legend says, drawing everyone’s attention. “I don’t know what it is, or where exactly it’s coming from, but there’s some dangerous magic in here. Traveler senses it, too.”

As if on cue, the foreign magic swells, starts to pall over Hyrule like a burial shroud, and he shudders.

“It’s getting stronger,” he adds.

Stiffly, Legend turns towards him, brow furrowed, adjusting his grip on his sword. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Why?”

The Veteran stares at him a moment, his cautious scowl morphing into open concern. “It’s...concentrating around you. Like it’s magnetized to you or something.”

Hyrule frowns. “Meaning what?”

Legend shakes his head. “I don’t know, but—”

Hyrule doesn’t hear the rest of the sentence because suddenly, the magic isn’t only gathered around him, buffeting him, caressing him. He feels it pierce him, gouging a hole in him and trickling in.

Gasping, he nearly drops his sword as the cold, scratchy magic claws through him, slithers radial along his nerves, creeps down, down, down. It permeates, roots itself. Clings, burr-like, to his capillaries. Hooks into every muscle fiber. Burrows into every bony crevice.

Desperately, he glances at Legend. The Vet’s distressed face is the final thing Hyrule sees before his senses cut out. When the magic cuts them off, whisks him away from tangible reality, and traps him in his mind.

From there, it devours his consciousness.

Parasitical, the magic feeds off his essence, chopping Hyrule into digestible segments. It disassembles him, splits him into pieces, into particles. It divides and dilutes and removes everything that is him, until he is meaningless, and only his body remains, a mere manipulable rind.

He fights. Hyrule wrestles the magic, wrangles for control. He grasps at flimsy, fleeting specks of fragmentary consciousness, catching flashes of off-putting sensory input: a smatter of red, a steely glint, a strangled yell.

Urgency kicks up a notch, and Hyrule scrabbles. Struggles. Fights. He’s not a knight or a hero, but he is a fighter, he tells himself. He survives not with smarts or skills but by obdurate resolve. It’s all he has, all he’s ever had, and all he can hold on to now.

So he fights, and he fights, until, after ages and ages, the magic begins to ebb. Hyrule has a terrible inkling that he held no sway over the magic, that now it siphons away of its own accord, draining out from his pores like his skin is a sieve.

Whatever the impetus, the magic dwindles, and Hyrule, blessedly, feels his senses slowly return, awareness unfurling bit-by-bit like the petals of a blooming flower.

His relief, however, is swiftly marred by dread as he tunes back into the reality around him.

When the sensation of magic retreats once and for all—recedes like tides, shrivels and dissolves—he gazes around the chamber, absorbing the scene.

The aftermath of a battle. Not just a battle, a...a rampage.

Hyrule blinks, dazed, at the carnage. At the impossible amount of blood splashed across the floor and walls and ceiling. At Sky, whose hands are badly burned, with a fist-sized wound on his abdomen gushing. Four kneels next to him, hands visibly shaking as he tries to stitch the hole shut, even as blood falls freely from his own nose and mouth in alarming amounts.

At Twilight blankly gazing at nothing, his left arm dangling by sinewy threads. He holds Wild firmly to his chest with his other arm, and Wild, his back a mess of fresh, peeling burns, wails into his neck.

At Warriors, who has a jagged bit of bone draped with strings of flesh and meat, jutting from one leg. He’s slumped against a wall, and Wind leans on his shoulder, fading in and out of consciousness, a gash on his forehead streaming blood down his face, neck, torso.

And finally, at Legend. His head is in Warriors’ lap, and the Captain feathers his fingers through the pink locks that match the tangle of pink entrails spilling across the stone floor.

Belatedly, dazedly, Hyrule registers that Time is sitting next to him, his armor dented and smudged with ashy burns, blood leaking from one ear. He turns to Hyrule, expressionless, and rasps, “You’re back with us.”

“Back?” Hyrule asks. Time turns away, and Hyrule croaks, “What... What happened?”

Time doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t need to. Hyrule gazes at the blood that stains his own clothes, his hands, his discarded sword, and knows. He doesn’t remember, but he knows, implicitly, that none of this blood is his.

Hyrule feels a scream tripping out of his mouth, and he doesn’t stop it. He screams, and Time glances at him pityingly, and Hyrule wishes, so desperately, that he had never returned to himself at all.

[cats-and-cockatiels]

come to me now (and relive the past)

It is Gran Torino who calls All Might, and it is All Might who tells Aizawa about the Stain Incident.

“I thought you should know,” the Pro Hero tells his coworker. Blood speckles his lips, as it often does in his diminished form, and the taste of electricity is in the air. Rain batters at the windows of the staff lounge, and lightning lances from the boiling clouds, thunder rumbling in contrary reply a few seconds later.

“Thank you,” Aizawa Shouta says. He is staring at All Might without seeing him, his mind spinning, thoughts shattering against each other in haphazard array. He can’t think, can’t concentrate, can’t comprehend what All Might has said—can’t do anything but stare at the wall through All Might’s head, hands clenched into fists in his lap.

“Aizawa,” All Might says, and his voice is stern. “Eraserhead.”

Aizawa blinks—and he feels his Quirk deactivate. He had not even realized he had activated it. All Might offers him a shaky half-grin, then reaches across the table to grip his shoulder. All Might squeezes, and for half a second Aizawa feels reassured.

“I know how you’re feeling,” All Might says. “Trust me. I feel the same way: helpless, anxious, angry.”

Aizawa narrows his eyes at the foremost hero in the world. “Just what does Midoriya mean to you?” he asks. It is a question he has asked before—but All Might has never given him an answer.

He supposes he shouldn’t have expected an answer this time either, Aizawa reasons when All Might stands abruptly, body rippling out into its full, heroic size. All Might smiles, brilliant and blinding, and laughs.

“He is my student!” he exclaims, “just as he is yours.” Then he turns on his heel and strides out of the staff lounge, leaving Aizawa alone with his thoughts.

---

The journey to Hosu takes longer than Aizawa expected. The train reroutes twice, and he is forced to switch trains twice more before he arrives at the Hosu station. When at last he steps onto the platform, however, it is to the smell of smoke still hanging in the air, and to the blare of police whistles and shouts.

He threads his way through the crowd, skirting women holding children, men holding briefcases, children holding stuffed animals to their chests. He is, for once, not dressed in his hero outfit, but in jeans and a plain, grey shirt. His capture weapon, however, is still looped around his neck in the parody of the ever-popular scarf; he hopes no one will recognize it for what it is—though he doubts they will. As an Underground Hero he is rarely, if ever, in the spotlight, and there are very few people who know how to use the kind of capture weapon he utilizes.

With his hands shoved deep into his pockets, a laptop bag slung over one shoulder, his head ducked, and his hair hanging in front of his face, Aizawa hopes that he will blend in with the rest of the crowd—will be nothing more than another citizen aggressively trying to go about his business in the wake of the attack the night before. The subtlety is most likely unnecessary—but Aizawa has not lived as long as he has as an Underground Hero by being careless. He does not know who all is still watching, whether heroes or villains, and he doesn’t want anyone to know he is here.

The city is trashed. Streets are cordoned off every few blocks: red and yellow police tape stretch between orange cones; striped barriers section sidewalks from roads; police officers stand on street corners with whistles, batons, and weapons holstered on their hips. Aizawa sees multiple canine patrols, the dogs on high alert with hackles raised and lips pulled back from fangs, their handlers struggling to keep them under control. They do not, Aizawa supposes, like the scent—or even the memory of the scent—of the nomu.

Buildings are broken, sidewalks are cracked, and char marks litter the concrete and asphalt—Endeavor’s doing, Aizawa assumes. Two of the nomu bodies have already been removed from the public eye, taken to some underground lab deep in the mountains, where they can be dissected and studied—but, Aizawa sees as he walks the city, one has been left where it was embedded in the streets.

He is at the juncture between two residential side streets when he sees the partially dismembered nomu protruding from the ground ten yards away, hidden behind two walls: one of plastic and tape, and one of human flesh. Dogs bark, men shout, and the crack of asphalt smacks through the air with all the alacrity of a gunshot.

Curiosity rises in his chest, choking his lungs and swallowing his heart. It pricks at him, gnaws at him, needles him until his feet move of their own accord toward the dead enemy. A hole has been blasted through its chest, one of its arms has been shredded from its body, and the visible brain is charred black and ashy. It is, quite clearly, dead.

Still, as Aizawa walks towards it, his boots scuffing pebbles and blasted chunks of concrete out of his way, he swears, for just a moment, that he sees the nomu move: a twitch of its fingers, a twitch of its beady eyes, a twitch of its skin.

Adrenaline slams through Aizawa’s body like a knife through flesh, electrifying and enthralling and illuminating. He is moving before he realizes what his body is doing, lunging and reaching for his capture weapon before he can tell himself what he is seeing is not real. The “scarf” comes away in his hands, unspooling around the goggles he always wears around his neck—just in case—and his hair lifts as his Quirk activates.

“Stand back!”

The voice cracks through the adrenaline flooding his blood with fire, through the glass on Aizawa’s eyes, through the fearpanicdesperation pounding in time with his heart. Aizawa sees the wall of police, sees the dogs and the batons and the guns, sees the dead nomu at their feet—and twists his body in on itself, sending himself tucking and rolling onto the ground in a desperate abortion of his attack. He comes up on his knees, one hand propped against the asphalt, his capture weapon falling uselessly to the ground and the red glow leaving his eyes.

“What was that?” he hears one of the police officers mutter, accompanied by an equally confused, “Who is that?”

He straightens, flicking his capture weapon back around his neck, already fishing in his pocket for his wallet.

“My apologies,” he says stiffly, flipping his wallet open and showing the nearest officer his hero’s license. “I thought I saw movement in the nomu.”

The officer’s eyebrows raise. The officer is a young woman, with dark hair and vibrant green eyes that are too bright to be natural. They flick across his license, taking in his hero name—and her eyebrows rise further still.

“Eraserhead,” she says, and it is loud enough for the others to hear her. Aizawa might imagine it, but he thinks, for an instant at least, that a sigh of relief shuffles through the gathered officers.

He hates that the police in a city he has never worked in know his name—hates that anyone knows his name—but after the USJ Incident, he knows his name and face were plastered across every news station for days. It will be years before he will be able to go back undercover as he once could; his face, and his name, are now too well-known in conjunction with UA and the Incident, as he thinks of it still.

Still, though, notoriety may have its perks, he realizes as the officers move aside to allow him closer to the nomu body. It means they do not hinder him, or even speak out when he kneels beside the corpse and reaches out to touch its cold, dead flesh. It means no one questions him, even when his breath quickens in his chest, and his eyes narrow, and his heart pounds, his eyes flickering red, red, red for one heartbeat, then another heartbeat, then another. It means they allow him to leave without demands for answers, or asking him to accompany them to the station.

And if he smells blood in the air, tastes copper in his mouth, and sees the world filtered crimson as he walks away, he says nothing—and neither do they.

----

He eats dinner in a small, out-of-the-way café in a relatively untouched part of the city. He sits alone in the corner, nursing a water with lemon and a cold sandwich, wishing the drink was stronger and the food was warmer. He watches the pedestrians walk past the large windows that fill one full wall of the café, and watches his fellow diners. They are all oblivious—all unaware of the dangers that Aizawa knows lurks in their midst.

The nomu were defeated, yes, and the Hero Killer detained. But the fact that there were three more nomu than Aizawa had thought there were, the fact that the League of Villains was purportedly behind the nomu attack, and that they were also working with Stain all pointed to something very dark and very ominous—even if Aizawa could not put together all of the disparate puzzle pieces just yet.

More than that, though, there was evil in every gathering of humanity. From cutthroats to robbers to worse, Aizawa had seen the darkest dredges of the human soul, and he knew just how far a person could fall—even a seemingly innocent and good-hearted person. There was evil buried in every heart, darkness in every mind. It was only a matter of unlocking it, of watering it, of tending it and letting it grow. Any one of these people could become the next Stain, the next member of the League of Villains, the next one he would have to take down to—

To what? To protect the human race? The notion of good versus evil? The peace of society?

Somehow, none of those things felt particularly right.

Fear, crashing through his chest, echoing between his ribs, sparking against his skull. Anger, threading through his fingertips, igniting in his lungs, pooling in his mouth. Determination, steeling his bones, strengthening his resolve, tearing through his terror.

He could hear his students behind him, 13 hurriedly reassuring them. He could hear the villains below him, laughing raucously and jeering at him, at them, at 13. He could hear the thrum of his own blood in his veins, the breath in his lungs, the beat of his heart in his chest.

He was so, so alive.

Then: pain.

Splinters of bone, and fragments of thought, and droplets of blood. His own voice tearing at his throat as he screamed, screamed, screamed. The taste of copper, of iron, of death in his mouth. The coursing heat of blood, blood, blood on his face, on his arms, in his chest and stomach and mouth.

“You really are so cool, Eraserhead!”

They’re all going to die. They’re all going to die. They’re all going to—

“Sir?”

Aizawa blinks, looks up and to his right, sees the waitress who had been serving him standing at his elbow. She is small, with frizzy, dark hair and dark eyes, a worried frown stamped on her lips and her brow. She is holding the tablet with his check, a stylus in her other hand, her apron an off-white. The air is cold against Aizawa’s skin, the hum of the air conditioning accenting the chatter of the patrons, the clang of pots and pans echoing from the kitchen. The chair is real and solid beneath him, the table’s surface cool under his palm and fingers. The smell of grease and old food and cleaner is stark in his nose, snapping his thoughts away from the artificial smell of recycled air, of long-standing chlorinated water, of man-made mountains.

“Sir,” the waitress says again, then asks, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” says Aizawa. His elbow throbs. His arms twinge. The scar beneath his eye prickles.

“Do I know you?” the waitress asks.

“I doubt it,” Aizawa lies.

“Hm,” says the waitress. Then she shrugs, and offers him the check. “Thanks for coming in,” she says, and then disappears back into the kitchen.

Aizawa pays, then stands and leaves without a glance back. If anyone stares at him—at the scar on his face, at the capture weapon around his neck, at the dark hair that falls into his eyes—he does not care.

At least, that’s what he tells himself.

----

He is halfway to the hotel he chose to stay at while in Hosu when he sees him: a tall, broad-shouldered figure cast in shadow by the flames dripping from shoulders and face. Endeavor walks down the street without glancing to either side, his stride purposeful and his footsteps certain, confident that no one will stop or hinder him while he wears his glare.

Aizawa quickens his pace, pulling abreast of the Spotlight Pro, and then falls into step beside him.

“Hello, Endeavor,” he says casually.

Endeavor stops abruptly, whirling with eyes narrowing. He takes in Aizawa’s face, the scar beneath his eye, the capture weapon looped around his neck.

“Eraserhead,” he growls, folding his arms across his chest. “What are you doing here?”

Aizawa shrugs. “I could ask you the same thing,” he says blithely.

“I am here doing hero work,” Endeavor bites out. “I cannot say the same for you.”

Aizawa squints and cants his head to one side, as if he is considering his next words—as if he is considering the man standing before him. The truth is, he already knows what he is going to say, and where he wants this conversation to go; he only wants the façade of stumbling blindly down a dark alleyway in the middle of the night.

“And why is that, Endeavor?” he asks. “Can the Pro who fought the nomu first not take an interest in their continued existence?”

Endeavor frowns. “You nearly died the time you fought them,” he says pointedly. “I wouldn’t think you’d be so keen on repeating the experience.”

“Ah, but the nomu are dead, are they not?” Aizawa points out. “You killed them all, didn’t you?”

Endeavor hesitates. Aizawa waits.

“What do you know?” Endeavor asks, instead of answering Aizawa’s question.

“Only a little,” Aizawa lies.

“Hm,” says Endeavor. Then, “Walk with me.”

He turns and begins down the street again, heading toward the intersection at the end of the road. Aizawa falls in step beside him, shoving his hands into his pockets. He hopes, futilely he suspects, that no one will notice him in Endeavor’s shadow.

“The nomu attacked unexpectedly,” Endeavor says, “and it seems as if they were in league with the Hero Killer.”

“Hmm,” hums Aizawa. “So is that why you were in Hosu City when the nomu attacked? Because of the Hero Killer?”

Endeavor shoots a look down at Aizawa, who keeps his face blank.

“Yes,” says Endeavor. “I was hunting the Hero Killer.”

“And you found him,” Aizawa says. “According to the paper I read this morning—”

“Yes,” says Endeavor brusquely, cutting him off. “I found him, after disposing of the nomu, and defeated him as well.”

“I see,” says Aizawa thoughtfully. He had not truly expected Endeavor to tell him the truth—not without him revealing that he already knew who had really taken down the Hero Killer. To do so would be dangerous, to both Endeavor and to Aizawa’s students. Still, it answers a question Aizawa had wondered about Todoroki’s father.

“So why are you really here, Eraserhead?” Endeavor asks, when Aizawa makes no move to say anything else, but also makes no move to leave Endeavor’s side.

“I told you,” says Aizawa. “I was curious about the nom—”

“I’m not so sure that’s it,” Endeavor cuts in.

“Oh?” Aizawa asks, the faintest hint of a grin curling his lips. “Then why am I here?”

“You’re here to open old wounds.”

Aizawa raises his eyebrows a fraction of an inch. “What old wounds do you speak of?” he asks.

“That scar on your face, for one,” Endeavor says bluntly. “I would think that the one who nearly died when facing the nomu would be less inclined to rush back to face the instrument of his downfall.”

Aizawa grins properly now. “How can the nomu have been my downfall when I am still standing, and it is not?” he asks.

“How indeed,” Endeavor says. He is silent for one step, two, before saying, “Or perhaps you are here for a completely different reason. Perhaps you are here to check on your students.”

Aizawa misses a step, catches himself, walks on. He had not thought that Endeavor would be so intuitive, and he hopes Endeavor did not see his reaction to his words. If he did, however, Endeavor makes no comment on it, and he does not look at him as they reach the corner of the street and the crosswalk there, and at last come to a halt.

“And why do you think I’d be here for that?” Aizawa asks, lacing his voice with just a drop of derision.

Endeavor finally turns and looks at Aizawa properly once more. His expression is stern, his face half bathed in light cast by his flames, half in shadow cast by the angles of his cheekbones, his brow, his chin.

“You fought 50 villains for your students,” Endeavor says, once more crossing his arms over his chest. “You fought 50 villains for your students, and though you did not win—you did not lose, either. It takes a great deal of fortitude—and a great deal of purpose—to achieve something like that.”

Aizawa smiles bitterly. “It depends on your definition of losing, I suppose.” It is more than he meant to betray, though he does not think Endeavor will realize what he has just said. Not, at least, the full implications of it.

“You are still standing,” Endeavor says, echoing what Aizawa had said but a moment before, “and they are not.”

“That’s true,” Aizawa says. He turns, cants his head to one side, looks Endeavor in the eye. “What do you want, Endeavor?”

“I want you to stay away from my son,” Endeavor says.

Aizawa smiles, bitter and broad, and asks, “And how am I supposed to do that, Endeavor? He is in my class, after all.”

“You know what I mean,” Endeavor growls.

“No,” Aizawa replies with a sharp edge of steel at the corners of the word. “I don’t.” He pauses for just a second, a breath, a heartbeat, and then he asks, dangerously soft, “Are you threatening me, Todoroki?”

Endeavor looks as though he’s been slapped in the face with an old dueling glove. “How dare you—” he starts to say, only for Aizawa to activate his quirk. Endeavor’s flames vanish from his face, leaving him looking suddenly pale and small. He twitches, takes half a step back as if Aizawa had slapped him again, looks around at the small group of onlookers that has gathered since they began their conversation.

“I don’t take well or kindly to threats,” Aizawa says softly, eyes glaring red. “Especially when they are threats that involve my students.”

Endeavor glares in return, takes a step back forward. “And what are you to your students?” he sneers, pitching his voice low. “Their father?”

Aizawa blinks and turns away. Endeavor’s fires flicker back into existence.

“I’m their homeroom teacher,” Aizawa says simply. He hesitates, then turns back to Endeavor and says with a carefully controlled smile, “And I daresay that’s a little more than what you can say.”

With that, he strides away, pushing his way through the gathering of onlookers. They give way before him, startled and almost-afraid—almost-afraid of the man who could silence Endeavor, the Number 2 Hero; almost-afraid of the man who could extinguish Endeavor’s flames. Their eyes follow him, and their shoulders turn to face him, as he threads his way through the crowd. He ducks his head as phone cameras click, and he wonders if he did the right thing by challenging Endeavor out in the open as he did.

Too late for regrets now, he thinks, and tucking his hands into his pockets, he leaves the crowd behind.

----

Aizawa spends the night in a run-down hotel in the middle of the city, some two blocks away from Hosu’s hospital. He doesn’t touch the lumpy bed, instead electing to sit at the pitted and stained table with his laptop, which glows blue against the darkness permeating the room. Aizawa leaves the lights off, but a sharp, yellow glow sneaks in through the cracks in the curtains, lining the thinly carpeted floor with footprints of light. The chair is squeaky and flat and even more uncomfortable than he assumes the bed would be, but Aizawa ignores the discomfort, instead slumping over the table with his chin resting on his folded hands, his elbows splayed out, his mouth flattened into a thin line.

