#but be doing all sorts of positions in their heads

[innerfare]

Smutty Zoro Headcanons 

Summary: a collection of NSFW Zoro headcanons

Genre: pure smut (afab!reader)

CW: high sex drive Zoro, oral sex, smug Zoro, use of Zoro's bandana as a gag (yes it tastes like sweat and no he doesn't care), creampies

———

Super disciplined, will go periods of time where he doesn’t jerk off (certainly doesn’t have sex) just to prove some sort of point to himself about a warrior’s restraint or whatever. Thinks he’s super good at this, but he gets noticeably more cranky during these times; Robin knows what’s up, but she doesn’t tell anyone, just giggles when Zoro bites someone’s head off. 

Pretty soon after meeting you, he replaces his ‘fasting’ with fucking. It becomes like a form of meditation for him. He despises himself for it. He doesn’t beg for the pussy like a certain cook, but he worries he would if you made him, and that’s enough to make him grind his teeth. 

Might get a little too into eating you out. He doesn’t ask if he can do it, just grabs you, pries your legs apart, and takes what he wants. Will spit into your hole and push it in with his fingers like an oral cream pie (anything to get his bodily fluids inside you). 

A stallion. So much stamina it’s unreal, to the point you worry there’s something wrong with you because it seems he doesn’t even have to work to hold back his orgasm. He can also cum on command. It’s kind of impressive. 

Teasing doesn’t work on him. If you do, he’ll call your bluff (Zoro is the literal king of acting disinterested). It won’t be long before he’s sitting with his back to his headboard, hands behind his head and legs spread, as you do all the work he would have done happily had you not been so annoying, pumping yourself up and down on his thick cock while he wears a devilish smirk. (Inspired by the scene in Punk Hazard when Tashigi goads him and he just sits back against the wall and lets her fight Monet herself; smug bastard.) 

You can get under his skin in other ways, though. If you touch his swords, ruffle his hair, call him cute/adorable, assert yourself as a better fighter, etc., he’ll take it out on you as soon as he manages to get you under him. His favorite position is from behind, crushing you with his big, muscular body, his strong hands wrapped around your wrists like shackles. Wants to claim you, and most especially, wants to wrestle with you. 

Roughhousing that turns into sex is very common, to the point there’s basically no difference between the two. Zoro is merciless, too. Don’t think for a second he'll let you win or that he won’t make fun of you when you lose. If you get upset, he’ll stroke your hair and kiss your cheek and say, “you put up a good fight, but you're no match for daddy,” before fucking you dumb. 

Zoro putting you in a headlock. Zoro putting you in a headlock. ZORO PUTTING YOU IN A HEADLOCK!

His dirty talk is usually short and gruff, him grumbling and barking orders at you. “Hold still.” “Quiet woman.” If not that, then he’s muttering little compliments. “My good girl.” “That’s a sweet pussy.” “Go ahead and cum.” Doesn’t ask if you’re going to cum, just tells you when to cum/when not to cum. 

Guilty of clamping his hand over your mouth to keep you quiet. Even if there’s nobody around to hear, he’ll do it because he’s trying to concentrate. Also guilty of gagging you with the bandana he wears when he fights; yes, it tastes like sweat, and no, he’s not washing it just for your spoiled princess mouth. 

So smug when you’re sore it’s unreal. 

Extremely possessive. The deepest fucking you ever got from this man was after Sanji caught you one day when you slipped on deck. And jealously isn't the only thing he deals with in this way. Thinks all problems should be fucked out rather than talked out.

Doesn’t like being called sweet pet names, wants to hear his name coming from your lips. He likes being called daddy, too, but prefers it when you pair it with his name. “Daddy Zoro.” 

So into creampies it doesn’t even occur to him to want to cum somewhere else. If you tell him to pull out, be prepared to be met with a, “What? Why?” Blowjobs usually end in sex because he wants to cum inside you. And if he thinks you’re a little too hasty in trying to clean yourself up, he’ll wrestle you back beneath him and cum inside you again. 

Likes to make you fuck yourself on his cock and refuse to let you cum, forcing you to bring yourself to the edge again and again until you’re a panting mess with quivering legs. Only then will he flip you over and fuck you good. 

———

Hope you enjoyed it! If you want more, you can check out my masterlist here!

[a-b-riddle]

check tags for warnings

In the mood to write angst. Imagine you’re the conscientious observer who accidentally sees how your team talks about you behind your back.

Your morals were… complicated. You didn’t believe in killing anyone. Your faith told you that killing someone is wrong and even if it’s to save your life, handling a gun is something that doesn’t sit well with you. You’ve been to gun ranges. Mandatory for your position in the military that you have basic fire arm knowledge. But having something in your hands that could so easily take a life made you uneasy.

You were pescatarian, but tried to limit meat. Cried anytime you saw chickens in those trucks heading toward their demise. You fed stray cats around your house back home. You tried to be kind and cherished life in all most of its forms. The exception being garlic butter shrimp that was too good to give up and anytime of bug resembling a cock roach. And yes, palmetto bugs were still cock roaches.

And wasps.

Fuck wasps.

At the same time, you were pro-choice. Initially, you were pro-choice for other women, but you didn’t think you would have the strength to get an abortion. It wasn’t until you were holding your friend’s hand as she got her D&C that your views on your own body autonomy changed. It didn’t have to be medical to be necessary.

But you still refused to hold a weapon. Which is why even though you were a very talented medic, you were always judged for not carrying any sort of defense while in the field.

But no one on base would dare say anything to you about it. At least not to your face…

You got stuck instructing a training seminar when your phone continued to buzz in your back pocket. But even with the consistent messages, you didn’t falter by showing the newest members how to give basic first aid until health could arrive.

Nearly two hours later, you finally fish your phone out to see what’s going on.

Dozens of text messages in a group chat between you, Captain Price, Johnny, Kyle and Simon. You had gotten close to them over the last few months. You were halfway through your contract and were already dreading leaving knowing they were staying behind until the job is done.

You open it, your phone taking you to the first unread message.

Cpt.: Hows the arm healing up?

Soap: Fine. Hen did a good job of keeping the sutures nice and even. Should barely scar.

Gaz: Wouldn’t have a scar if she just fucking carried.

Soap: You think she honestly would even know what to do with a gun if you gave her one Garrick 😂