He reads article after article about the Stain Incident, but none of them line up with what Aizawa knows to be the truth. Each paints a different picture—of Endeavor the hero, of Endeavor the villain—but few of them mention the students involved, and none of them, of course, give the students the credit for Stain’s capture. By the time the glow of a grey sunrise begins to creep through the yellow footprints on the floor, Aizawa’s eyes are gritty and tired, and all he wants is to lay down and go to sleep.

He doesn’t. Instead, he closes his laptop, packs it away, changes his shirt and loops his capture scarf around his neck, and leaves the room, locking it behind him.

Aizawa walks the two blocks to the hospital through a fine, misty rain, shoulders slouched and hair dripping. He walks in through the sliding double doors, hands shoved deep into his pockets, and meanders his way up to the main desk situated on the far end of the main foyer.

“Hi there,” the nearest woman behind the desk says, looking up at Aizawa. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m here to get some information on a few of your patients,” Aizawa says.

The woman frowns. “I’m sorry, sir,” she says, sounding put out, “but I’m afraid I can’t give any patient information to you, unless you are a direct relative or have jurisdictional relevance, such as being a pro hero involved in an on-going investigation.”

Aizawa looks at her, then says, “Lucky for me, I am a pro hero, and this has to do with my jurisdiction.” He pulls his wallet out of his pocket, flips it open, and shows the woman his hero license. “I’m running a tangential investigation into the Stain Incident, and I would like information on the three students who encountered him.”

“Ah,” says the woman, and after inspecting his hero license for a few seconds, nods and turns toward her computer. She taps on her keyboard for a few seconds, then says, “What information do you need?”

“What injuries did they sustain?”

“I don’t have access to that information.”

“Then get me someone who does.”

The woman sighs, taps on her keyboard for another few seconds, then she looks up at Aizawa and says, “I’ll have a nurse come and speak with you. If you’d like to take a seat in the waiting room, they’ll be out shortly.”

Aizawa turns and slouches over to the waiting chairs and takes a seat. He folds his hands in his lap and leans back against the back of the hard-cushioned chair, eyes half-closed and half-hidden behind his hair. He thinks while he waits—thinks of Todoroki, of Iida, of Midoriya. He thinks of revenge, and of pain begat by losing someone loved, and of the wrath and fury birthed by heartache. He thinks of Ingenium, and of a boy named Loud Cloud, and of his three students facing an unspeakable evil in a dark alley, alone.

The door into the back of the hospital opens, and a nurse walks out, looks around, calls, “Eraserhead?”

Aizawa stands and makes his way over to her, hands once more shoved into his pockets. She looks him up and down, then turns and leads the way out of the waiting room.

She takes him to a small office off of the main hallway, and gestures for Aizawa to sit in one of the small, plastic chairs situated across from the desk. He does so, and she brings up the computer sitting on the desk, accessing a set of files in the database.

“Their injuries were relatively minor, all things considered,” she says. “The worst was Iida Tenya, who suffered reparable nerve damage in his hands.”

A shot of ice arcs down Aizawa’s spine. “Nerve damage?” he asks.

“Yes,” says the nurse. She peers at him over the keyboard, then repeats, “It is reparable.”

Aizawa nods, and asks only, “What of Todoroki and Midoriya.”

The nurse tells him about their other, more minor injuries, Aizawa listening intently, and then asks if Aizawa has any other questions.

“What room are they in?” Aizawa asks.

“Room 213,” the nurse says, and closes her files.

“Thanks,” Aizawa says, and stands.

He slouches out of the office, hands once more in his pockets, feeling the nurse’s eyes on his back. He knows what she’s thinking—or, at least, what she’s likely thinking: surprise that he, of all people, is a pro hero, along with wariness and uncertainty about whether or not she just broke any laws by giving him the information she had. Lucky for her he was a pro hero—and one who was used to skirting around the edges of proprietary law, and thus knew what he could and couldn’t get away with.

Aizawa takes the elevator up to the second floor, then counts the doors on his way down the hallway. He reaches 213, and there he hesitates, waits, stops dead still, one hand half-raised as if to reach for the handle.

They don’t want you, a quiet, snide voice whispers in his mind. If they’d wanted you, they would have asked for you, not left it to All Might to tell you what truly happened.

Aizawa’s hand drops to his side.

The door cracks open.

Aizawa spins and turns on his heel, strides away from room 213. He hears footsteps shuffle out of the room behind him, hears a confused exclamation, hears someone call out after him, “Hello? Did you want something?” It is Todoroki.

Aizawa keeps walking, and hopes he is far enough away already that Todoroki does not recognize his capture scarf.

----

“Who was that?” Midoriya asks as Todoroki reenters the room, looking perplexed. His brow is furrowed, his lips flattened into a thin line.

“I don’t know,” Todoroki says. He hesitates, considering, then says, “But it looked like Mr. Aizawa.”

“Mr. Aizawa?” Iida repeats.

Todoroki nods.

Iida looks thoughtful.

“Why didn’t he come in?” Midoriya wonders. “Is he angry with us for going up against Stain ourselves? But if he was, wouldn’t he have come in to lecture us? Then again, perhaps he is waiting until we are back at school to give us the lecture—”

“Why would he care?” Todoroki asks, cutting Midoriya’s rambling off. “I mean, sure, he’s our teacher, but would he really come all the way out to Hosu City for us?”

“He did fight 50 villains for us,” Iida points out softly.

That kills the conversation. It is hard for any of them to talk about the USJ Incident, even now.

Finally, though, Midoriya says, “We could always ask him when we get back.”

“If he had a reason for not coming into the room—which I assume he does, because he never does anything without having a reason,” Iida says, “then he won’t tell us the truth.”

“How can you be certain?” Midoriya asks.

Iida smiles, but it is not a happy expression. “I know Mr. Aizawa,” he says.

“Don’t we all?” Todoroki asks.

But Iida shakes his head. “I’ve known him since I was a kid,” he admits to them softly.

“What?” Midoriya asks, shocked. “You mean to say—”

“My brother, Tensei, is good friends with him,” Iida confesses.

“Oh,” says Todoroki.

“Yeah,” says Iida. He shrugs then, and settles his shaking hands into his lap. “I’m not surprised he didn’t come in,” he says, but no matter how hard the other two press him, Iida refuses to explain his statement.

----

Aizawa walks back to his hotel room lost in thought and half-lost in direction.

I wasn’t there for them, he thinks. They needed me, and I wasn’t there.

He hates Stain, he realizes. Hates Stain, and hates the nomu, and hates the League of Villains.

Most of all, though, he hates himself.

I wasn’t there. He grimaces. Even if I had been, though, would I have made a difference?

He thinks of air chlorinated with standing water, thinks of recycled air, thinks of man-made mountains and man-made flames. He remembers the sound and feel of bones shattering in his arms, remembers the taste of blood in his mouth, remembers the crunch of his face impacting concrete not once, not twice, but three times.

What had he done then, but almost die in front of Midoriya, Asui, and Mineta? Nothing. He had accomplished nothing but traumatizing the very students he’d tried so hard to protect.

What good was he, then, if he couldn’t even protect his students from the villains they weren’t yet ready to face? What was he, but a failure?

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

He reaches the hotel, climbs the stairs to his room, unlocks his door and steps inside. He looks at the bed. Turns away.

Instead, he goes to the bathroom, turns the shower on. He waits for the water to heat up to unbearably hot, then sheds his clothes like a second skin and steps under the spray. He lets the scalding water wash over his body, lets it burn his self-loathing into his bones with ribbons of red skin. He washes his hair with hotel shampoo—just another way of hating himself—and scrubs his arms and legs and torso until his skin stings from the abrasive washcloth.

He finishes, steps out of the shower, towels himself dry. He brushes his hair, uses the blow-dryer, changes into fresh clothes.

He has one more thing to do in Hosu, and then he can go home.

----

“He’s asleep, but you can come in.”

Aizawa steps into the sterile hospital room after the nurse, who closes the door behind him. She hovers close by as Aizawa pulls a chair up to Iida Tensei’s bedside, then turns and leaves after he sits.

Aizawa settles his masked face in his hands and, for a long time, simply sits there, head buried and eyes closed. Finally, though, he lifts his head and looks at Tensei, still asleep, and says, “You’d be proud of him, Tensei. Angry, probably, but proud.”

He sighs, settles back into his uncomfortable chair, and stares at Tensei. “I don’t even know if you’re going to be given the true story,” he admits softly. “But I hope they do tell you the truth. Even I wasn’t supposed to know, but thankfully All Might ignores rules as often as he ignores his own health, which is to say “he doesn’t care about them at all”.

“He did it, though, Tensei—him and two of his classmates. They avenged you. And I can’t say I’m glad about that, but God, I wish I’d been able to avenge Oboro. I wish there’d been some way for me to avenge him—some way to put the past in the past, and move on. I hope—I hope Tenya was able to do that with this. I hope…” He takes a deep breath, and shakes his head. “And now I’m rambling,” he curses softly.

Tensei stirs, opens his eyes. He turns his head, looks at Aizawa, and crooks a small smile. Aizawa can see it in his eyes.

“Shouta,” Tensei rasps. “So you did come to see me.”

“Hizashi and Nemuri send their love,” Aizawa says. “They’re sorry they can’t get away to come see you themselves. My kids are currently in the middle of internships, so I had some free time.”

“Right,” Tensei says. “How—how’s Tenya?”

Aizawa sighs. “He’s gonna be okay,” he tells Tensei.

“Going to be?” Tensei asks. He looks away. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. I didn’t—”

“No one did,” Aizawa says, cutting him off. “No one blames you either, Tensei.”

“Except me,” Tensei admits bitterly, softly.

Aizawa sighs again. “Except you,” he accedes. “You’re going to have to let this go someday, though,” he says.

“I passed my name on to Tenya,” Tensei says, instead of answering Aizawa’s statement. “I wanted him to be Ingenium.”

Aizawa grimaces, the pieces slotting into place. “I guess that makes more sense now,” he says aloud.

“What?” Tensei asks with a frown.

“Nothing,” Aizawa says with a flap of his hand.

“What?” Tensei asks again.

“They chose their hero names last week,” Aizawa says dismissively. “I was half-asleep for most of it.”

Tensei rolls his eyes. “Right,” he scoffs. He knows better than to think that Aizawa is anything but constantly aware of what is going on around him, no matter if he is feigning sleep or actually asleep. He hesitates then, and then asks, “Is everything okay, Shouta?”

“Yeah,” says Aizawa. “Why?”

Tensei looks at him suspiciously. “I’ve known you a long time,” he says. “I think I know when something is bothering you.”

“Reparable nerve damage.”

“I’m fine,” Aizawa says.

Tensei shakes his head against his pillow. “Look,” he says, and he sounds both tired and weak. “Whenever you say that, you aren’t fine.”

Aizawa rolls his eyes. “This isn’t about me,” he almost snaps. “I came to visit you, who is the one in the hospital for serious injuries.”

Tensei snorts. “Don’t tell me you’re about to start pitying me too.”

“Pity?” Aizawa asks. “When have you known me to ever pity anyone?”

“Fair point,” Tensei replies. “I’m just…tired.”

Aizawa thinks of bandages swathing his body from head to waist, thinks of casts around his arms, things of stitches beneath his eye. “I know,” he says, and the almost-teasing lilt is gone from his voice, leaving it heavy and dry. “It gets better.”

Tensei looks at him, sees the grim knowledge in his eyes and in the cant of his lips. He smiles. “Thanks.”

“Sure,” Aizawa says. “Now get some rest. You need your strength.” He stands, and Tensei settles back against his pillows. “I’ll see you later,” Aizawa says, and with that, he leaves the hospital room, and his friend lying in the bed behind him.

----

“Did you get what you were looking for?” Hizashi asks him.

They are sitting at dinner in some fancy restaurant that his friend had wanted to try, cocktails at their elbows and seafood pasta in front of them. Aizawa picks at his noodles, swirling them around the bowl through the sauce, and tries not to think too hard.

“Yes,” he lies.

Hizashi laughs. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“No, I’m not,” Aizawa retorts.

“You are to me,” Hizashi says.

Aizawa rolls his eyes.

Hizashi is quiet for a moment, then he asks, “How’s Tensei?”

“He’s fine,” Aizawa grunts.

Hizashi sighs. “What aren’t you telling me?” he asks.

“Nothing,” Aizawa lies again.

Hizashi puts his fork and spoon down, leans forward over his plate. “You can’t keep holding this in forever,” he tells Aizawa.

“What’s that?”’

“Everything,” Hizashi says, waving a hand through the air to punctuate his point.

“Illuminating,” Aizawa grumbles.

Hizashi smiles. “I know,” he says, and sits back in his chair. “My point stands, though.”

Aizawa shakes his head. “I can,” he says.

“No—”

“Then I will.”

“That’s not how it works,” Hizashi points out.

“It is if I try hard enough.”

Hizashi sighs again, picks up his fork and stabs at his pasta. “Whenever you’re ready to face your problems,” he says, lifting a bite of food toward his mouth, “I’ll be there.”

They finish the rest of the meal in silence.

[astraeagreengrass]

exile [the woods part 1]

When you wake up in the floor of your apartment, you have no idea of how much the world has changed

Word Count: 2.708

Warnings: angst, mentions of death and death-related themes, PTSD, brief allusion to a panic attack.

A/N: A month ago, Taylor Swift released her eight studio album folklore and, unsurprisingly, it took over my life. The stories Taylor beautifully narrates in her songs inspired me to write something of my own: the woods is a four-part, post-Endgame story, with some slight changes to the canon, featuring Steve Rogers. Updates will be every Friday. Thank you to @xbuchananbarnes for proof-reading this and @thegetawaywriter for encouraging me to write. The banner picture was found here. Dividers are from @writeyourmindaway. Here is exile. I hope you like it ♡

i think i've seen this film before and i didn't like the ending you're not my homeland anymore so what am i defending now? you were my town, now i'm in exile, seein' you out i think i've seen this film before so i'm leavin' out the side door

Being pieced back together was like a hangover.

Like drinking too much wine one evening and then waking up on a foreign bed, not knowing how you got there. It was a pounding headache, a churning stomach, a dry throat. The back of your teeth were sensitive and the sound of sirens rung too loudly on your ears.

In the aftermath of your intoxication, the city is deafening.

You groaned at the light - you must’ve been so wasted if you’d forgotten the blinds. Every breath took a toll of your lungs, stretching your muscles beyond their strength, creaking your joints as you exhaled.

Someone gasped, startling you.

The familiar floorboards of your apartment greeted you when your eyes opened. Timeworn almond timber, the New York staple. Craning your neck, you saw a foot. Shit. You weren't one to bring one night stands home, or actually have them in the first place. Little ol' you was a little too square, a little too cautious, struggling to keep her trust issues from spilling out of her hands. Definitely not the best candidate for loose-stringed affairs, but your grandma always told you there was a first time for everything.

The foot’s owner nudged you, and you groaned again.

“Miss?” they said. “Are you alive?”

I don’t know.

Your gaze focused and you noticed the person was a boy of eleven or twelve, with a beautiful dark mop of curls and soft brown eyes. What the...

“Who are you?” you managed to croak. There was an ashy taste in your mouth, as if you’d swallowed dust.

The boy looked up and across, and you noticed that, on your left side, his father was crouching beside your body. He looked just like the kid, except a couple of decades older, so you assumed he was the father.

“My name is Cal,” the man said, spacely, as if he’d might frighten you if he spoke normally. “This is my son Daniel. We’re not going to hurt you.”

"Nice to know the invaders won't hurt me," you tried to say, but it came out a jumbled, messy current of words, like a baby first learning to communicate.

"Invaders?" the boy exclaimed, insulted. "We live here!"

"Daniel!" his father chided. "Miss, what is the last thing you remember?"

You pressed a palm to the ground, trying to lay your weight on it so you could stand up. You weren't about to answer an unknown man's questions while laying face-down on your own apartment floor. You might be hungover, but you had more dignity than that. When your body crumpled like a twig under a boot, Cal held you up, helping you to a seating position facing the window.

Craning your neck to shield your eyes from the sun, you noticed it.

Golden brown leaves.

Golden brown leaves that shouldn't exist in May.

You clearly remember opening the windows yesterday to green, lively foliage. New York was many things - loud, chaotic, more often than not dangerous - but it’s seasons were consistent, enduring. Through the tempests and disturbances, nature persevered in her year-long cycle, living and dying and living again.

These particular leaves belonged to October, perhaps even early November, never May.

Something was terribly wrong.

“What day is it?” you whispered, wide eyes going from the window to the man aiding you.

Cal grimaced. His boy was suddenly very quiet.

When you were a child, you used to have nightmares: a ghost in the attic, a wolf haunting the woods outside your house, an IED blowing up your father's convoy in Iraq. They'd trap your consciousness, suffocating your mind with fear and panic, and no night light or teddy bear could stifle the onslaught of relentless screams that rattled the walls and hallways of your childhood home, until your frantic grandmother shook you awake. The reality that greeted you on the floor of your apartment was that Twilight Zone all over again.

“Please,” you pleaded, perhaps to the man, perhaps to yourself.

Cal sighed.

“Today is October 17th, 2023,” he said and you learned that the only thing scarier than a nightmare is life itself. “You’ve been dead for the past five years.”

“We could go to the house in the woods,” you mumbled to the warmth of Steve’s chest.

He tightened his hold around your body, pressing a feather-light kiss to the crown of your head.

“Whatever you want,” he said. “You’ve got me for the weekend.”

“The whole weekend?” you smiled at him, finding the reassurance you needed in his indigo gaze.

Steve kissed you again, a fierce press of lips this time. Mouths and tongues and teeth intertwined, your hand finding hip, his hand finding you thigh.

“The whole weekend,” he breathed in the shell of your ear, right before the two of you became nothing more than a mess of pillows and sheets, drowning in love and want and lust. “And then forever.”

When the world ended, several hospital units closed down due to lack of patients.

When the Avengers managed to reverse the effects of the Snap - no one knew how they did it, but everyone knew it was them because of course it was - the mayor of New York declared the interruption of all kinds of activities in the city in order to help those returning. It was in a campaign hospital in Bryant Park that Steve Rogers found you, sitting up cross-legged and wrapped up in a grey blanket, having your temperature checked by one of the volunteers.

Wearing dark clothes and a cap, Steve was nothing more than a shadow behind the woman's shoulder. A lesser-trained gaze would glide past his figure in a quarter of a second, but not you. Never you. You'd recognize him in a sea of people, as if the blood that sustained you and the bones that built you knew exactly where to find him.

Steve had the decency to wait until the woman was done to approach you. With slow, clearly measured steps, he came closer, taking a seat at the foot of your stretcher. If he reached out his arm, he'd touch you, but he refrained and you were glad he did. In your mind, you saw him days ago, but reality told you differently. The calendar at the nurse's station, the newspaper you got a hold on, the constant broadcast of news: all of them mocked you, tormented you. Five years had gone by - more time than you’d ever had with the man across from you. And if there was ever any lingering doubt in your mind that this was some elaborate trick to fool you, they faded when you noticed the modest signs of aging that nothing but time and grief could inflict on a Super Soldier.

Again, a lesser-trained gaze probably wouldn’t catch them, but that would never be you when it came to Steve Rogers.

The two of you stayed in silence for minutes, watching a CNN report of a family reuniting in Idaho. The mother snapped right after the birth of her daughter - now a little girl with ginger pigtails, hugging her legs and kissing her hands. Everyday since you woke up on the floor of your apartment, there'd been thousands of stories such as this: parents finding children, husbands finding wives. The fallen - that's what the press called people like you, the dead that weren't really dead - all had the same lost look in their eyes. You supposed that's what happened when your clock was five years too late.

“What happened?” you finally asked when the broadcast changed to twin brothers reconvening in Hawaii. “What went wrong?”

Steve didn’t look at you, instead he kept pulling at a loose thread on the hem of his shirt.

“He was too strong,” he sighed. “And I thought I could fight him without Tony, but…”

You nodded.

“One of the nurses said he was badly wounded in the battle upstate,” you mentioned.

“Yeah,” Steve agreed. “But he’ll recover. Banner is looking after him. He’s got a kid now, you know? Tony. Her name’s Morgan.”

“Wow,” you smiled genuinely. “That sounds unbelievable and incredible at the same time.

“She’s a good girl,” Steve said. “Keeps Tony on his toes.”

On the TV, the two brothers embraced with a beautiful sunset as background.

“What about Sam and Nat?” you wondered.

Steve's fidgety hands stilled. With the left one he rubbed his mouth and chin until his skin was reddish.

"Sam was like you," he muttered and the implicit words hurt more in his voice than anyone else's. "Natasha… She didn't make it."

She didn't make it.

Natasha Romanoff. Natalia. Your mentor, your friend. The strongest woman you'd ever met. She didn't make it.

"What?" you gasped. "What do you mean 'she didn't make it'? Didn't she come back?"

Like Sam and the mother in Idaho and the twins in Hawaii. Like you.

Steve shook his head.

"It wasn't like that," he said. "She survived the Snap. Spent years trying to find something, anything, even the smallest possibility of getting everyone back and when we finally did… She sacrificed herself so we could have the Soul Stone."

"Sacrificed herself? For a stone?" you were extremely agitated now, the grey blanked falling from your shoulders as you looked at Steve searching for any sign of emotion. "Steven, look at me!"

 His eyes were glazed, a big blue sea threatening to spill over in waves of sadness.

"It wasn't a simple stone, Y/N. I'd rather not explain to you here, people can't know about this," he whispered, looking over his shoulder for anyone that could be listening.

"You mean they can't know why they disappeared and were brought back together like broken toys?" you exclaimed. "Toys that the Avengers can grab and then toss aside however they please? I'm not your toy, Steve!"

You knew you could be cruel. Ruthless. A child yelling ferociously at the top of her lungs until she got what she wanted. An angry teenager. An intelligence officer with obscure morals. But even when he left you without a goodbye, you'd always kept your forked tongue away from Steve Rogers.

Until now.

"Please," Steve pleaded. "Let's go home. I'll explain everything to you when we get there."

"I have no home," you spat. "I had a home three days ago when you came in saying something bad would happen, only to leave me again. Now I have nothing!”

Your tears were hot when they streamed down your face.

“I don't even know myself anymore,” you admitted and somehow that was worse than knowing you were alone in a world you didn't recognize. "All I know is dust. My bones were dust and now they're not. My heart was dust and now it's not. Everyone keeps telling me that I'm safe and that 'it's all over', but what is?"

You gasped, trying to breathe in some tranquility and breathe out some of the agony twisting your insides, but all that came out was a distressing wheeze.

"How do I know that I will not disappear again?" you cried and there was no more Steve, just a curtain of water contorting his figure, like one of those paintings he loved and you never understood the meaning.

The stretcher creaked when Steve pulled you to him, rubbing your arms back as he whispered your name.

"Breathe, Y/N. Breathe."

But you were so scared of breathing. So scared that you'd taste ash again and your lungs would collapse in dust, leaving not a shred of the person you were for people to remember you by. So scared of losing a game you didn't even know you were playing.

"Steve..." You weeped, gripping his shirt tightly.

"I'm here, my love. Just breathe."

You weren't expecting him.

After two years, the hope that kept you up at night waiting for him grew tired, dwindling until it was mere utopia. So you shut the windows, changed the locks and turned off the bedside lamp. Perhaps that's what brought him to your door, you thought. Maybe, wherever he was in the world, he felt your devotion waning, so he returned to haunt you.

You had to admit, though, that of all the ways you imagined Steve Rogers coming back to you, him ringing your doorbell at midnight wasn't one of them.

He looked handsome, with shaggy blonde hair curling at his ears and a beard, and it hurt like a punch to the stomach.

It's hard when the one that hurts the most you looks so unfazed, meanwhile you're just a shell of what you used to be.

"You've lost weight," was the first thing he said, as if he'd left to grab groceries instead of becoming an international criminal.

"What are you doing here?" you replied, ignoring his greeting. If that could even be a greeting.

He sighed, mentioning with his head to the hallway behind you.

“Can I come in?”

You stepped aside, letting him walk through. You didn’t bother turning the key because if anyone really wanted to get to him they wouldn’t be worried about leaving your door in one piece. Steve stood in the middle of the living room, his hands on his waist. An onlooker would never guess that he once belonged there.

“Did you hear about Tony?” He asked when you sat down at the armchair next to the window. The one you bought together in Ikea and Steve insisted he could assemble on his own.

“Yes,” you said. Tony Stark went missing after an alien ship appeared in Midtown. It was exactly the kind of disaster that would bring Steve Rogers to New York. “Have you found him?”

“No,” he replied. “But the same aliens that took Tony attacked Vision in Edinburgh. We managed to stop them from killing him, but he’s badly wounded. When he heard about Tony we flew to the Compound.”

You nodded. It was strange how you could feel so detached from these people- Vision, Wanda, even Tony in a way. They were once your friends, your colleagues. Now they just felt like characters in Steve’s tale - no longer part of your life, only his.

“And why are you here?” you asked.

Why did you come to the home we used to share? you meant to say. Did you miss it? Did you miss me?

He shrugged.

“I thought maybe you could’ve found something on Tony and…”

“If you went to the compound it means you saw Rhodey and Rhodey has most definitely told you that I quit my job when the Avengers split,” you interrupted him. “I have no tech, no machinery, no means whatsoever to find Tony here, nothing that Rhodey has at his disposal Upstate. So why are you really here?”

He was a stranger. Cold and detached, like the house that once trapped him. There was no tenderness in the blue of his eyes.

“Something bad is coming, Y/N,” he said. “I’m not sure what it is yet, but I… I wanted to see you. I wanted to know that you were safe.”

You thought Steve Rogers was done breaking your heart. You thought that when you stopped expecting his return you’d go back to who you were before him, even if you couldn’t find that girl amongst the mess he made of you. You thought you’d be safe from love, and trust and kind soldiers with blue eyes, but you’d never be safe from him - your fellow and your foe.

“Is that all you wanted to say?” you croaked, holding back the tears swimming in your throat with a cough.

Steve fisted his hands, and for a moment you swore that he was stopping himself from holding you. But he just hung his head, tearing his gaze from where you were sitting by the window.

“Just stay home, ok?” he stated. “Try not to leave the house until this situation is resolved.”

Then he turned around and left again.

[vaire-gwir]

Some Cat and Wolf fanfic I had in mind pt.5

oh look, another chapter no one asked for! For some reason this story looks like a collection of one shot poorly glued together, but technically (”if you have to use the word technically you’re already in trouble” Cit.) I know where I’m going. 

I kept hinting at a very specific scar I think Aiden has, so here’s the story of that scar. Awkward love confession ensues. 

All my love to everyone that reads this mess, please let me know what you think! <3

***

They were hunting a wyvern, somewhere outside Sodden. 700 crowns had been promised for the head of the beast. Well,  just the poison, to be honest, but the point was that the creature had to die.  It was their last job before heading north and eventually parting for winter.

They'll never get that far.

Killing any wyvern-like monster is complicated business, those fuckers are huge and sharp just about everywhere, not to mention poisonous. When they manage to dispose of the creature without any severe accident it doesn't feel right for some reason, call it Witcher senses or however you want, but things don't add up. Lambert can still hear Aiden's voice telling him that it's too many corpses for just one beast.

He grits his teeth when he hears a growl immediately followed by the sound of rustling trees and claws scraping on stone. He looks to his left at the Cat exploring the northern side of the cave and Aiden is staring right back at him, he gracefully waves a hand in the general direction of the sound and put on his best I Told You So attitude: there will be snarky remarks about this later but he kindly spares him the comments, for now.

Suddenly, there's nothing graceful about the way he tumbles to the ground, red seeping through the blue and black of his armor like sand in a child's hand. He's running to Aiden's side in a heartbeat, that's all it takes for panic to fill his system like the stench of blood fills his senses. He sees the armor pierced where the tail of the beast tore through the plates and they both know that whatever can dig through metal like that can also do an awful lot of damage to the flesh and bones underneath. Lambert already knows that something is very wrong.

He falls to the ground next to his Cat and he desperately clutches his body, catching the sweetly sick trace of poison still lingering in the air: one look at the wound is enough for his fear to spike and eat him up whole. It's too much blood even for a Witcher.

"Aiden?" Lambert's voice is shaking like his hands as he brushes a few locks of damp curls out of his lover's forehead, feeling the familiar beating sound of his heart growing even slower than usual.

Aiden blinks a couple of times, pain coursing through his entire body and stealing his breath away as he tries to speak. "That...ugly, uh?" Lambert can barely hear his whisper above the noise of the beast outside, the growling so loud it almost rivals the thumping of his own frightened heart echoing in his ears. He reaches for a vial of White Honey while he keeps an eye on the pale form in his arms.

"Just...drink this, alright? I'll...I'll fix this, I can fix this, just...hang on for me,  okay?" He supports Aiden up while he helps him drink the potion, helplessness and desperation washing over him in dark waves as all he can do is stare at the blood staining his clothes and dripping to the floor. Lambert tightens his grip on the Cat's shoulders as if holding him was his only way to keep him whole, to not let him slip away from him.

He can see it on Aiden's face that it hurts to breathe, his eyes are clouded and unfocused and he feels as if a cold hand was squeezing his own heart in an iron grip. 

"Lambert, you don't have to..."  His whole body tenses up, green eyes go wide for a second before fluttering close against the rising pain and shock of the poison.

"Aiden?" He tentatively calls him again but there's no answer this time. Witchers may be strong and powerful, but so is the wyvern's poison, and not many live to tell the tale. An unfamiliar ache climbs inside him and he tries to blink burning tears away from his eyes as he carefully lays Aiden back down.

Lambert can hear the monster above them digging his sharp talons in the stone on the side of the mountain, and his senses are telling him to focus, to move, to prepare for the fight, but all he can do is stare at Aiden's pale complexion, too grey and ashy even for a witcher. There's a part of his mind spiraling into fear and shutting down cause Aiden could die, Aiden is wounded and he doesn't know how to fix it, he doesn't know how to help him, and why I never know how to fix anything?

He tentatively takes another look at the wound, moving the damaged pieces of the armor aside, exposing the torn blue fabric and skin underneath. The potion is reducing the blood flow but it's a slow process with a gash that deep. The broken sound of pain Aiden makes is like a punch in his guts and the only thing he has to offer in consolation is a pathetic string of whispered "I'm sorry"s.  

Lambert digs through his own pack in search of clean bandages to wrap around Aiden's chest while the noise around them grows with every passing second. If the growling and screeching of the beast is any indication, it must be massive. And they unintentionally made it furious because they killed its mate. 

Lambert is frantically looking around searching for shelter but he knows there's nowhere to hide in the cavern. The cave is bare except for the opening on the north, where the sharp tail came lashing out before. Going outside is out of the question, Aiden already lost too much blood and he doesn't dare to move him, but they're too exposed here.

The dark tail of the wyvern whipping out again distracts him from his panic and it's enough for him to focus on the task ahead. His only chance of saving Aiden is keeping this thing out of the cave. He is willing to make peace with the fact that this is where he dies, in a godsforsaken corner of the world where his life is worth exactly 700 crowns, but he's not ready to resign Aiden to the same fate.

Lambert cuts the rest of the blue shirt open and securely ties the bandages over the wound. Their packs are well within Aiden's reach, pouch with their potions already open for when he wakes up, if he wakes up, there should be enough White Honey for him to at least drag himself back to their horses and into town. It's a plan, it's a shitty plan, but it's his best chance at keeping the man he loves alive. It will have to be enough.

***

There's a deep ache in his bones and his left side is scraped and bruised but he wastes no time thinking about it. It was a sloppy job, not his best witcher work but it's done, and for reasons beyond his comprehension, he's still alive.

When he stumbles back into the cave and to Aiden, the Cat is barely breathing and he looks a fraction closer to death with every exhale. He can't smell any lingering traces of poison, though he's not really in the position to call it progress, considering that there's still a hole the size of his hand just beneath Aiden's ribs and he saw the white of the bone with every breath while he was bandaging him earlier. Earlier seems a lifetime ago now.

Lambert starts to slowly take off the rest of the armor, trying to jostle the unconscious Witcher as little as possible. He makes quick work of the familiar buckles and clasps he learned to know, for he has undressed him so many times before, desperate to feel the warm skin under his hands or taking his sweet time and taking him apart. Never like this though, never with the dark cloud of death looming dangerously over his head.

The only sound out of Aiden's lips is a muffled groan when he cuts the bandages open to swipe a wet cloth around the gash, and the rational side of him knows it's better if Aiden doesn't wake up in the next minutes cause cleaning and stitching a wound that size is not something anyone would want to go through awake. His rational side though is not enough to stop him from thinking the worst, and he wants nothing more than to glance into the piercing green eyes he loves once again.

He cleans the edges of the cut again before picking up the needle and thread, willing his hands to stop shaking as he starts to slowly close the wound, focusing on the repetitive moves to calm his mind. His entire self is focused on one single thought: Aiden is dying. And in rapid succession, he's everything I have.

It's not the first time he patches Aiden up. Part of the reason why they know each other's scars so well, physical and not, is because they stitched them up themselves, bruised skin and broken spirits alike. The physical ones were less complicated though, it's easier to check the progress of healing when you can see new skin blooming under an injury. Being a Witcher sped up the process by a lot, so in two days a deep claw mark across a forearm would be like new, but mutations or not, no one knows how long it takes for a damaged mind to bloom anew over the past suffering.

-

The night is endless, and the darkness trickles away at such a slow pace that it seems the sun forgot to rise. The Wolf doesn't even try to sleep, he sits by the fire with his back against the wall, cleaning and sharpening his swords with his eyes lost in the dancing flames.  

It physically hurts him to keep staring at Aiden. He looks like he's sleeping but Lambert knows it's all wrong: it's not natural how still he is, how he doesn't even flinch once, his eyelids are not fluttering like when he's dreaming, his breathing is not regular like it should be when he's resting after a hunt or they're curling up in a patch of sunlight-warm grass, and the beating of his heart, the sound that lulled him to sleep so many times, falters in a disturbing rhythm.

Lambert doesn't remember being this scared in his entire life. Sure, there was fear during the trials, it was a different kind though, he was just a kid back then. A couple of times he came back from a job badly wounded and almost out of potions and he knew he was tiptoeing dangerously close to the end of the Path, but losing his life didn't scare him. There was not much to lose, to begin with. Sometimes it even sounded like a relief, no more Witcher bullshit, about fucking time.

But he was not the one bleeding in a cave, it was not his miserable life on the line here. This was different, he was losing something important now, something that mattered, something he needed. He couldn't lose Aiden.

There is a word for this mess inside of him, for the sharp twist in his heart he has been feeling every time he sees Aiden's crooked smile but it's out of reach for someone like him. He tried to ignore it and shove it away, pretending it was not there and acting as if they were no more than friends with the benefit of sex and watching each other's back during hunts. And it was already more than he should hope for, surely more than he deserved.

If he allows himself to believe that he can have something nice, that he can feel something more than rage just for once, there will be a price to pay. Not with gold, but with the suffering and the loneliness left behind after your friends or loved ones are gone. Life on the Path was solitary for a reason, it was nothing short of presumptuous of him to let himself get close to someone. It was a delusion he already entertained, and one he promised he wouldn't do again. He is not made for love, and he is surely not made to be loved.

Lambert can easily imagine his brothers' reaction if they were ever to meet Aiden and find out they've been together. He can feel the disapproval and rejection radiating off of them as if they were right here in front of him. And worst of all, he can see the disappointment in Vesemir's eyes crystal clear. You will bump into other Witchers on the Path occasionally, the old man said, most of them will even welcome the company, Griffins and Bear especially. But you stay the hell away from Cats and Vipers, they'd kill their own brothers for the right price, don't think they wouldn't kill another Witcher just for fun. Aiden didn’t kill people though, but that makes for a very poor argument.

Will they kick him out of Kaer Morhen before or after he explains? Will they avoid him every time they meet on the Path, pretend they don't know him, act as if he's already dead? He's always been the resident School of the Wolf failure after all, the thought of his family's refusal scares him, but it won't be a surprise.

What scares him even more than his family's reaction though is Aiden leaving. It's some kind of miracle that he hasn't left already, and to be fair, Lambert expects him to go every single time they reach a city big enough to offer employment to the both of them.

If he stayed until now it was just because it was a suitable agreement, more hunts, more coins, fewer expenses, and awesome sex. Love was not part of the deal. Aiden could always go back to the Caravan, ditch him, and pick a different lover in every new town. It's a mystery why he hasn't done that yet. Why would he ever stay? He's hardly worth the trouble.

Aiden's pained groan shakes him out of his thoughts. As he lets go of the last of his knives, he turns to look at the stirring form a few paces away. He's met with the reassuring green of his eyes, a little bloodshot and tired, but very much alive. It's more than what he dared to hope a few hours ago.

Aiden looks down his chest at the red-stained bandages, his mind filling the blanks of what must have happened after the wyvern got him, before whispering: "You patched me up pretty good, uh?"

Lambert doesn't answer, the surge of relief flooding him overwhelms him for a second. He shouldn't care this much, but he does. Dammit, he does. "Well, I have another scar for my collection. Did you kill it?" Lambert makes a vaguely affirmative sound and points to a set of vials with a sleek blueish liquid inside. Their 700 crowns of poison, that's how valuable their life is.

Aiden slowly sits up, taking in their surroundings. "Seems I was pretty useless for the main action." He stares at Lambert, yellow eyes trained to the fire, and lets go of an exasperated sigh. He can feel that something is off because the Wolf seems determined to avoid looking at him.

"Lambert, talk to me, will you? Did you stitch me just to ignore me?" Aiden's voice is quiet in the cave, just a whisper over the fire, and Lambert almost wants to pretend he didn't hear it. He has nothing to say, nothing he can say. Because he has too much to say, and he's worried that if he starts talking he'll spill something stupid.

"You died," he finally breaths out. "I saw you...passing out...and...and you were...." Lambert signs at his chest as if that explains it all, unable to find the words to justify the urgency in his voice. "...Dead, and I...I didn't know what to do."

"I'm fine!" Aiden moves closer to where the other is sitting by the fire. He didn't miss the shiver in his tone. He lays a hand on his knee, squeezing it in a way that was meant to be reassuring, but it only makes Lambert think about how much he'd miss his touches, how much he'd miss his eyes, and his voice, and his smile, and all the little things he forces himself not to think about.

"I'm fine Wolf. You killed the wyvern and harvested the poison, you did everything right." He pats the dressing wrapped around his torso like it's no big deal and Lambert wants to scream at him or throw something at him, maybe both, cause he shouldn't be this easygoing and calm, not after he almost died and Lambert feels like his whole world has turned upside-down.

He moves his hand to cover the one on his leg, a sudden need to reach out, to touch, to feel that Aiden is really alive and he's not just dreaming, but he lets it drop back in his lap after a second, he doesn't dare to touch him back, not yet. "I didn't know what to do without you," he whispers lowering his eyes.

"It doesn't look like you needed my help at all, I was pretty passed out."  Aiden starts picking at the bandages, slowly untying them, and Lambert looks at him out of the corner of his eyes, the ghost of his touch still lingering on his leg and he realizes that he's screwed.

"That's...you know what, nevermind." Totally screwed. Not only he was stupid enough to fall for someone, but it also had to be this Cat, someone he can't have. It had to be someone he so obviously doesn't deserve.

"Are you trying to say you'd miss me? I'm flattered Wolf," Aiden says as he raises his eyes to meet the yellow ones with a little smirk on his lips.

"Unbearable, that's what you are. And to think I even stitched you up." This, Lambert knows how to do this. It's easy to pretend nothing changed if he doesn't let himself think about it. Crushes disappear with time, with a little bit of luck he'll manage to avoid saying something utterly ridiculous like I love you.

"Oh come on, you love me! And, I'm a great fuck." "I do....Fuck, I meant you are." Dammit. He wants to run as far as his legs will carry him, cause he fucked up, he fucked up so bad now, and he's not sure he'll ever be able to look Aiden in the eyes again. He shouldn't have said that, why in the world would any sane person ever say something stupid like that?

Aiden drops the bandages he's holding and looks up at Lambert, pupils wide and swallowing the sea of sparkling green around them. Aiden's eyes always seem to be able to pierce a hole in his soul and see past whatever mask or cover he wears, sometimes he's just nice enough to not call Lambert out on his bullshit.

"Shit, I didn't mean..." This is not how it's supposed to go, they don't say things like that, they're supposed to bicker until one of them grows tired of the game and either stop answering or push the other against the first flat surface available.

"Don't you dare take it back now." Aiden's voice sounds deeper, and there's no trace of the rejection or disgust Lambert was expecting. He moves too quickly and he sits right in front of him, so close to his stretched legs that he can feel the heat of his skin underneath his trousers. Stupid Cat habit of always being in his personal space. He can't think when he's so close.

"I won't hear it if you take it back now," Aiden says, there is a trace of something in his tone that Lamber heard before, but he's suddenly very conscious of how beautiful Aiden looks, and he can't place it. Nobody should look so fine after almost dying.  How someone so gorgeous could ever feel something for him?

"I thought you were never going to say it." Lambert surprisingly finds himself with an armful of Cat, arms wrapped around his shoulders and chest pressed against his, he's whispering something Lambert doesn't catch, and all he can do is stare in front of him in disbelief. He's desperately trying to make sense of Aiden's words, why he's holding him instead of pushing him away and leaving, but his mind is a blank slate.

It's hard to think about running away when Aiden's scent is all around him, and the rhythm of his heartbeat is back to the normal comforting sound Lambert is used to. Instead, he brings his shaking hands around Aiden's waist, gingerly touching him like he was afraid to break him. "I...You died and...I...Can't lose you." It just feels right to have Aiden in his arms and it's so easy to get lost in him and pretend the real world is not waiting for them just outside this cave.

"I know, Lambert, I know. I love you too." Aiden's breath tickles the side of his neck, and he knows it must be obvious to the Cat how his heart rate is spiking, rushing to keep up with the confusion in his head.

"You...You what?" Lambert asks, and his voice is shaking. "It's a mystery how you never noticed, honestly." He feels Aiden's smile against his skin while one of his hands trails to the back of his neck, fingers curling at the nape.

"Why?" Aiden doesn't answer, he moves back enough to bring their lips together, a soft purr rumbling in his chest. This can't be real. He'll wake up in a second or two in their bed at the inn and none of this will be real. None of this can ever be real.

Aiden breaks the kiss just to whisper "Why not?" against his mouth, sharing the same breath for a second before tangling his hand in the dark hair, licking Lambert's lips and demanding entrance. The only thing better than holding Aiden is kissing him, and Lambert can feel the naked skin under his palms so blessedly warm and alive, and he's reminded in an instant of what brought them here. Did Aiden say he loved him too? A low moan involuntarily escapes his throat, and all he can focus on is the feeling of his lover's tongue moving against his own.

When they break apart to catch their breath he can't help but splutter out the burning question he can't swallow: "You should be miles away from here." Aiden looks at him, one hand gently brushing his cheek, the touch of his fingers a real presence anchoring him to reality. "But I'm still here."

"I'll hurt you, you know me...I'm not good at this." Lambert gestures vaguely at the space between them as if it held the confused shape of his feelings and he was trying to give it some definition. If he could be ashamed, he'd probably be blushing to the roots of his hair.   "I know. So will I. And I'll forgive you. As I hope you'll forgive me." Aiden presses another kiss to his lips, just a small touch of warmth. And just this once, Lambert believes him. Cause why not, right?

***

Lambert is leaving Toussaint tomorrow and he can't help but think back to the main events that brought him here years ago. Everything is different now. He swore he'd do his best and more to never feel the same dread he felt after that nasty business with the wyverns, but it was not enough.

His room at the inn is unbearably hot in the mid-summer afternoon and he's almost glad to head back north. He heard of a griffin contract south of Temeria, he can make it in a week or so if he travels fast. He glances out of the window and down to the street, the white cat he saw before is still sleeping on the chair just outside the bakery. If the small animal were to wake up, Lambert could see again how green its eyes were. The baker doesn't have a cat, of course, he doesn't, never had, Lambert already asked.

Seven. That's how many times his miserable brain decided that it would be so much fun to play tricks on his eyes and convince him there was a cat. Seven animals. Different colours, different types, different places, but always the same pair of green eyes. He should consider seeing a healer at some point. Maybe he's been cursed. Or maybe he's been haunted. The hunter being hunted by a monster he can’t slay, how fitting.

Time seems to pass in such a weird way lately, the days all have the same colours and the same scent of melancholy and sadness. Summer was Aiden's favourite time of the year, it made him all soft and relaxed in a way that made even Lambert feeling warmer for more reasons than just the weather.

He never liked summers. Nothing fun about wearing and armor when you're sweating all the time. That's what he always thought, or at least until he saw Aiden comfortably napping under the sunlight, all sprawled out in the grass and purring contently, his skin was hot to the touch and as much as Lambert didn't want to disturb him, he was irresistible.

He has so many memories of sunny days spent fucking on river banks, napping in the shade of a great tree, or cuddling in a cheap room rented for a few coins until sunset, when they could start traveling again unbothered. Yeah, summer was not so bad after all. Or maybe it was just being with Aiden that made things better.

Someone once told him that sweet memories could help a person through dark times. Lambert wants to find that someone and punch him in the face several times cause no, it doesn’t work like that. His memories were not helping or making him feel better, they were making him go crazy and he’d rather tear them right out of his mind one by one than spend another night thinking about Aiden or other cats with green eyes.

That's a lie. He could never live without those memories now, they are part of the baggage that makes up his life, and sometimes it's a heavy burden to shoulder, but forgetting sounds even worse than carrying that weight around. It happened, he loved someone and it was real, he was more than a monster in someone else's eyes and that was worth the pain.

[joonclouds]

The Price Of A Wish | 1

The third time you meet Jung Hoseok, you realise the last ten years has done nothing to the way you were drawn to him, with a force as sure and inescapable as gravity.

CHAPTER INDEX

Hoseok x Reader 

Genre: Idol!Hoseok, Chaebol!Reader, OT7 bangtan show up too, Slow Burn, Unrequited feelings, Friends to Lovers, Pining, Fluff, (we might include some other things later let’s see)

Warnings: None, but emphasis on the Slow in slow burn.

____________

The official opening night of your art conservatory marks your first independent venture from your family’s Aurarts Corporation. The press and public fawn over you, commending your initiative to increase representation opportunities for budding artists. You wanted this place to celebrate all types of art.

The opening ribbon is cut, champagne, popped. Compliments were given on the new space - one with high ceilings, a fully functional theatre, practice rooms. Crafting studios with expansive skylights and clean white walls wait to house artists and their masterpieces. Mirrors have been strategically placed to make the main hall and foyer look even bigger than it is.

The silver gown and warm smile you wear belies the eighty-hour work week you’ve had leading up to today and the way your feet scream in protest at the new satin Manolos that haven’t yet been seasoned by wear. Maybe you eat more than your fair share of tiny canapes, but you are the perfect hostess - you laugh, shake hands, exchange jokes - always sincere, never past the point of oversharing.

So yes, it’s an important night. It has to be perfect. But that isn’t why you’re nervous.

You feel a warm hand on your elbow and you’re pulled into a gentle hug. It startles you, but once you catch an eyeful of colourful prints that smell like a woody bergamot, you relax.

“Hey, ____.”

“Tae! I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Who will save you from all this social interaction otherwise?”

Mirroring Taehyung’s smile, you return his embrace. Though it’s not till you’re pulling away that you realise what’s different about him tonight.

“Your hair!” Your fingers come up to touch the strands at the nape of his neck which, previously bright blue, are now an ashy silver.

Taehyung grins. “You like? I did it to match your dress.”

The gray hair makes his skin glow.

“I love. It suits you.”

You give him an approving once over. Taehyung’s style is eclectic, to say the least. His hair colour changed depending on his mood, sometimes blue, sometimes pink. A few weeks ago, it was a fire-engine red. On most days, he chooses to dress in a mish-mash of designer jackets, some of which he’d taken a can of spray paint to, baggy cut clothing and odd sandals (rarely covered shoes). But that had never taken away from the fact that he was incredibly good looking - maybe even added to it, if that were possible.

Tonight he’s dashing, in a loose silk shirt with wild paisely patterns tucked into dress pants, and a smattering of silver and gold on his fingers and in his ears.

“Who knew Kim Taehyung actually owns proper shoes?”

He doesn’t say anything, just tilts his heel with a cheeky smile, showing you that he’s not actually wearing proper shoes, or even socks for that matter - just loafers that look like actual shoes in that they had no backing to cover the heel.

“Did you seriously wear bedroom slippers to my grand opening?”

Taehyung laughs and eyes your Manolos skeptically.

“They’re my best pair of Gucci loafers. If I’m going to have to endure all this small talk I’m going to do it comfortably.”

You groan quietly, shifting your weight to your other foot. “Don’t remind me. We’re not even a third through the night.”

Taehyung nabs two glasses of wine from a passing server and you accept one gratefully.

“Ugh - “ he pauses to take a big sip as he scans the crowd. “Remind me again why you invited half of the country to the opening?”

“Marketing says it’s good publicity, ecetera ecetera.” You take a substantial mouthful of wine yourself.

“That’s good publicity?” Taehyung tips his glass to point over your shoulder and you turn in its direction.

The both of you cringe visibly.

“Uh. She’s got a million followers on Instagram?”

He makes a small retching noise in the back of his throat. “She’s taking a duck face selfie in front of the - hey!”

Taehyung quickly gets the attention of a server and shoves him in selfie girl’s direction. “Tell her no flash photography, it’s a real Matisse, for fuck’s sakes.”

While Taehyung’s flagging down another server to refill his wineglass and muttering something about how can’t anyone have a shred of respectable gallery etiquette, you’re spacing out a bit.

The soft, unassuming lull of the string quartet sits underneath the rustling of expensive gowns and clinking of glasses. Anyone and everyone who was someone in the entertainment industry was extended an invitation. That tiny ball of anxiety still sits in the base of your gut. It’s like waiting in line, and it’s almost your turn - for what you’re not sure - but not quite yet. Your fingers pick at the thin seam of your dress.

“____.” It vaguely registers that this isn’t the first time Taehyung’s called your name.

You clear your throat quickly. “Sorry. I’m a little tired today. What was it?”

“When was the last time you ate? You better not say yesterday.”

“Don’t look at me like that. I ate.” Technically, not a lie. Stealing the canapes was considered eating.

Taehyung frowns, but he’s sufficiently appeased. “ As I was saying, I saw you chatting with President Kwon earlier. What’d you think of him?”

“I think - ” You suck in a breath through your teeth, taking a moment to find the right words. “He’s competent. Knows the ins and outs of the arts and entertainment businesses. He might be useful so let’s not rule him out yet.”

“Rule him out yet? He’s a big fish though.”

Your expression changes slightly - it’s still a smile, but Taehyung has known you long enough to be able to tell. Its what he likes to call your Politely Disgusted face.

“Like I said. Yet.” You emphasize. “While we were talking, I watched him hand his empty wineglass off to his wife instead of the wait staff. He’s definintely not being friendly to me because it’s his personality.”

He nods in understanding. You were quick on picking up little things like that - you had quite the talent for reading people. “He wants something from you.”

“Bingo. And when we find out what he wants, then we can really - “

A small change in the atmosphere makes you pause. Something’s different.

“_____?”

“Hold on. I’ll be back in a minute, I think someone’s here.” You murmur.

There’s a small hush about the air. It’s less conversation, heavier, quieter with a certain entrancing quality. Whatever it is makes you turn your head and take a few steps towards the main foyer, leaving Taehyung behind in a bit of a confused daze.

Without seeing, you know.

Of course he’s received an invite. But he’s a little late, having missed the opening ceremony. Systematically, you weave through the guests with murmured apologies, that tangle of anxiety bubbling over into something more - trepidation, anticipation, excitement… you can’t tell anymore.

You’re halfway to the main doors when you see him before he sees you.

He’s in a black suit - Dior, by the looks of the nondescript label on the jacket cuff. The bowtie has been forgone in favour of a matching silk neck scarf and the top two buttons of his white shirt have been left undone. His hair is styled such that errant pieces fall boyishly into his eyes as he nods politely to greet the attending press and guests.

Perchance, you catch a glimpse of your reflection in one of the mirrors - cheeks pink with a little flush, eyes wide and shining. It’s unlike you. There’s a tiny curl that’s escaped your bun, but you don’t reach up to smooth it back as you usually would. It looks quite charming, you think.

It can be quite a peculiar experience, to see someone after a long time.

The years make little changes to their appearance, the way they walk, talk, hold themselves, leaving only just enough familiarity for recognition. It’s like a weird sense of jamais vu, recalibrating your memory as you align the two faces - the one you knew, and the one that is.

One thing you know for sure. His face has always been smooth lines and pretty angles. Time has certainly taken those lines and angles, made them smoother, prettier. Made them breathtaking.

He spots you in the crowd threading through it to come stand in front of you. You’re taller now, and in your heels, you don’t have to look up much to meet his gaze. The mirth in his eyes is a little dimmer now, but it’s there and still the same.

“Hi, ____. It’s been a while.” He extends a hand with a smile and you vaguely register the sound of cameras clicking and flashes of light.

It’s not till he glances down almost imperceptibly that you realise your reaction has been left wanting for a second too long. Quickly sliding your hand into his, you smile and perform your part as best you can for the watching eyes that follow.

“Hi,” you breathe. He grips your hand firmly, warmly. “It’s good to see you.”

That short, polite moment is all you get before he’s swept away in the flow of greeting the other guests and influencers who clamber for a photo, but it leaves you with peculiar feeling. Like you’ve missed a step on the stairs and you’re paralysed in a hanging moment of falling and flying at the same time.

The third time you meet Jung Hoseok, you realise the last ten years has done nothing to the way you were drawn to him, with a force as sure and inescapable as gravity.

__________________

 References: 190106 Hoseok  For your enjoyment

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[gethighithefloor]

Perhaps it was pure selfishness that lead Link to the champions trials, wanting to relive those old memories for just a moment. Or maybe it was his bullheadedness (as Zelda had many times referred to it) of wanting to take a challenge no other could handle. Whatever it was, it didn’t matter, for the trial was begun and half completed.

Two shrines down, two to go.

Link had to sit on the elevator on its way back up to the mouth of Rohta Chigah Shrine, he felt so utterly drained. Usually, lifting large metal plates and climbing over hurdles presented little challenge to the Hylian, but now everything felt as if each movement would be his last. The One Hit Obliterator, strapped time his back beneath a kite shield emblazoned with the kingdoms insignia, constantly drained his energy until he could barely stand. No matter what he ate, or how long he sat down for a breath, it always felt like the next one was being choked.

The surprise Link felt from hearing the jaunty tune of a familiar accordion was a brief relief from the exhaustion. Link wasn’t expecting to see anyone in this trial, nonetheless the minstrel. Dragging himself up the small hillside, he could barely make out the words Kass was saying before the piece suddenly stopped.

“My! I wasn’t expecting to see you here.” The Rito exclaimed, earning a quiet not from Link. The feeling was mutual. “The sky looks so doleful, don’t you agree?” He asked, his own voice taking a more somber tone as he looked towards the heavens. Link looked up as well, only then realizing the sky had stayed its same dark, ashy purple since he had taken hold of the draining weapon. How long had it been? In his exhaustion, the Hylian only assumed that it was the same night that he took on the trial... but upon looking at his Sheikah Slate, realized it was about 11 in the morning. Goddess, how long had he been doing this for?

“You look quite drained yourself, if you don’t mind me saying.” Kass spoke, earning the return of Link’s gaze. Hooking the slate back on his hip he could only let out a long sigh in reply, and this brought a chuckle to the others beak. “Well then, perhaps a song will cheer you up? Strange as it may seem, I can’t shake the feeling that we were destined to meet here.” He asked, the feathers around his neck fluffing up a bit in excitement, knowing Link was never one to reject an offer of one of his songs.

The Hylian nodded, and took a seat in the long grass beside Kass as he started to play.

“The flames crawl... the waters rise... the lightning strikes, the wind sighs...” Link took in a deep breath and sighed through his nose, eyes feeling heavy as he listened to the song, likely penned by Kass’s ‘old master’. Whoever that was.

“A beast beyond the divine four awaits a hero forevermore. Let not the sound leave horses riled...” Oh— right, his horse. He had left Epona waiting so diligently at the mouth of the Shrine of Resurrection. She was probably better of than him... Link breathed in to sigh again, but instead let out a quiet yawn. He could rest here a bit, right? That would be fine, after all, Kass’ singing was so nice, and the tune he played was so soothing and familiar. The blonde was already nodding off by the time the Rito sang his last line.

“Breathe in the breath of the wild... Oh!” Kass looked down in surprise as he felt a sudden weight against his thigh. The traveler who he had seen in countless places all across Hyrule had... fallen asleep. He couldn’t even find it in him to have his feathers ruffled up about it, for the Hylian had looked to be hanging by a thread. Perhaps he needed this more than Kass knew. With a small shake of his head, the minstrel reached down to give the blonde a gentle pet, feathers gliding along golden locks. The Hylian only gave another soft yawn in reply, eyes closed and fingers loosely curled. Kass let out a soft chuckle, reminded of how his chicks used to do the same when they were tuckered out from a day of singing and playing.

Well, Kass supposed that he could stay there and play one more song.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26174047 give me kudos or sumn lol

[ourpieceoutoftime-blog]

“I’ve Missed You” | Closed for ElenaLoveableKotsala

@elenaloveablekotsala

It definitely wasn’t the nicest day out, but it also wasn’t an ugly day. There was a breeze coming and going and although it was summer, the sun was mostly hidden behind the clouds. Still, although it was a little bit cold for summer, it was still warm enough for people to be out and about. Ashy didn’t mind. Although she’d long gotten used to the sun and its rays on her skin, gotten her body to the point where she no longer burned (and hadn’t for decades now), it was always that little bit nicer when there was a little less sunshine.  

The Vampire carried a big bag with 2 thermoses of blood. One for her and one for her brother. It’d been quite a while since she’d seen Elliot, and after so long together before, she missed him. She always did when they parted, off doing their own things in the world, both going into medicine even! She was proud of him of course, but still wish they could meet more often.

However, that wishful thinking wasn’t needed today, with their planned meeting to catch up in the park. There were picnic tables there so they could sit, drink, and catch up. The thermoses looked like reusable water bottles, so no one should even look twice at them. All Ashley had to do now was sit and wait. She was a bit early.

[polandspringz]

Glitch- A Dragon Quest XI Fic

I know everyone has written a story based on this event from the beginning of the game already, but I've had this sitting around for over a year half finished and wanted to finally finish writing it.

Summary:

They get near the outskirts of Cobblestone when El starts running. Erik tries to keep up.

This is a drabble, so the full fic will be posted below. A link to the fic on AO3 will be in the notes, so please, if you liked it, leave kudos and comments over there! Thank you.

As the entrance to Cobblestone came nearer, El began to pick up the pace. Erik barely had time to call out for him to wait up before the Luminary was dashing straight through a small pond, soaking his boots in his hurry. Erik chased after him, running through the pond too if only to reach out and grab ahold of the boy’s sleeve to slow him down, but he kept slipping away from him. He followed El underneath some crag that had been hollowed out, and from how his shadow moved through a dark tunnel with such ease, dodging the stalagmites and the broken pieces of the rocky floor that Erik kept stumbling on, Erik had no doubt that this must be a familiar path to him.

 At first, Erik thought that maybe it was just the luck of the Luminary that kept the boy from getting hurt despite how reckless he was, but that thought was quickly slashed to pieces when the sound of tearing fabric reverberated through the stillness of the cave. El continued on, but Erik stopped and stared at the small scrap of a familiar purple fabric that was pierced upon the rocks, the loose threads of it waving in the wind that swept through the cave. Erik watched the ends of it curl and dance for a moment, the sound of El’s footsteps and hurried breath fading, until a drop of water fell from above onto the back of Erik’s neck, and he was reanimated again. Cursing to himself, he pocketed the scrap of fabric- there didn’t seem to be any traces of blood on it- and then ran off after El.

(Erik briefly wondered if they ever crossed paths with his place of origin, if his legs would carry him the same way El’s were now. He wondered if even if they didn’t, would it still be considered his home.) .

The rock cleared and the hill rose up to greet them as El only got faster and faster in his desperation to climb up, to break the horizon line and see his home, no matter the state. The light broke in and suddenly his shadow was colorful again, and Erik was fearfully chasing his back now, dread building as the hill rolled over and El slowed to a stop suddenly at the top. The skyline fell down into a line of trees and the rocky cliffs that surrounded the small village, and Erik almost fell backwards with how hard he stopped in his tracks.

Shit.

They had known it would be bad, but this-

The place had been torched, crumbled and pulled apart brick by brick. There was still fresh smoke, wafting off the buildings, the homes Erik reminded himself, and patches of grass that were once a part of the green rolling meadows that surrounded the rest of the town had been scorched and crunched down so that they bowed and blended in with the brown of the dirt path, trampled by Jasper and his men’s hooves.

The burning scent was mostly ashy though, which sent a wave of relief flooding through Erik. That had to mean that, at the very least, the Heliodor army wasn’t barbaric enough to burn the people, although Erik would be deluding himself if he thought for even a second that what they had done to these people’s homes wasn’t barbaric in the slightest. From their vantage point too, Erik didn’t see any real human victims amongst the wreckage, but there was still a lot buried behind the rest of the meadow that rolled up to the cliffs and down towards the water. As his shock slowly lifted, he looked towards El.

Any sort of reassuring words died on his tongue, for El suddenly stepped forward, one slow step suddenly becoming a march as he quickly moved down the hill. Erik reached out after him, but he slipped away again. Then, El suddenly stopped, staring down at some purple flowers that had been spared in the attack. Erik moved after him then, but just as he got close, he found himself freezing up again. The wind brushed El’s hair, swishing it back and then forward, the ends dancing just in front of his eyes, obscuring his face as he stared down at the flowers. It was like someone had torn a hole in space and there was an empty, black void where El’s eyes should be, and everything felt off and wrong because the rest of El’s expression didn’t match what emotion Erik knew his eyes should be.

El smiled down at the flowers. Erik felt a chill down his spine.

Just then, the boy whipped around and marched away again, moving on to another patch of flowers that had survived the attack. This time, Erik stood back and watched, observing as El’s hand made a slight gesture and his lips mouthed something towards the plant. It was like watching the stars blink out of the sky one by one. Something was wrong but it was so wrong and unsettling that Erik thought he was going crazy. Pieces of information were missing. The smoke of the leftover burns rose high in the sky as a backdrop to his new friend’s strange motions and ease, but before Erik could process it again, El was off again.

Erik struggled to find the resolve to follow after him, still trying to process everything, but he saw some figures down at the bottom of the hill, and El was heading straight for them, so Erik followed. El wasn’t even looking at the wreckage, he was just rushing past it all, ducking his head down to stare at something always just a ways off from the remains of a building. There were some priests and travelers milling around, but El didn’t ever stop and talk to them, even if they were standing nearby to one of the spots of flowers or plant life that seemed to be keeping El under this mysterious trance.

Eventually, when Erik saw one of the folks start to approach, he swooped in, stopping the man before he could tap El.

“Please, he’s from here. He’s just trying to process it all. Leave him be.”

The man gave Erik a stunned look before his expression wilted into pity, but he nodded and walked away, moving back towards what remained of the church. By the time Erik turned around again, El had already moved on. Erik quickly located him “listening” to another unharmed plant, and followed after.

He kept his distance and himself entertained, wringing his hands the longer El kept silent. The Luminary was never talkative, as Erik had learned, but what was bothering him was the way El seemed to react to these spots. He would move his lips almost in speaking, sometimes his hands too in a few signs that Erik had been taught to recognize. It was as if he was trying to argue with something. His smile was gone now, and his hands were panicked and sweat dripped down his face as his mouth moved silently and slightly but desperately. Erik saw him gesture for “here”, “home”, and “please believe me.” Each time it was nothing more than a patch of flowers, but Erik started to wonder if maybe it was less of something but more of someone there.

He still didn’t smell anything that was like burning meat, but he didn’t put it past the Luminary to see spirits. Perhaps all of the burned wildlife was just overpowering his senses, but then again, Erik really didn’t have any experience with what burned humans might smell like.

Eventually, El did make his way up to a pile of rubble, going inside without tripping over the bricks, even though he barely picked his feet up to avoid them. It was like he was phasing through them, walking into what remained of what was likely an archway or a doorway into a home. While it was peculiar that this was the house that El had decided to scramble towards and not any of the others, it quickly dawned on Erik that it must mean this was his home.

No wonder it was torched more than the others.

Might as well give him some privacy, Erik reasoned.

El came stumbling back out of it all too quickly, and Erik immediately jumped up from where he had sat down against one of the rocks. El continued to not stop though, and leapt down from the ledge the house was built on and went on running towards a large tree before stopping again to “talk”. Erik stood back and observed as El climbed into the branches before coming back down, handing something invisible to the wind as it ruffled the grass and his hair once more. Erik squinted from where he was on the ledge by the burned down homes, and knew that El’s movements were too fluid and purposeful for him to be simplifying miming or pretending.

 For a moment, as El held out his hands to the wind, Erik thought he saw that smear again, tearing across space like a thick shadow, right across his vision where El’s hands should be. The edges of the tear pulsated, and Erik was too far away again, but it reminded him of the purple fabric upon the rock in the cave.

 But he blinked, and suddenly El’s hands were empty again. The tear was gone.

There must be something there that I just can’t see.

El ran off again suddenly, and a traveler charged after shouting at him in alarm. Erik waved from atop the ledge, smiling as he tried to reassure the priest.

“Please, don’t worry! We’re not here to pilfer anything. My friend used to live here, ‘is all.”

The man nodded, and Erik noticed the holy book in his hands. The man waved back up and called out something like, “Give him time. Give him peace.”

“Thank you. I will.”

El had run between the cliffs and was following the waterways towards the back outskirts of the town, but Erik could still see him from where he was. Sighing to himself, he resigned himself to the knowledge that there wasn’t anything he could do until El came out of his stupor, or stopped being entranced by whatever he was seeing, and so, he sat cross-legged on the ground. Erik tried to ignore the unease prickling at him from the broken bricks laying in heaps behind him and the smoke from the skyline, and instead pulled out his coin purse, and began to count. He wasn’t sure where they were going next, but they were going to have to go somewhere, far, far away from here. Staying near the wreckage of this place wouldn’t be good for El, especially if he stayed in this daze for much longer.

Erik went through his belongings and eventually started to clean his sword as the craggy grass poked through the fabric of his pants, scratching his legs, and tried to ignore the billowing smoke that turned the skyline to a musty orange. If he had only looked up, he might have seen more black smears across the sky, more breaks in time and space, and might have even noticed the strange root wrapped around the tree in the center of the town glowing, just a bit.

[freddy-hughes]

With Eyes Unclouded

[ This thread was done in Discord, with the amazing @drustvar-dragonfly​. There were sections of it that did not make it into the final post for Trials and Tribulations. However the sections compiled here were too amazing to not share - so I have edited the discord posts here for all of your enjoyment. I hope I did it justice! ] 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Before Deirdre - Lydia’s Grandmother -  lay a beautiful glade. It was ancient, and untouched by man for centuries. The flowers were beautiful, the grass pristine, and truly a marvelous gem deep in the forest. Picnics would be lovely here. However the magic was unmistakable. Heavy. It shot through the ground like pins and needles. Everything felt heavier here, like a massive weighted cloak over the shoulders. Within the center was a fallen tree, nearly completely reclaimed by the earth. Moss hung off of it in sheets, wild flowers flowing in the breeze. Next to it sat the stump, alive with mushrooms, and flowers, but what was propped up against it was both elating, and heartbreaking. 

It was Freddy. Really truly him. He was slumped against it in a heap, legs curled beneath him motionless. He was hunched over himself, chin against his chest, and arms useless at his sides. Even from this distance, Deirdre could see that Freddy’s body had emaciated almost beyond recognition. His face was turned slightly left to reveal a shaggy overgrown beard, and a countenance of deep slumber. Around him the earth had grown to nearly encase his entire lower half, the grass and dirt covering him like a warm blanket. Yet he did not stir, did not move, and for all intents and purposes Freddy looked dead.

Thump. Thump. Thump. 

From behind the felled tree, a wicker monster stumbled. It’s ‘body’ was nothing more than a stuffed sack, like a scarecrow. A stag skull was haphazardly sewn onto it, while branches acting as limbs walked it closer to Freddy there in the glade. Blue fire roared from the eyeless sockets of the skull, and they stared at Deirdre with accusation, and vitriol. It stopped right next to Freddy, one of its arms coming out to run twig fingers through his matted hair. Freddy’s head fell to the side lifelessly, nearly sending his skeletal form down to earth as well. 

With a smug sound, the wicker stepped forward menacingly. Magic hummed in the air as It’s body attempted to shift forms. The spell shimmered around it, trying to reclaim its previous state of imitation of the man slumped behind it. However, all that could form was a masquerade of Freddy’s face. His forehead didn’t slope that far, and the left side of his face sagged unnaturally, which drew the lower eyelid down, and made the face appear lopsided, and wrong. It’s body attempted to take on his shape, but it couldn’t quite remember what Freddy actually looked like. Instead, it was rotund in places he wasn’t, and skinny in others, with one beefy arm, and another emaciated. One leg twisted at the ankle, the bone seemingly broken, and twisted inward, while one hip seemed to rest higher than the other giving it an awkward gait as it shambled slowly towards Deirdre. 

"So this is the miscreation that attacked my granddaughter," Deidre's voice took on a purposefully mocking tone as she stared down the malformed monstrosity lumbering towards her. 

"Looks like she really did a number on ya. Just look at the state of yourself!" A dry chuckle rumbled within her throat as she shook her head, her staff positioned in front of herself as she leaned on it gingerly. "Can't walk worth a damn, shiftin's all buggered up. Doesn't even realize when enough is enough. Poor, pathetic creature." 

Still leaning on her staff, Grams slid her offhand into her pocket, fingers curling around a fabric-wrapped bundle as an incantation was softly whispered beneath her breath. To the side, Eilit's gaze had narrowed, ears pinned back against her head as she pawed restlessly at the ground. 

The wicker man halted its forward trek, watching, curious. More of it had begun to change, desperately trying to look familiar, and unassuming. Through great effort, it had managed to readjust it’s visage, with almost enough of it being correct to be unsettling. His green eyes were wide in terror, but there were subtle differences that were just off enough to be wrong. The color of his hair was wrong. The shape of his jaw is too sharp. It was almost right, but not enough. He looked at her with fear in a vain attempt to pull heartstrings Deirdre didn’t have. 

“G-Grams,” The wicker speaks, but Freddy’s timbre was not that deep. His voice was always soft spoken, with a sing song quality that was uniquely him. This monstrosity sounded nothing like him. It seemed to realize this, and jerked its head in unnatural motions. Tremors rocked its shoulders in uneven motions, the charred bits of its hips pitching it forward at the waist awkwardly. “It-it’s m-me.” It attempted again, but it’s voice didn’t change. “F-Freddy!”

It then attempted to run at her. It’s giant was awkward, shambling, uneven, and wrong. It’s arms stretched out before it, fingers grasping the air menacingly as it rushed towards Deirdre. 

"You've been a stain upon this family for long enough," She hissed, pulling the bundle from her pocket. "I think it's about time you crawl back to whatever putrid hole from whence you came." 

With that, she hurled the bundle towards the wicker servitor, and slammed the bottom of her staff into the ground. The earth itself would rip open like a great maw ready to swallow anything along its zig-zagging path, while the previously unassuming bundle exploded into a rain of  purple sparks which would seek to ignite most anything on impact. 

The boom overhear made the wicker recoil a moment, flinch in fear, but something drove it forward. Perhaps it was the knowledge the mask was right there. Maybe it was the magic. Maybe it was just a mindless creature doing its masters bidding. Who can say. 

The sparks caught its shoulders on fire. The flames burst to life, and ate away at the burlap sack it called a body. Leaves, mushrooms, flora, and other debris fell from the holes in ashy heaps, causing its left side to sag as the branch it called an arm nearly fell away completely. It roared, its misremembering of Freddy’s face twisting in agony, and fury. 

It felt the earth rumble beneath it, heard it rip asunder, but that only pushed it forward faster. It jumped over a break in the earth, but didn’t make it to the other side. It slammed against the earth with a resounded thump. The impact broke the hip of its leg to splinters. It cried out in pain, and confusion, arms frantically attempting to pull it towards Deirdre. It looked up at her with agonized eyes, “Why!” It screamed, timbre still wrong. “It’s me! It’s me! It’s me!” The phrase was clipped, like a record skipping. It could think of nothing else to say.

The earth sundered further beneath it, but it's wooden fingers dug into the earth to haul it closer, and closer to Deirdre. It was right at her feet, legs dangling into the depths. Those wiggling fingers writhed up the dirt, and weakly wrapped around Deirdre's ankle. Fire burned the left side of it away, the arm dangling by a thread. Wicker feet pushed at the dirt frantically to try and push itself upwards. “F-Freddy! F-Freddy! FREDDY! FREDDY!!!” It screamed. “ME ME ME ME!!!”

It wasn't fear which took up residence upon Deirdre's features as the broken mass of wicker and bones writhed at her feet. Even her anger seemed to have dissipated in the wake of its pleading screams and desperate attempts to claw at her ankles. She looked... sad. 

"Quiet," she whispered, waving her hand in a gentle motion to effectively silence the wailing cries which so horribly perverted Freddy's voice, its movements momentarily stilled, as though the woman herself radiated an overwhelming sense of calm. Kneeling down, joints once more announcing their displeasure with a series of creaks and cracks, Deirdre reached out to cradle the creature's skull, black soot coming away with her fingertips. 

The wicker stilled, mismatching eyes wide as it stared up at Deirdre with abject horror. It’s bottom lip trembled, tears like sap running down it’s cheeks as it waited. The entirety of its lower half collapsed away, the contents of the burlap sack fluttering into the earth if not falling on the breeze as ash. It clung to the earth for dear life, waiting, watching. It didn’t fight when she reached forward, the cavity of its chest wide open, and sought to pull the magic that kept it animated out of it. It seemed to accept this fate, like a doe caught by the wolves.

"Your time here is finished. I will see to it that whatever souls reside within you are properly laid to rest. I will return your remains to the earth from whence you came." With so much of its form burned away, leaving the wicker frame so brittle and broken, the ease with which she was able to reach within the cavity of its chest was hardly surprising. "And your master, whoever extended your ties to this plane, will surely answer for the evils they've committed through your actions." Fingers searched blindly, looking for some kind of jar or coffer within which the offending spell and souls would be contained.

Two glass jars sat within it’s chest cavity, entwined in vines, and thistles to keep them anchored to the large branch that acted like a spine. One housed a still beating heart, bits of hair, fingernails, cloth, and other trinkets to link the souls to the magic within. The conduit reeked of dark magic, the feeling of it heavy, and oppressive.

The other, while not nearly as gruesome, was just as heartbreaking. A wad of Freddy’s hair, tied with a string sat within its contents, along with a black taper candle burnt nearly to a nub, a bit of black pepper, witchhazel, and licorice root. Tied to Freddy’s hair was a small charm Deirdre’s would recognize: a small protection fetish Lydia had made for him. It was made from a piece of obsidian, carved in the shape of a leaf, and woven to be worn as a necklace. She had spent time making it, imbibing it with love, and protection, and whoever had cast Freddy into his fruitless journey took it, corrupted it, and used it to bind him to this monstrosity. Truly, it was as foul a corruption of magic as one can do.

As Deirdre pulled the jars free, the wicker froze. It’s eyes blew wide, only to roll back into the sockets as all life left it. A breathless: ”Thank you…” whispered as it tumbled into the earth, fading into nothing as those trapped within its body were finally released. The creature that had tortured Lydia for the better part of three years was finally vanquished. The torture those that gave it life, and Freddy who gave it shape, was finally over. 

Deirdre looked to where Freddy’s body sat slumped against the stump, and her heart gently sank. All around him grew a massive ring of mushrooms. They clustered closely together in a tight circle, their bodies decaying the grass all around them as they grew to a nearly supernatural height. A Faery Ring. A conduit between here, and there. It’s no wonder poor Freddy got so lost. The mushroom circle began to gently quiver as the magic left the wicker set to protect this place. Spores gently wafted into the air, a breeze rustling Freddy’s overgrown hair. 

However, behind him on the stump, sat Haskell. His tail was curled around his body, mismatched eyes ablaze with a kind of otherworldly fire that could only be associated with the land of the Fae. He looked to Deirdre, and chirped softly. On the breeze, his voice whispered: ”What the winter withers away, spring blooms anew. What is, does not have to be. Rest, and bloom anew.” 

It was then that Deirdre realized that Haskell, the spirited fox that caused mischief around her home, was a fae who had connected to Freddy, and crossed over to act as his familiar through these darkened times. ”You have found us,” Haskell’s voice gently whispered in the breeze. ”And not a moment too soon. He is at the end of his journey now. The Great Stag judges the merit of his soul. What life the forest gives, it can also take away. Life, and death are it’s domain.” 

Haskell’s tail unfurls gently, and he hops down to tip toe black paws over the earth that sought to reclaim Freddy’s entire lower half. He made it to his lap, and gently curled up there where one would imagine his legs would be crossed. ”I do not know how to get him out...perhaps you can help me, wise one?”

"Thank you for leadin' me here, Haskell." Deirdre smiled, steadying herself against the staff at her side with a heavy exhale - she was no spring chicken, and the magics she was working with would surely take their toll on her aging body. "With the sentinel gone, we can focus on gettin' Freddy out of there." 

"Once we get him back to the house, I'll unbind him from the magics that are holdin' him prisoner, but it'll be up to him to see the final trial through and cross back into this plane." She paused, an air of worry flashing within her wizened gaze. "It has to be him. I can show him the doorway, but he has to choose whether or not he wants to walk through it." A knowing glance was cast to the fae fox, wordless acknowledgement passing between them, both knowing the toll this whole ordeal had taken on Freddy's mind and the consequences that awaited him upon his return.

“He is a pure soul. I could not let him suffer alone,” Haskell says softly, head canting upwards to look at Freddy’s bent, sleeping face. “No one deserves to suffer alone. He told me that as he held me. It was the least I could do for him.” Slowly, those blazing eyes return to Deirdre, and a ethereal smile seems to settle over his vulpine visage. “I must offer you one word of warning, wise one. His trials have been long, and hard. He will continue to suffer, long after he has crossed through.”

After another centering breath, Deirdre closed her eyes, hands clamped tightly around her staff as she focused her energies into that gnarled stalk for the purpose of amplifying her magic. The place where staff met ground began to glow, green mist touched at its outer edges with warm yellow light while orbs of the same color danced within the gently swirling cloud. A path began to form, slowly at first, running along the grass which covered the earth in a thick blanket of green, passing between two trembling mushrooms and entering the circle. 

The ground surrounding Freddy's body began to tremble, shifting almost like gentle waves upon a still lake until the earth began to slowly break apart, effectively releasing him from his would-be resting place, and it wouldn't take long before Haskell and Freddy both were lifted carefully into the air by way of the tree's great roots. They lifted him, his arms, and legs dangling lifeless around the roots as he was sent skyward, but drops of blood fell amid the dirt, and debris. From his neck a river of blood cascaded, the punctures wide, and deep. The sanguine liquid stained his hollow chest, and flowed down to the great sunder that tore his lower stomach. No entrails hung from the wound, but the blood was fresh, and flowing. Though the great roots of the tree encased him, and Haskell rode with him, no healing magics tried to pull the skin together. Instead, any blooms that attempted to grow seemed to recoil away. No matter how much his own soul attempted to pull itself back together, it merely couldn’t. Flora growing had always been an aspect of Freddy’s magic, he himself gave life, and comfort wherever he went. To see it fail now was heartbreaking in it’s own right.

“Beware the Horned One,” Haskell whispered, the flames slowly fading from his eyes the higher he was lifted above the Faery Ring. “Beware…” The flames of his eyes extinguished, leaving instead just the mismatched blue, and gold. 

Without being verbally prompted, Deirdre's dutiful doe-eyed companion made herself all the more useful, standing completely still while that magically-woven bed which supported Freddy's body was transformed into a makeshift sled that the beast would be able to drag back through the forest with ease. As Freddy is laid in the little sled, Haskell jumps to Deirdre, hopping up on his back legs, and leaning against her knees with the front. He chirps up to her softly, wanting to be pulled up into her arms. Once he is secure, he licks at her cheek in gratitude, only to snuggle in. Her magic had taken much from her, but Haskell felt warm, and inviting. 

Deidre nearly collapsed where she stood, her energies almost completely drained as she leaned heavily against her staff, panting quietly while she tried to reclaim her bearings. "Al-alright..." she stammered, huffing out a sigh as she righted herself and prepared for the return trek. "Let's go home, shall we?"

A small frown pulled at the corners of her mouth as she reached down to brush Freddy's disheveled hair away from his face, wincing inwardly at the close-up sight of his gaunt features. Another sigh. This one followed immediately by quick and labored steps which would lead them away from the grove which had claimed over three years of the poor man's life.

The trip to Deirdre's cottage was uneventful. The Elsons’ farm watched them pass like a stone sentinel, it’s presence looming as it looked upon them with accusing eyes. He had abandoned them. Left them to wither away. The house stood as a monument to his failure, and though Freddy was not awake to see it, the weight of that would pull his shoulders low. However, they made it back to Deirdre's easily, and so thin was his body that even the elderly woman, and her doe companion could easily maneuver him into a bed with unfortunate ease. 

When Deirdre inspected the wounds, she found them to be quite cruel. The one’s on his shoulder were punctures, the two perfectly symmetrical, and looking as though they had been caused by a spider bite. The one against his lower stomach was malicious. Jagged flesh pushed inward, then ripped side to side by sharp tusks. They would not close, no matter what magic was put to them. All that could be done was to pack the wounds with gauze, and wrap him in linens in the hope they do not get infected.

Freddy lay there, pillowed by the plush blankets, face serene though overgrown with hair. The matted length of his wild hair was surprisingly untouched by debris, though clearly no brush had been pulled through it in years. His face, once so pristine, and clean shaven was now an overgrown mess of jagged coarse hair that stuck out at odd angles. He looked so frail, so small. Gone was the massive bear of a man, and instead lay a broken, beaten thing. Freddy had been a plaything to the Coven, and they were finally done with him. Like the cruel hands of a child they had broken him, and then left him in the forest to rot. It would break even the most stalwart of hearts. The world is cruel to the gentle, and Freddy knew that intimately. Still, this was a cruelty beyond understanding. 

Once Freddy was deposited safely into bed, and his wounds tended to Deidre immediately got to work. It took some time to gather the necessary items, and a bit more to clean out the fireplace, but such preparations would be necessary if she was to properly see the ritual through. Dirt from her garden had been collected into a large pot and placed beside the freshly-cleaned hearth, along with everything else she would need, and only then would she seat herself before the fire, taking a moment to calm her mind and collect herself; what was to follow would be taxing, but she didn't have time to rest. Freddy didn't have time. When she finally did speak, her voice was loud and booming - commanding authority over the magics coursing through her veins. 

"Oh, evil foe, your power is none, The hex is broken, the spell undone. With blood, candle, and scent times three, No longer shall this binding be. As I burn this hair, part of thee, Let thy heart and soul be free." 

It didn't take long for the items to burn. She worked on Freddy's first, setting his hair alight in the crackling flames, only to be followed by the remaining contents of the jar - even the nub of black candle was thrown in, the wax congealing with the ashy remains of its companion items; the only thing she did not burn was the charm which had been gifted to him by her granddaughter. Once the task was complete, she scooped all the remaining ash back into the jar and sealed it with hot wax dripped from a white candle. This process was repeated for the other jar as well, as she did not wish for those poor souls to remain trapped somewhere between life and death. This was the only way she could see to bring them true peace. 

"Any curses placed on thee I now bury in the earth deeply." 

With the jars sealed and placed side-by-side within the hole she'd dug in the large pot of dirt,  extra care was taken to pack everything down tightly before continuing with the ritual. 

"The curse, the hex was buried deep Its hold over thee it can no longer keep."

Once the jars were covered over, Deidre sat back on her knees, ignoring the painful crackling of her joints, and lifted a dagger from its place at her side. The blade was brought to rest against her palm, and after a swift downward motion, her own blood spilled free, flesh parting to send sanguine droplets raining down upon the potted earth as she squeezed her hand into a fist. 

"And for those who doth cast despair Binding thee with golden hair. I send to them this well-earned curse - Let their evil spell reverse! Upon thy home, great torment gifted. Never shall this spell be lifted." 

The last line was delivered with a darkened gaze, and even darker tone; truthfully, the old woman had no idea who had tied poor Freddy to such a wretched fate, but she could not deny her own deep desire to see them pay for what they'd done. Perhaps, such a spell would draw out the culprits - a possibility she was willing to risk at the opportunity to see some manner of justice served.

Only when the task was complete would the woman return to Freddy's side, taking his bony hand within her own as she peered with saddened hope into his gaunt features. 

"Fred, my dear boy, the way is open. The door unlocked." A gentle squeeze was dealt to the hand within her grasp. "I've done all I can, the rest is up to you..."

[wlwoodnymph]

apocalypse diaries

a little account of living in oregon during the 2020 wildfires/COVID-19 pandemic. mostly under the read more :)

Monday, 9/7

This morning, the sky was blue. Hot, the sun harsh for September, but blue and clear. I went on a walk with my mom, threading through shaded forests, cresting the hilltop with a view of town, and passing by fields rimmed with sweet ripe blackberries on the bush. We saw lots of people -- a perfect late summer day in a perfect little town, where the grand brick buildings of campus and small downtown storefronts are ringed by rolling farmland, a smooth-flowing river, and forested hills that grow into sheltering mountains.

Of course, we walked six feet apart, and hid our noses and mouths behind masks whenever we passed others on the narrow trails. And almost everyone else did too, in a show of courtesy -- it felt perfectly normal. I am still occasionally taken aback when I shy away from others or try to trap my breath or hear an announcement beginning “To stop the spread of the virus...” while grocery shopping. But these things don’t surprise me as much as seeing a photograph of two people unmasked and nearly touching, or watching the neighbors have a birthday party, people and music spilling out of their kitchen and onto the balcony. The connection and celebration I had known my whole life, now completely foreign.

Despite it all, that morning felt perfectly normal. After discussing our birthdays, my classes, and my mom’s anxiety about going backpacking, I returned home and made vegetable soup, watched Prince of Tennis with my roommates, and practiced taking integrals. The afternoon passed quietly, doing calculus at the table, until I glimpsed a sliver of strange sky through the blinded window. I stepped onto the balcony and into another kind of apocalypse.

The most welcome thing about outside was the breeze, making the dry air just bearable after the hot day. The concrete was still warm under my feet, comforting. It seemed the wind had blown in smoke from some fire, far-away until now. The sun, setting and shrouded by the smoke, glowed red and foreboding. The rest of the air was tinted yellow, and if not for the sepia tones, it might have just looked foggy, everything smudged and faded. 

Notably, the smoke hadn’t stopped the games of beach volleyball in the park across the street. Quiet shouts and static-y pop music filled the air along with the wind, which rattled the trees’ dry leaves. Someone walked their dog by, pausing to take a picture of the sun. A car started and pulled out of our complex. A leaf scraped across the ground, and the smoke filled my nose.

I stood outside for longer than I needed to, somehow trapped by the warm concrete under my feet and soothing breeze on my arms. The smoke scent was light, and seemed innocuous until I thought about how far away the fires must be -- out in the Cascades, not the little hills that sheltered my town. The wind suddenly seemed a bit less friendly, carrying them closer. I thought about the emergency alert for high heat and winds earlier that day, and (among other things) the big signs along I-5 that discouraged travel during the pandemic, and slipped back inside.

Instead, I raised the blinds, to observe the progress of the red sun and the shrouding smoke and just-green trees buffeted by the wind. I did try to go outside again, to write, but the smoke was thicker, enough to make me cough. I thought about the virus, and watched bits of ash float past, and went back inside. It wasn’t worth the worry of giving myself a sore throat. 

So now I’m sitting in my kitchen, and watching it grow unnaturally dark as the clock passes 7:00. The sky is yellower, and the trees and volleyball players have faded, drifting into the thickening smoke. I looked up the air quality a bit ago -- unhealthy for people with sensitive lungs, which is better than I expected. It all feels very strange, but mundane. The volleyball continues even as the sky grows dark. Cottonwood seeds float by with the ash. And I am just watching from a quiet kitchen, with dishes that still need doing. I wonder how long the smoke might last -- I’d love to open my window tonight. 

This morning had felt so normal in comparison, even though the smoke is such a small thing in comparison to the shuttered schools and stores, the cancelled concerts, and the rules of six feet and masked faces. But still, I get up and do the dishes, move my laundry to the drier, and watch a movie with my sister (over Zoom, of course). I can hear the wind whistling outside, and the smoke scent begins to seep in even though all the windows are closed. I hope that I don’t wake up smelling smoke and that I can open my window soon. Wishful thinking, and I realize that I barely bother to wonder anymore when I might dare to touch someone I don’t already share air with.

Tuesday, 9/8

 I wake up a few times as night fades into morning, mostly from the growing light, but once from the shower starting on the other side of the wall -- my roommate has work at 8:30. My comforter is on the floor, my battery pack and earbuds are in the bed where I discarded them before going to sleep. I am almost too warm under just a sheet, but I curl back into it each time I wake. The whole sky is yellow-orange, as if the sunrise fills all the air, but it’s just smoke shrouding my surroundings. It is alien, this dusty neon sky, but I go back to sleep anyway.

When I get up, the downstairs is dark, one window covered and smoke filtering light out from the rest. It feels like evening, but I make an egg and toast and eat a beautiful nectarine, which reminds me of yesterday morning, a flawless piece of summer. It is hard to think of anything about this summer as flawless. I can see bits of ash flutter by the window, like snowflakes, and I long for last winter.

After breakfast, I water the balcony plants. The smoke scent is strong, sharper than yesterday, and the fires creep closer. There is ash layered in the pots, and on our table and chairs. My bare feet leave prints. I also mist the plants with water, to make the balcony air, dry from the wind, more bearable. Balcony life is ill-suited to most plants, and I wonder if they know where they are, if they know that the salvatory humidity on their leaves is man-made.

I finish as quickly as possible, and return inside, where the air is already too warm (the cool morning outside had been a relief), but clear and clean. I would like to drive to the stormy coast, to go swimming in the cold water of the nearby river, even to cool myself with a mist from the plants’ spray bottle, but I don’t. Instead, I wash my face and brush my teeth and get my calculus workbook and another cup of coffee. I open to the chapter on motion problems and watch a dog-walker drift by with the ash. There is no volleyball today, the air hazardous.

-

The first part of today passes like yesterday. I finish my calculus and eat yesterday’s soup for lunch. I call our internet provider to complain about our abysmal internet speeds. The call takes 30 minutes, and we get nowhere. She asks about the weather where I am, and I hold back a laugh. I glance out the window, as if to check that the smoke hasn’t up and left and say “Not too bad. We have some smoke blowing in from wildfires though.” I guess it’s not too bad -- I’m safe, at least.

Afterwards, I go up to my room to get something, and wince at the scent of smoke inside. My throat has started to catch, and my roommate’s eyes are watering. We decide to venture out to get sealing tape. It’s nice to do something, and for a moment, this feels like an adventure, a brave expedition into the unknown to protect us and ours. For one of the first times since March, I am present, letting the moment, the heavy smoke sink into my skin. I will remember, but who will I tell about these days? What will still be here, who might still be shocked by it when this is all over?

The feeling of adventure only lasts as long as the Home Depot parking lot, where the smoke chokes thick in my throat and the wind whips ash into our eyes. It is evening, and the sun must be sinking again, because the sky turns from dusty brown to red-orange, far too dark for a summer 6:00. It makes the grass a plastic shade of vibrant green and suddenly, I want nothing more than to be home, out of the smoke. The adventure is gone, and even when we return home, the sickly orange from the windows and bright ceiling light makes me feel melancholy, lonely and lost.

I’m not sure what to do with the feeling, but I know that I need to start taping our doors and windows. I go downstairs, where it is the worst, and as I run tape along the seams of the front door, I feel ash beneath my feet. The flames seem to lick at our walls, and for the first time, I wonder how far the winds will drive the fires. Where would we go, when the rest of the state is already fleeing to us? 

I think of March 11th, when my university announced they would go online for most of finals week and the first week of spring term. I remember how we watched other states, other colleges, shutter, and wondered when or if we might do that. I remember March 23rd, when the governor ordered us into our houses to stay, and how we planned grimly for a few weeks’ change. I wonder how long this will last.

Thankfully, we watch Prince of Tennis and read our dumb romance novel, and I forget for a bit -- it is nice to be stuck inside with these people, at least. As the evening winds down, we finish taping windows. We tell our other roommate, who is away, to come in through the garage when he gets home. It’s the only door we don’t tape, the double entrance acting like an airlock. I even carry the balcony plants inside, so we can seal it off. They are dry and ashy, but probably happier to be inside. Even coated in ash, the basil, sage, and tomato still smell like lovely and herby, and it makes me smile.

Wednesday-Friday, 9/9-9/11

    The next few days pass like this. We stay inside, and watch the shifts of the sky from orange to yellow to sepia, a strange fog settled over us. We monitor the smell of smoke in the house, how it changes from day-to-day and room-to-room. At least the smoke blocks the sun, and keeps it cool while we can’t open the windows.

    I am reading a Money Diary on Friday morning, and the author mentions how “shocking the images coming out of Portland are”. For a moment, I am amused -- Portland has some of the least smoke in Oregon right now. Then I realize she probably means the protests, or the detainment of protestors in unmarked federal vans.

    I thought it was a good thing, how little the smoke bothered me. I’m a natural resources major -- I know that forest fires are inevitable. Even though they are unusually bad right now, in part because of climate change, their existence does not alarm me. It is tragic that people are losing their homes, but that is almost inevitable, as long as we build in forests and let fuel grow thick and close to what we love.

    But even so, this has never happened before, and in some moments, it hits me. It is scary the fires have stretched so far, that they may continue to be this bad for many years, that we are so ill-equipped, that this happens as people go hungry and are evicted and die from this pandemic. As I typed the words “detainment of protestors in unmarked federal vans.” I wondered if I had become numb. I know this is bad, but it feels so distant, so unreal, so unavoidable. I am almost powerless, so what does it matter if I care? It’s easier to not feel anything, to fixate instead on the hundreds of tiny crises my mind makes of my body and life. I finish my coffee and do my math and try to ignore the pain throbbing in my elbow.

Saturday-Thursday, 9/12-9/17

    It was supposed to clear up on Friday. When it didn’t, Tuesday and even Wednesday looked better, the air quality “moderate”. However, it remains “unhealthy”, and I cancel my trips to The Arc and Goodwill, so I can at least meet my mom outside for her birthday. She is struggling with the smoke, but glad to get outside for a bit. Instead of the long hike we had planned, we sit six feet apart on a bench, and I feel like a monster for cringing away from her. The breeze on my skin, though, is a blessing, salvation after a week of the same stale, still air in our house. I want to open my window.

    There is rain coming, and wind, and maybe later this week the smoke will clear. We plan for my birthday, assuming that outside, the only safe place to meet our friends, will be safe itself. I imagine pulling all the tape off, and wonder if it will have to go back on. When will we feel safe enough to let the air in? Will I ever shake hands with a stranger again? Will I continue to recoil at the very thought of entering a store without a mask? It feels like being naked.

    The rain does come, in drizzles, on Thursday night. It comes with flashes of lightning and rolling purrs of thunder, soothing, while we make pretzels and fondue, and I feel joyous, unhindered for the first time in more than a week. When we finish our cooking, we go outside. It is still smoky, but muted, and the smell is mixed with the delightful scent of a long-needed rain. I grin and hop onto the curb as we walk to the park. We talk and I climb on the play structures (I dropped my bouldering class, even though I miss it fiercely) until the thunder roars too close, and we return inside. It feels like a gift, something I could pray for.

Friday, 9/18

    I’m listening to ASMR in bed (it’s after midnight, so technically Friday), and when I take my headphones off to go to sleep, I realize it is pouring. I briefly entertain the idea of going outside, but it doesn’t quite seem worth drying off after. Instead, I lay awake, listening to thunder and rain, and think about what could have been. I am still happy, finally given a good form of novelty.

    I wake up that morning and the sky is clear as can be. I grin. As soon as I eat breakfast, I grab my bike to go shopping -- the air quality is “moderate”. I take deep lungfuls, uncaring that the air is public. It smells so good, smoke-free and rain-filled. 

    The first rain of autumn always feels like a return home. I don’t like the dry grass and merciless heat, especially when I am stuck inside, watching. It feels so strange, to see the exact same yellow-brown leaves littering the ground, feel the same cool damp air on my skin, the same weak, soothing sun. So much has changed, but this is still the same. I think of my middle and high school soccer games, of watching my favorite YouTubers play Undertale with a cup of tea on stormy Saturday nights, of sitting next to my dad’s fireplace with our kittens, of doing homework while my mom’s partner watches football. The season reminds me of home, but I’m not sure that I feel comforted. 

    I know that I’ve changed, and so has the world. I desperately, desperately, want this place to still feel like home, and maybe it will tomorrow, maybe it will next fall. I also don’t want to think about next fall -- what will have happened by then? What will have happened in five years? I have my hopes, but they feel slim. I hope that I am home and safe, and that I can take a breath without fearing smoke or virus or tear gas. And I am lucky, in the grand scheme of things.

    At least I can breathe right now. I bike home from the Arc, and revel in cold rain dripping from my legs when I stop at Fred Meyer, where I get prints of my friends for our living room. At home, I pull off the tape and throw open the windows. Cold, fresh air rushes in, and it feels like life. The sound of pouring rain and thunder is refreshing, after so many days of static. Here, now, maybe not in five minutes, but now, I feel relieved, unweighted, even if just briefly. It will not be a long reprieve, but I am grateful nonetheless.

[junghelioseok]

forbidden.

↳ a dance with the devil under the pale moon.

 ◇ namjoon x reader  ◇ smut | demon!au  ◇ 6.6k [1/1]

notes: i have, quite literally, been sitting on this fic for nine months. i’ve carried this thing to a full-term pregnancy. it’s undergone two title changes and three rewrites and honestly i still kinda hate it but i’m tired of reworking it so here ya go!!! i’m gonna go crawl into bed and sleep for a week!!!

⇢ now updated with a lovely moodboard by the wonderful, talented @la-vie-en-tae! thank you, babe!

warnings: dirty talk, thigh riding, oral, some choking oops, dom/sub themes, light bondage aka your hands are restrained, joon’s literally the devil lmao

When you meet the Devil for the first time, it isn’t on some lonely, twisting back road in the middle of nowhere. It isn’t in a darkened bar or a pulsating club on a forgettable Friday night.

No, you bump into the Devil—quite literally—in the library on a sunny Tuesday afternoon, somewhere between science fiction and literary classics. The impact sends you sprawling to the ground, the scratchy carpet rough underneath your palms as you prepare to push yourself back to your feet with an apology ready on your lips. But the sight of the man standing before you leaves you breathless and gasping to recall the contrite words you’d prepared.

To say that he’s breathtaking would be an understatement. Tall and slender with ashy silver hair, he looks completely unruffled despite the earlier collision. He’s holding Dante’s Inferno delicately in one hand—which, in retrospect, is an exceptionally appropriate choice of reading material—and perhaps that should have been your first indicator of his true identity.

Instead, it takes a coffee date—instigated by him as an apology—and a conversation with your next-door neighbor, Seokjin, to convince you that the seemingly innocuous man from the library was, indeed, the Devil. Despite consistently erring on the side of paranoia, Jin’s knowledge on demonology cannot be matched. And when you tell him the name of the man you’d just shared coffee with, his brown eyes widen to almost comic proportions.

Namjoon? Did you say Namjoon?

Yes, I did. Why, do you know him?

It’s difficult to stop Seokjin from babbling once he begins, but somewhere between the frenzied bleating and cursing and countless ancient texts shoved in your face, you understand. Namjoon is a name that has floated down through centuries—but in countless iterations and every language, it has remained the name associated with the Devil.

Huh. So, the Devil likes lattes, then. That’s pretty quaint, don’t you think?

It’s not funny, {Name}.

Do you think he comes to Earth exclusively for the coffee? I can’t imagine there being good coffee in Hell.

Really not funny, {Name}! He could’ve killed you!

But he didn’t! I guess that means I still have some time left, which is reassuring. I still haven’t done most of the things on my bucket list… but hey, at least I can check off ‘date with the Devil’ now! That’s pretty neat.

Fuck, why are you being so blasé about this? Did you already sign over your soul, along with your brain?

Leaving behind an exasperated Seokjin, you returned to your own apartment that evening and immersed yourself in one of several books you’d checked out from the library. And you don’t think about Namjoon again—at least, not until two weeks later when there is a polite knock on your front door. Having ordered takeout about half an hour ago, you fully expect it to be the deliveryman and grab your wallet on your way to answer it—

—only to immediately drop it in shock, a yelp escaping your parted lips as you take in the figure standing on your doorstep. “Jesus!”

“Quite the opposite, actually,” Namjoon replies with a smile, and you are too distracted by the dimples dotting his cheeks to realize that he’s all but confirmed Seokjin’s suspicions. It takes a few long moments for his words to sink into your brain, and when they do, you can only manage a confused stammer.

“O-oh? Oh! Oh, um…“

The sound of Namjoon’s soft laughter brings you back to your senses, the sound dulcet and alluring. “I’m guessing you already know who I am, then.” His face stretches into another smile, and you find yourself once again drawn to his dimples, admiring the way they crinkle as he speaks again. “Please rest assured, though. I mean you no harm.”

“Sounds exactly like what someone with harmful intentions would say.” The words are out before you can stop them, and you promptly slap a hand over your traitorous mouth. “Oh god, sorry,” you mumble from between your fingers, voice slightly muffled. “I didn’t mean… I didn’t mean that.”

Namjoon just laughs again. “Honesty isn’t something you need to apologize for,” he assures, tilting his head to the side and regarding you more closely. “Curious, though, that you don’t seem afraid.”

“I’ve been told that I have very poor survival instincts,” you admit, a sheepish smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

His eyes glint with amusement. “True as that may be, I wasn’t lying when I told you that I mean no harm. I simply thought to bring you some coffee.”

For the first time, you look down at his hands, taking in the two steaming cups tucked neatly in a little cardboard tray. Dangling from his wrist is a white bag emblazoned with gaudy red font, the contents precariously close to poking through the thin plastic. “Is that my food?”

A smile. “I happened upon the deliveryman in the elevator.” Raising the bag, Namjoon nods in the direction of your kitchen, just visible from the entryway. “May I come in?”

You glance down, taking in the sight of his perfectly shined leather shoes toeing the threshold of your apartment. You think back to Seokjin’s frantic warnings and Namjoon’s easy admission of his identity. You wonder, briefly, if he’s insane, and consider the potential dangers that could befall you if you spend any longer in his presence.

And then you step aside and let him in. In one smooth step, Namjoon is in your apartment, glancing around with a curious little smile. You watch him for a few moments, admiring the shimmery silk of his cream shirt and loose black tie before your gaze falls back down to the cups in his hand.

“Isn’t it a little late for coffee?”

Namjoon’s smile widens into a full-fledged grin. “I’ll admit, I didn’t exactly take the hour into consideration when I made my purchase.”

“You really should have,” you admonish, reaching out to take the coffee from him and turning down the hallway toward the kitchen. “I’ll never be able to sleep after drinking this.”

“I’m sure we’ll find a way to tire you out,” Namjoon says serenely, but you don’t miss the wicked note in his tone. His voice is low and soft, and you can tell from the proximity of the sound that he is following after you. Thanking every lucky star that your back is toward him, you enter the kitchen and shift the tray holding the cups to one hand. Pulling open the silverware drawer with the other, you pluck out two forks.

“Hungry?” you ask, offering him one without meeting his gaze.

Namjoon chuckles and accepts the proffered utensil. “Quite, actually. Thank you.”

You hum in acknowledgment, tamping down the urge to ask him whether or not he’d prefer human souls over Chinese takeout. Instead, you make your way over to the small dining table in the corner, perching comfortably on one of the chairs and setting down the coffee. Namjoon takes the other seat, placing the bag of food carefully on the table, and you are all too aware of his eyes lingering on you as you select a carton and tear into it. “Want some noodles?” you ask after a few seconds of chewing, awkwardly offering the box to him.

“I’m all right with chicken for now,” he replies, jabbing a piece of sauce-covered meat for emphasis. You can’t help but watch, transfixed, as he brings it to his mouth, plump lips parting to receive the food and throat bobbing when he swallows. “Why don’t we trade in a bit?”

“That… yeah. That sounds good.” Tearing your gaze from his mouth, you force your attention back on the carton in your hand, vehemently spinning your fork around the noodles. His presence is magnetic, stirring a very different kind of hunger in the pit of your belly, and despite your best efforts at suppression you know it’s all in vain when you catch sight of Namjoon’s knowing smirk.

When he speaks, however, his voice remains perfectly even. “Are you all right? You look rather flushed.”

Your cheeks grow warmer under his scrutiny. “I’m fine.” Picking up one of the cups, you take a quick sip, noting with surprise that the perfect amount of cream and sugar has already been added. It does nothing to quell the heat curling in your belly though, and Namjoon knows it as well, his wicked smirk growing. You watch, frozen, as he reaches across the table and taps your chin, gently tilting your face up as his other hand comes up to rest against your forehead.

“You’re feverish,” he murmurs.

“And you’re teasing me,” you mumble back, your mouth moving before your brain can caution it to stop.

Dark amusement glitters in equally dark eyes, mesmerizing and hypnotic. “That pretty little mouth of yours is going to get you in trouble one day,” he says conversationally as he rises to his feet, his larger figure towering over your seated one. You suddenly feel very small.

When his hand comes up to tap your chin again, you all but melt into his touch. Namjoon urges you to stand, his thumb trailing along your jawline until his open palm is cupping the nape of your neck and his long fingers are threading through your hair. For a moment, his hand tightens and the dull throb of pain that shoots through your scalp has your knees buckling, almost dropping to the floor. But Namjoon is quick to slide his arm around your waist and prop you up against his firm chest. The silken shirt he’s wearing does nothing to hide the hard planes and ridges of muscle, and you let out a soft sigh of appreciation as your hands find purchase on his broad shoulders.

“Do you have any idea what I want to do to you?” he murmurs, hot breath fanning across your cheek. “What I’ve wanted to do since we met that day at the library?” His lips are at your ear, hand still twined through your hair, and already you are drunk on his spellbinding presence and dizzying proximity. Wordlessly, you shake your head, and you feel the way his lips curve up against your jaw.

“Would you like to find out?”

You shouldn’t. You really, really shouldn’t. But your logic is dwindling with every passing second, and the simmering heat in your belly only grows when his mouth dips down to nip at the column of your throat.

Breathless, you nod your assent, watching as his smile grows to impossibly wide proportions at the simple motion. His arm tightens around your waist as he moves to guide you down the narrow hall leading to your bedroom, your anticipation growing stronger with every step you take. Yet Namjoon’s pace remains steady and unhurried, his strong hand firmly anchored at your hip.

It feels as if eons have passed by the time you reach your bedroom door. Ever playing the role of gentleman, Namjoon is quick to hold it open and allow you to pass through first, a guiding hand lingering at the small of your back. Vaguely, you hear the door fall shut behind you, but you hardly have time to register the sound before both his hands return to your body, pulling your back flush against his warm chest. Through the thin layers of fabric, you can feel every taut ridge of defined muscle, your fingers itching to reach out and touch him. The simmering anticipation in your tummy sharpens and coalesces into something more needy, begging for relief—and it seems he is just as impatient underneath that calm, collected exterior.

“Get on the bed for me, pet,” he murmurs, mouthing at the sensitive skin just below your ear. A shiver runs up your spine at the nickname, tingling and electric, and you immediately rush to obey his order. The mattress dips beneath your weight as you settle onto it, and you don’t miss the way his hungry gaze takes in the exposed flesh of your legs and skims up the rest of your body. “Clothes off,” he commands huskily, stepping forward until he is bathed in the wan, silvery moonlight shining in through the open window.

Wordlessly, you reach down to the hem of your shirt, sighing softly as you tug it up and over your head. Your skirt follows, landing in a heap on the floor, and Namjoon is beside you before you can even breathe in again, his tall figure looming over your seated one as he rakes over your appearance with glimmering approval. He lingers on your lace-clad breasts for a few long moments, seemingly memorizing the exact swell of each before moving down to the apex of your thighs, and your breath hitches when you see his eyes noticeably darken. You’re sure that there is a visible damp spot on your panties, and judging by his ravenous expression, you realize that he must have seen it as well.

“Stunning,” he breathes softly. “Absolutely stunning.”

You silently congratulate yourself on your lingerie choice, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Thank you.” A deep breath later, you boldly add, “Sir.”

A satisfied smirk stretches across his face, one hand coming down to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “On your back, pet,” he commands, humming in approval when you obediently lay down. The sheets are cool against your bare skin, and Namjoon raises an amused brow when you suppress a shiver. “Are you cold?” The mattress dips as he takes a seat beside you, perceptive gaze raking across your prone figure.

“Not anymore,” you murmur, tilting your head back and letting your eyes slide shut, unwittingly exposing the long line of your throat.

The smooth glide of Namjoon’s hand along your neck sends your eyes flying open again, seeking out the predatory gaze of the man hovering above you with his fingers wrapped loosely around your throat. “Are you afraid?” he asks softly, voice deceptively gentle.

This time, you hesitate. Namjoon is dangerous—this much you know to be true. Yet, you can’t deny that you are intrigued by what the night will bring. “No,” you whisper.

He smiles. “Good.”

I really do have terrible survival instincts, is your last thought before Namjoon leans down and presses his lips to yours. All at once, your eyes flutter shut, your mind going hazy as your mouth parts to receive him. Your heart takes off at an unsteady gallop against your ribcage, and when his tongue slides against yours it skips a beat entirely.

Perhaps foolishly, you’d expected fire and brimstone when your lips met, but Namjoon tastes vaguely of coffee and dark chocolate. You’re not sure what to make of the fact, and you aren’t left much time to dwell on it either. Namjoon chuckles softly as he pulls back to allow you a breath of air, his hands wandering down your stomach and along your hipbones. “So pretty,” he breathes, roving dangerously close to your dripping core. Experimentally, he presses the pad of his index finger against your lace-covered clit, a smirk curling his lips when you release a shuddery moan and arch off the bed. “My perfect, pretty toy,” he murmurs in appreciation. “Tell me, little girl, do you want me to fuck you?”

“God, yes.” The affirmation escapes you in a whimper.

The man—no, demon—chuckles and straightens up, nimble fingers beginning to undo his belt. “No god can help you now, pet,” he croons wickedly, pushing his dark slacks down his hips to free his cock. Your tongue darts out to moisten your lips when you notice the tip already glistening with beads of white, a pronounced ache settling in your core as you await further instructions.

For a few long seconds, Namjoon simply stands there. One hand drops down to wrap around his length, stroking along the shaft almost thoughtfully as he regards your figure splayed across the bed. You watch as his penetrating gaze trails from your toes to your crown, lingering on your thighs and the swell of your breasts before finally coming to a rest on your face. His lips curl up into an amused smile.

“Sit up, pet.”

You do as he commands, shifting into a seated position atop the mattress with your legs curled up beneath you. Namjoon’s hand comes down to curl around the nape of your neck, gently urging you to turn until you are facing away from him. Then he’s pressing you down, until your back is flat against the sheets and the crease of your neck is at the edge of the bed, your vision turned upside-down. Your breath catches in your throat as Namjoon lets out a satisfied hum, one long finger tracing the delicate skin of your exposed neck.

“Such a wanton little thing,” he remarks calmly, as if commenting on the weather. His hand trails up further, running along the line of your jaw before skimming across your chin to settle on your bottom lip. At his gentle insistence, your lips part, and Namjoon’s smirk grows as he slides his thumb into your mouth.

Immediately, you close your lips around him, sucking gently before running your tongue around the pad of his finger. Namjoon inhales sharply, and the dark glimmer of hunger in his eyes coalesces into something almost tangible—something hot and heavy that surrounds you like a blanket. Silently, he removes his thumb from your mouth.

A moment later, the head of his cock is prodding against your parted lips, urging them wider to accommodate his substantial girth. You allow your jaw to slacken as he pushes farther in, focusing solely on breathing through your nose as he hits the back of your throat. “You’re doing well, sweet thing,” he croons softly, reaching down to stroke your cheek. “So sweet, taking my cock like this. I bet you can take all of it, right, pet?” His hips rock forward, and tears spring to your eyes as the tip of his throbbing length slides down into your throat. Gagging around the intrusion, you almost pull back, but the hand wrapping around your neck stops you in your place. Still teary-eyed, you glance up at an amused Namjoon, one of his dark brows raised appraisingly. “Right, pet?”

His deep voice leaves no room for disagreement, so you nod as much as you can under the circumstances, with your head tilted back against the side of the mattress and his dick still lodged in your throat. Your vision is beginning to swim, the tears escaping your eyes and trickling the wrong way down your temples and into your hairline. But your acquiescence seems to satisfy Namjoon, who loosens his grip on your neck and surges forward once more, halting only when his hips are nestled firmly against your chin and your throat’s swollen with the entirety of his length.

You’re positively aching by this point. Heat curls at the base of your spine and flares outward, rushing through your veins like fire until you feel fit to burst. You are painfully aware of the frantic rhythm of your heart, beating in time with the throbbing of Namjoon’s cock in your mouth. Everything burns.

And then Namjoon begins to move.

The first thrust is shallow as he gets a hold of his bearings, but he leaves little time for you to adjust. Each subsequent snap of his hips has you gagging around him, and the tightening of your throat only seems to spur him on. “Look at you,” he croons. “Such a pretty little slut, choking around my cock.”

Pride wells up in your chest and instinct has you stretching out, relaxing and opening up more of your body for him to possess. In the short time you’ve been acquainted, you have discerned that Namjoon does not like losing control—not one bit. Every fiber of his being screams dominance and authority—from the mildly curious expression that betrays nothing of his true feelings to the ashy silver hair that’s so perfectly slicked away without a single strand out of place. He is the very picture of composure. So when you look up to see his face crumpled in pleasure, his dark eyes sliding shut and lips parting to release a low groan, it’s all the more satisfying.

Saliva pools in your mouth, easing the slide of his cock as he increases his pace. A thin trickle dribbles out of the corner of your lips, joining your tears and dampening your hair, but Namjoon is relentless and you find that you can no longer control your breathing with the way he’s fucking your mouth. Your vision grows hazy as your brain realizes its own oxygen deprivation and goes into survival mode, relaxing your muscles and letting your eyes flutter shut. You have no strength left—not even to raise a hand and warn your tormentor of your dire state.

Just when you are certain that you’re about to pass out, Namjoon pulls back. Instantly, you gasp in a desperate breath, almost choking on the stream of air rushing back into your lungs. Your throat is burning from his harsh treatment, but it’s nothing compared to the scorching fire in your core. There’s no doubt in your mind that your panties are soaked through, your legs rubbing together in an attempt to quell the ache in your clit.

Namjoon zeroes in on your movement immediately, chuckling lowly as he reaches down and spreads your legs open. “Now, now,” he chides, a wicked smirk curving his lips, “I didn’t give you permission to do that.”

When you find your voice again, it comes out as little more than a raspy croak. “I… please, sir.” Your gaze flickers down to his cock, still glistening with an unholy mixture of saliva and arousal, and Namjoon’s smirk widens when he sees what has caught your attention.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, cupping the back of your head and urging you to sit up on the bed. “Are you already that desperate for my cock again?”

Hesitantly, you rise up into a kneeling position, drawing your legs underneath and pushing up until you are almost level with him. Sucking in another deep breath, you try to ease your frantic heartbeat into a more regular rhythm. “Please,” you murmur, your voice little more than a warble. “Please.”

Namjoon straightens to his full height, forcing your head back so that you maintain eye contact. His other hand trails down to pull his pants back over his hips, and you bite your lip when you see the teasing outline of his erection against the dark material. “What makes you think you deserve my cock tonight, little girl?”

You flush under his scrutiny, watching the way his brown eyes rake across your half-naked form. “M-maybe I don’t,” you manage softly. Embarrassment rises up in your chest like a plume of smoke, but you tamp it back down and plow forward with a stubbornness you didn’t know you possessed. “I-I’ll work for it, if it’d please you, sir.”

Namjoon’s gaze darkens to obsidian, so shadowy and deep that you almost feel as if you’re drowning. His irises are unnaturally wide, and seem to grow until there is barely any white surrounding the inky blackness. “Work for it, hmm?” he hums, his thumb stroking along your temples. “Why don’t you come sit in my lap then, pet?”

The words send an electrifying tingle down your spine. Intrigued, you watch as Namjoon sits down and gestures for you to straddle him.

And then:

“One leg on either side of mine, pet, and grind against my thigh like a good girl.”

A groan leaves your mouth as you obediently climb into position, his thigh pressing up against your core. You’re certain that you’re soaking through the fabric of his slacks even with your panties acting as a barrier, and the thought sends warmth blossoming across your cheeks in a bloom of color that only worsens when he reaches around to unclasp your bra. The lacy garment falls uselessly to the ground, and you keen when he thumbs across your pert nipples, the sensitive buds hardening at the sudden exposure to the cool air.

Hesitantly, you roll your hips once, a soft gasp escaping you at the delicious friction against your clit. Namjoon’s hands slide from your breasts to your hips, fingers digging into the flesh with almost bruising force as he urges you to continue with your sinful movements. You whimper as he increases your pace, and when he flexes his thigh, pleasure rockets up your spine like lightning. “O-oh! Fu-uuuck, Namjoon!”

He raises a single, perfectly arched brow. “What did you just call me?”

All the air whistles out of your lungs at the palpable danger lacing his tone. “I-I’m sorry, sir.”

Satisfied with your apology, Namjoon gives you an absolutely devilish smirk. “That’s a good girl.” His hands tighten around you, and you keen out a high-pitched curse when he shifts his leg to press against your clit harshly. You feel positively fit to burst, and it seems the demon underneath you knows it too. “Why don’t you let go and cum for me, sweet thing?” Namjoon murmurs, rubbing deceptively soothing circles into your skin.

It’s pointless to resist the allure of his words, and it only takes a few more rolls of your hips before you are shaking apart in his grip, one of his hands coming up to smooth comfortably along your spine as he murmurs hushed praises in your ear. He’s kind enough to allow you to continue grinding against him even in the throes of your orgasm, helping draw out every last bit of pleasure until you fall still in his grasp, your legs weak and utterly boneless.

Namjoon’s gaze is darker than ever, something wicked glimmering the unseen depths of his irises. “Oh, pet,” he croons, sliding one hand into your hair and angling your head so that his lips are mere millimeters away from yours. “You’re already such a mess, and I’ve barely touched you.”

You wriggle weakly in his grip, feeling the way his fingers dig a little more firmly into the small of your back. “S-sir,” you breathe. The thin lace of your panties is drenched by this point, sticking uncomfortably to your folds and reminding you just how aroused you are. “Please. Please, I need more.”

Namjoon grins. “She’s still begging,” he hums to no one in particular, sounding thoroughly pleased. “What do you need, pet?”

Hot embarrassment rises up again, but your lips form the words anyway. “Y-your cock, sir,” you stammer weakly, grasping at the silky material of his shirt. “I-I need your cock.”

The demon chuckles. “Be more specific, pet. Where do you need it?”

“Inside…” Your voice breaks off, and, swallowing, you try again. “Inside my pussy, sir. P-please.”

He hums, pleased. “Good girl.” Reaching for the tie knotted around his neck, he begins to loosen it, obsidian gaze never once leaving yours as he tosses the thin strip of silk carelessly onto the bed. His shirt comes off next, creamy material sliding off his shoulders to reveal the taut, tanned skin beneath. Anticipation swells within you, growing to almost unbearable levels when he reaches for his belt.

“Sir, please—“

Namjoon closes the distance between you in an instant, laying a finger against your lips. “Hush, pet. Back up against the pillows.”

Slowly, you obey, sliding back until you are sinking into the downy softness of the pillows at the head of the bed. Namjoon joins you, and in the span of seconds, he has his tie looped around your wrists and secured to the metal poles of your headboard. Leaning back, he surveys his work with a faint smirk dancing on his lips, dark gaze trailing from your flushed face to your heaving breasts until he reaches the apex of your thighs.

“So pretty,” he breathes. “Look at you, all nice and spread out for me.” Your heart stutters, and when his thumbs hook into the waistband of your panties it misses several beats altogether. The lace slides down your thighs easily, disappearing into the tangle of sheets below, and the flush blossoming across your cheeks worsens when Namjoon leans back to drink in the sight of you laid bare before him. “I can’t wait to ruin this delicious little cunt of yours,” he murmurs, gently running the tip of his index finger along your drenched folds.

You shudder at the insubstantial touch, toes curling at the pinpricks of pleasure suddenly dancing along the base of your spine. “Then don’t.” The words escape you in a breathy exhalation.

Namjoon clicks his tongue. “Dangerous words, pet,” he chides, leaning down and grasping your chin delicately between his thumb and forefinger. Slowly—deliberately—he presses forward until his lips brush yours, the touch feather-light and fleeting. Your fingers twitch with the sudden desire to tangle in his ashy hair and tug him in for a deeper kiss, but the bonds around your wrists prevent any motion beyond an unsatisfying swing from side to side. Your tormentor watches you struggle with an amused gleam twinkling in his obsidian eyes and a smirk twitching his cheeks. “I’ll release you if you’re good,” he promises, his lips tilting into a fully satisfied smirk when you immediately cease your struggle.

And then he’s pushing his slacks back off his hips, the metal buckle of his belt clanking softly. You watch in rapt fascination as the dark material falls away to reveal a new expanse of honeyed skin, stretching across the taut lines of his pelvis and descending down to where his cock stands proudly, hot and leaking and achingly familiar. A thrill runs through you at the sight.

“You’re drenched,” Namjoon hums, perverse delight lacing every syllable as he leans down and lays a kiss on your inner thigh before pulling back and tracing a slow, deliberate circle around your sensitive clit. A hoarse chuckle escapes him when you instinctively raise your hips for more and he immediately splays a strong hand on your stomach. “Patience, pet,” he coos, kissing your jaw.

And then he slides his index finger inside you, your sopping entrance offering up no resistance to the intrusion. Every muscle in your body seems to contract around him, drawing him farther inside your willing body, and Namjoon obligingly slips a second finger in beside the first, digging up and in as he endeavors to find the spot that will have you seeing stars.

You know he’s found it when a sudden rush of electric warmth bubbles up in your belly, pulsating in time with the rhythm of his hand. His thumb finds your clit again, rubbing hard, insistent circles around the bud, and it doesn’t take long for your body to tense under the onslaught of pleasure.

“Fu-uck, sir,” you plead, trying in vain to wriggle free of the hand still splayed across your stomach. “Please.”

“I don’t think so,” he purrs, looking every inch the demon he is as he retracts his fingers, stealing away your orgasm and dulling the heat in your belly to a simmer. Glittering obsidian eyes lock with yours as he settles between your legs, gently pushing your trembling thighs apart to accommodate his body. You whimper when you finally, finally feel the head of his cock prodding at your soaked folds.

“Sir,” you entreaty, meeting his heavy gaze.

Namjoon chuckles. One strong hand settles on your hip, digging into the tender flesh and anchoring you in place as he begins to press forward, inch by torturous inch.

It feels as if an eternity has passed by the time he sheathes himself entirely inside you, his bottom lip pulled between his teeth as he suppresses a hoarse groan. You can only keen at the surge of fullness, clenching around his substantial girth and fighting back the dull sting of pain that accompanies the breach. Namjoon is bigger than any partner you’ve ever had in the past, and you are certain that you’re being stretched to your absolute limit as your walls mold around every ridge and vein of his throbbing cock.

“You’re so tight.” Namjoon trails a finger up along your throat, and you swallow harshly as he traces the outline of your jugular vein before moving downward and refocusing his attention on the soft swell of your breasts. “So tight and warm and wet. It’s been so long since I’ve been with a human girl—I’d forgotten just how sweet your kind are.”

For a moment, you wonder just how many humans he has seduced before, but that train of thought is quickly derailed when he runs his thumb over your nipple, swirling around the hardening bud. His other hand remains curled around your hipbone, his grip tightening as he begins a slow rhythm. Your fingers ache to curl around his neck and pull him closer, but the silk tie wrapped tight around your wrists prevents any such motion. Instead, you can only wind your legs around his waist, your heels digging harshly into his lower back and your lips parting to release a low moan.

At the sound, Namjoon’s pace becomes even more leisurely, a smirk growing on his handsome face when you let out a protesting whine.

“Namjoon—“

“Patience, pet,” he purrs, forgiving your slip of the tongue with a deep chuckle and a finger rubbing teasingly against your clit. The sudden spike in pleasure has you gasping and writhing against your restraints once more, but the demon hovering over you just grins. “Why don’t you try begging again?”

All sense of propriety and pride evaporate in the wake of his taunt. “Please,” you warble weakly, wrapping your legs more firmly around him as if to urge him on. “Please, I need more.”

He gives you a terribly self-assured grin. “Be careful what you ask for, sweet thing.” You barely have time to process the warning before he rears back, retreating until only the head of his cock remains inside you.

And then he is surging forward, a strand of ashy silver hair falling across his forehead as his hips meet your skin with a resounding smack. The force of the thrust sends you sliding back against the sheets until your bound forearms are sliding against the cool metal grill of the headboard, and you are suddenly grateful for the silken material grounding you to earth as Namjoon abandons all semblance of self-restraint with a snarl. Every subsequent thrust pushes you farther backward, and it’s all you can do to curl your fingers around the metal bars as your secured wrists scream in protest.

“Fuck,” Namjoon growls into your ear, his voice so deep and cavernous you almost get lost in the sound. Your thighs tense around him as he picks up his pace, and somewhere between the keens and whimpers leaving your mouth, you manage to moan out something that sounds suspiciously like his name. Another growl ripples through his chest, a thumb and a forefinger reaching down to grasp your chin, and when your gazes meet it’s as if all the air has been snatched right out of your lungs.

It takes you a few seconds to realize that his hand has gravitated down to your throat, his grip unyielding as his stare continues to bore down into you. You’ve never felt more exposed—physically or mentally—and as your oxygen supply dwindles you wonder again if you’ll manage to survive this encounter. Terrible survival instincts, a reprimanding voice in the back of your mind sighs, already defeated. Absolutely fucking awful.

Black spots are beginning to cloud your vision, but still Namjoon does not release his grip. Your eyes flutter shut and your heartbeat slows to a whisper.

But then something warm starts to stir in your lower belly, bubbling up so suddenly that you are fully unprepared for the white-hot burst of pure heat that follows. Molten pleasure floods through your veins in a rushing torrent that washes every black spot clean away, your body shaking apart in spasms. The orgasm leaves you utterly boneless, and you barely register the feeling of Namjoon coming undone alongside you, growing impossibly before painting your walls in creamy spurts of white.

It’s only when a cool palm cups your cheek that you open your eyes again, realizing for the first time that you are aching with emptiness and that Namjoon is standing and fully dressed once more. “Sleep, pet,” he murmurs, his tone laced with something that could be akin to tenderness if you truly believed that the Devil could be capable of such a thing. “You’ll need it.”

Blinking blearily, you reach for his hand and discover that your wrists are no longer tied. Your fingers brush against the bony ridges of his knuckles, and he indulges the touch briefly before pulling away and straightening to his full height.

“Sleep,” he repeats softly, his ashy hair glimmering silver in the moonlight shining through the window.

So you do.

///

When you wake again, the morning sun is just beginning to peek over the horizon. In the warm golden glow of daytime, you almost convince yourself that the events of last night had simply been a fever dream.

But you can’t deny the tingling ache that still lingers between your legs, and when you glance over at your nightstand, you spot a very familiar black tie lying there in a neat silken coil. Slowly, you reach out to touch it, rubbing the soft material between your fingertips as the memories come rushing back.

Somehow, you manage to gather your wits about you enough to crawl out of bed and meander into the kitchen for something to eat. Upon opening the fridge, you are surprised to discover that your takeout has been stacked neatly inside, and the mental image of Namjoon taking the time to refrigerate your leftovers before leaving is absurd enough to leave you giggling haplessly, bordering on manic as you sink to the ground in hysterics.

The sound of your front door clicking open draws you out of your laughing fit, and you belatedly remember that you’d given your next-door neighbor a spare key in case of emergencies several months back. Staring up into Seokjin’s bemused face, you tamp down another bout of giggles and rise to your feet, greeting him with a small smile. “Morning, Jin. What brings you here so early?”

“There was a shift in the energy around our building last night,” your neighbor says, his eyes flickering around the room cautiously. “A major shift. Definitely demonic, and the strongest I’ve ever felt. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

You shuffle your feet nervously, and Jin zeroes in on your uneasiness with razor precision and rising alarm.

“{Name},” he begins. “It… it was him, wasn’t it.”

You suck in a deep breath at his accusing tone. “I’m fine, Seokjin.”

He shakes his head. “That’s not an answer.”

“You’re right.”

Jin’s jaw drops. “Fuck, {Name}, what happened? What did he want? Did he threaten you? Did you accept anything he gave you? Oh, fuck, what if you handed your soul over to the literal fucking Devil—“

He goes on, rambling and ranting about possession and demonic contracts but you barely hear him. All you can think about is Namjoon and his soft command for you to go to sleep last night—and the five little words that followed. Five words that you barely heard as you drifted off, but are certain you didn’t imagine.

I’ll see you next time.

[hollandroos]

Love of my life | Tom Holland Oneshot

KOH Tom (or Demon Tom) x Human reader

Summary: There are 365 days in a year and you’re lucky enough to see your love on one of those days. At least they called it lucky– you called it a curse but hey, sometimes you have to learn the hard way about falling in love with demons.

Words: Around 2.9k

Warnings: Uh it’s a demon au. Heartbreak. This au isn’t for everyone so if it doesn’t seem like you, don’t read it. be nice on anon kids lmao.

Yes, this was majorly inspired by the song ‘Love of my life’ by Queen. It wasn’t at first but as I continued writing it I realised that the lyrics resonated with how it was going and had the song on repeat, so of course I had to throw in a few references. I 10/10 reccomend listening to that song. 

Gif by @starksparker / @hawkeyesscoffee

-

Love of my life, don't leave me You've stolen my love, you now desert me

There were three hundred and sixty-five days in a year, and you were alone for three hundred and sixty-four of those days.

Because on one of those days, you were blessed with the presence of your love, Tom Holland. That was for one whole day, twenty-four hours out of eight thousand seven hundred and sixty. For some it would be classed as a gift, something to look forward too but for you, it was the effect of a curse.

Because you knew that as the clock met the twelve mark you’d be torn from his arms and he’d begin a pitiful journey back to the underground while you– you’d spend the next two to three days wallowing over mug after mug of cold tea, the shirts that smelt like him (ash and mint– an odd combination, but one that worked.) and old memories.

Because before the law- or what Tom called the curse was placed, your days were filled with constant laughter, varying dates that reminded you of your teenage years again and trouble, lots of it. Because Tom was trouble, but in the very best way possible and before the curse you were even given an engagement ring.

You still had it, the ring that was the colour of his wicked crown and now, it hung around your neck on a silver chain. Even if you could never get married, because it was like you had a piece of him everywhere you went even if you also drape yourself in his shirts and hoodies. (He made sure to always bring one over every year)

Maybe you were just holding onto false hope. Maybe a strong part of you still believed that you’d get married to him and he’d come up to live with you in the mortal world and you’d wear a pretty white dress, him in a monkey suit and there’d be a cake after– your family and friends would all be there and after you’d go on a romantic getaway to somewhere hot like Hawaii, because Tom liked hot places and despised the cold. That was one of the only things he complained about when you used to get to spend every day together in London. You even talked about going to France and various places in America.

You knew it was all dreams, simply fantasies.

It was all false hope and it was hanging by a thread.

He was trouble with his jet black wings that could protrude from his shoulder blades and hang over his head, the ones that you’d run your fingers through and savour– and the sharp teeth that could bite through the flesh of those that wronged him. You’d never seen it but you could only imagine. He was trouble- handsome at that with the ashy grey and ruby red crown that only you got to touch and had even tried on, and trouble from the things he told you about the underworld– a place you were forbidden from entering despite Toms eternal love for you.

And on that one day a year he got to visit you... he’d notice how you’d only grown older while he remained youthful. You weren’t blind to the changes either, that every year left you more plagued then the one before.

He watched and tried to ignore as gentle creases took place beneath your eyes when you’d smile, one more crease then last year decorating your features despite the fact that you were still young– in human years still younger then him. He’d listen to your voice through the phone, ignoring how it got heavier and more pained as the years went but maybe that wasn’t a sign of ageing, but a sign of sorrow for your boyfriend lived not far– access was easy but you wouldn’t survive being down there for too long, and hell wouldn’t survive if he left.

And like they’d threatened, if he spent too long out of hell you’d both perish. You laughed at the threat at first but Tom assured you that it was dead serious. Tom tested those limits anyway because love was worth it, right? and now you were reduced to one day a year, any longer then that and he’d suffer in ways that were simply unimaginable. That was why he called it a curse but still– you used your one day a year because love was worth it.

And your curse was something completely different. You didn’t need a mystical being to put this curse on you, you weren’t born with it and it wasn’t one you could break. You were possessed by desire, devotion and passion. Your curse was being completely and utterly in love with Tom. So much so that at twenty-seven you were nothing more then alone three hundred and sixty-four days of the year. One would say putting your life on hold for something that was so far out of your own reach.

Loneliness was still engulfing you in its arms, whispering harsh truths and those few gentle praises as you stayed with him year after year. No one else could compete with him, nothing could come close to the love he gave.

And maybe it was all so goddamn wrong and your meeting was an accident in the first place because while you dreamed of a normal, mortal life with Tom, he dreamed of a completely different one. The king dreamed of having you on the throne with him, seated next to him with a crown on your head and a title as his queen. He dreamed of having you at arm's reach at all times simply so he could shower you in affection that he felt starved of throughout the mortal year and ravish you with jewels and other riches that he’d been hiding away.

Your differences couldn’t compete. You were both too different but one thing was for sure; you’d never get to live out either of your little fantasies.

-

Feet gently tap against the floorboards and you sit, humming a gentle tune as the clock ticked slowly– ever so goddamn slowly as you waited for it to hit twelve. Twelve am, not pm. The ring that sat on your finger was cold, the ruby red sparkling as it hit the sunlight.

Ruby red like the colour of the jewels that lined his crown. Red like the flames that burned beneath you and the red that shone in his eyes when he was angry. You’d only seen that colour red in him when they’d passed the law that prohibited him from seeing you 364 days of the year.

Twelve was when your time began. When he’d make his way to you and haul you up in his arms and treat you like a queen. You wondered what you’d do this time- If just maybe he wanted to go down to the beach where you would have a midnight picnic when the surf was at its loudest and the land was at its loneliest. Or maybe he’d want to stay behind and make love until your legs were aching and your throat was raw from calling out his name like it was your lifeline.

In a way, you felt that he was exactly that- your lifeline, the thing that kept you alive.

Until then you’d sit and wait, chewing on your bottom lip despite the fact that you knew it’d cause the skin to split. You were filled with anticipation.

There’s a sudden knock at the door that breaks the silence, pulling you from your patient wait you drag yourself to the door and don’t waste a second to peep through the small hole or ask who it is– you swing it open. You’re greeted by your dark-eyed demon, as beautiful as ever.

He stands there as real as day, smiling brightly though there was something else that you don’t take a second to work out as he steps inside the room.

“Tom.” You let out a sigh, arms going straight around his neck. You breathed in the scent of his coat, not even being able to begin what he smelt like. Whatever it was, you liked it.

He wastes no time in scooping you up into his arms, enveloping you as he’d only dreamed about for the last year and closes his eyes and take this all in- to accept that this was real and he was with you again and god he was so in love.

The demon was whipped.

“My love.” The words came out muffled against your sweater, one that wasn’t his own. One of his hands goes straight to the back of your head, only pulling you tighter against him and he swore that you’d never be close enough. He needed you in so many ways but Tom knew that the clock had already started ticking. That he now only had 23 hours and 58 minutes with you before he’d be pulled back to the very depths of hell. “My beautiful girl.”

Tom pulled back a little and noticed how you’d grown your hair out. It now hung lower then last year- and how the bags beneath your eyes were only more prominent. If he had more time with you he swore he would’ve tucked you up in bed and told you to sleep ‘til your heart’s content.

But Tom was a selfish lover and he wanted you all to himself.

“Missed you so much.” You cling to him, fingers grasping his shirt beneath the coat. “I missed you more then ever this time. I just kept thinking about you down there and counting down the minutes until we got to be like this again.”

Having him there again was almost too much. You feel a wave of emotion wash over you and you know- he knows, you never want to let go of him. You wanted to curl up and stay with him forever on earth– after being made his on paper, of course.

Toms' lips linger on top of your head, whispering sweet nothings as what he knew he had to say lingered in the back of his mind. “I was thinking about you too. Every fucking day, my love. I was hoping that you’d still be wearing that ring, just waiting for me.”

You bring one of your hands up and show him the item that still sat on your finger day and night. “I never take it off. It’s the closest I can be to you.”

You didn’t bring up the one time you’d lost it for a solid two days and searched frantically with tear stained cheeks and salty lips until you found it on the bathroom floor, trapped between the sink and the wall. It was the biggest relief of your life finding it there. The thing was simply irreplaceable.

Tom lets go of you, not liking the sudden emptiness he feels and peppers kisses to your cheeks, moving down to your jaw. “What are we doing just standing here? There’s so much time to make up for.”

You sigh at the contact. “And not enough time.” your voice lowers to a whisper that doesn’t go unnoticed by Tom who brings a finger up to brush a strand of hair away from your eyes.

“C’mon, darling, do we really want to spend our time together being sad? I got you something.”

A goodbye gift.

“I told you that you don’t have to bring me things.” You speak gently, watching as he reaches behind his back and offers a bouquet of black roses. But they weren’t like other black roses, they sparkled and your eyes widened in awe, mouth falling agape.

I’m hoping that it’ll help heal your broken heart, he wants to say, but there aren’t enough gifts he could give you in this lifetime that’d put the pieces back together.

“They’re from my personal garden and they only grow once a year but if you grow them correctly, giving them the perfect amount of sunlight and water then they can last a lifetime once picked.”

You take them gently, brushing your fingertips over the flowers. “Where were you hiding those?” You say without taking your gaze off of the things.

“You don’t want to know.” He smiles lightly. “We need to talk about something.” The demon stops, wetting his lips. Behind him, black wings flutter nervously. But no, because a demon didn’t feel nervous. “About us.”

“Yeah? I’m listening.” You prompt him, moving away to grab a vase. You grab a clear one, filling it with water and put the jet black flowers in while Tom waits. In the meantime he takes a seat on your couch, noticing the screwed up blanket and creases from where you’d previously been sitting.

Tom swallows harshly, his wings suddenly tensing. He’d refuse to admit that he’d already cried over this and he refused to cry about it again, especially not in front of you. He debated spending a full twenty-three hours with you first, making the most of every single second but then it’d come across as he’d been using you. Plus, how could he have fun when it was the only thing on his mind? He simply couldn’t.

If Tom were a human, he’d swear he’d die and go to hell for what he was about to do to you.

Tom toys with the fluffy blanket, picking at loose strands. “You must need a break from– from waiting around, right?” He hesitates.

The flowers shone on the kitchen windowsill, glittering beneath the moonlight and you trudged over, trying to make sense of what he was saying.  You struggle to take your eyes off of them, your heart fluttering in content for now.

“I’m confused, waiting around for what?” You shrug and take a seat next to him on the couch. The two of you are facing each other and somehow, you notice that Tom looks more broken then you.

He shutters. “For me every year. It’s exhausting, isn’t it?”

“It is but it’s worth it when I get to see you, even if it’s just once a year.” You try to hide your nerves behind a small smile but Tom sees right through you. “I don’t understand what you’re trying to say.”

You want to scold him for wasting precious time. You could’ve begun baking sweats by now and he’d be stealing the spoon

“Y/N.” He uses your first name, something he never did. “This isn’t fair on you. I’m trying not to be selfish here and keep you all to myself because I know that you have your entire life in front of you. You’re getting older–”

“Do you not like me anymore? B-because I’m no longer as young as I was when we first met.” You choke back tears, playing nervously with the red ring. It was a nervous habit you’d picked up.

“My love.” Tom stops you, brown curls hanging in tousled strands. “What I mean to say is that you deserve a life outside waiting for me. And as much as it pains me to say this, you deserve to find someone that can be with you whenever you need them. I get twenty-four hours to shower you in all of the love and affection I can but that’s not enough. I can provide you kids or a… a real life.”

“You’re enough for me. This, what we have is enough.” But it wasn’t enough and you knew it as well as he did. “You have always been the one for me.”

But it was like Tom had already made up his mind. But of course he had, he had spent the last year going backwards and forth after all. Harrison was dead sick of hearing about it by now but yeah, he’d still be waiting at the gates with open arms for his broken-hearted best friend on his return.

“But I’m not. It’s selfish of me to keep making you do this, making you wait when you could be out there meeting someone knew– travelling the world and getting married. Remember your dream wedding you told me about? With all the flowers.”

You shake your head, tears welling up in your eyes. “I don’t need a wedding or to see the world if I have you by my side.”

“But you don’t have me by your side and you know that. I’m never here, I’m never the person you need and that isn’t either of our faults.” Tom thought about his next words wisely because the largest part of him that was so in love with you, absolutely smitten and head over heels wanted nothing more then to swallow them whole and move on. But the part that knew you were isolated, wasting away and needed to move on pushed him out of his comfort zone. “But I’m the one holding and back and I think it’s time I let you go.”

For 364 days you’d waited for this day, imagining only how perfect it’d be. How happy and content you’d feel with him by your side again but if anything this felt just like the last 364 days. Only you felt a little more broken hearted. A little more let down.

“I don’t think you realise how much you mean to me.” You mutter, choking back a sob. You took a moment to memorise every single one of his features from the light freckles dotting his cheeks to the sharpness of his jaw and bruised knuckles.

“No, that’s the thing. I realise exactly how much I mean to you and that’s why I’m doing this.” He hated saying that. He hated admitting the truth because the truth was destined to break your heart. “You’re the love of my life.” He breathed out. “There is no other human, no demon nor angel that can compete with you, my love.”

“Then don’t go.” Your voice breaks with so much fear and confusion, cheeks beginning to heat up as he admits that you were practically one in many million. “Don’t go, just stay here and don’t leave.”

You barely saw how pained Tom looked through your own glassy eyes. Feeling emotions this strong was almost unheard of for demons and Tom had been oh so good at keeping everything inside– refusing to even utter your name to anyone but Harrison because he refused to put you in danger.

He isn’t even able to reply and you speak again. “So you just break my heart then leave? That’s it?”

Tom shakes his head, strands of hair brushing against his forehead.

“My love, the last thing I wanted to do was break your heart but this will be better in the long run.” He reaches a hand up and brushes a strand of hair away from your eyes, one that was stuck to your cheeks with help from salty tears. “I’m letting you live your life.”

You bask in just the feeling of his hand on you and flutter your eyes shut. “My life isn’t complete without you in it.”

Tom stands up, your fingers reach up as you run your fingers down the feathers. You wanted to remember what they felt like. The things tended to be soft, the perfect blanket after a long days work. They fluttered beneath your fingertips.  Before the cruel laws were put in place his favourite thing to do was wrap you up in them as you slept. He hadn’t done that in a long time because when you were together now, you didn’t sleep.

That was only one of the simple things he missed.

“But it will be with time.” He tells you, stepping back until he was at least within a few feets distance. “Slowly you’ll move on. You’ll find someone new and they’ll put together every single broken piece. They’ll make you happier then I ever could.”

Because you did get married and you did get the large arrangement of flowers you’d always dreamed off. But right there, dead centre was a black rose. It was the piece that stood out the most, catching your eye every time you so much as glanced at the undying thing.

And for a while you were happy but your mind always ran back to the man that waited patiently below. Tom had lied because after a while, you grew miserable and yeah, his days were just as miserable as yours. He was angrier since then, growing more violent upon learning of your marriage. He only softened after the birth of your daughter. The news excited him.

But in the end, the truth was that you were never going to get into Heaven after your romance and lasting feelings for the demon anyway. There was no chance– so you would meet again, and you did.

Because Tom was the love of your life, and you were his. And a love like that never dies.

Please remember to reblog or send me an ask telling me what you thought of this - or reblog!

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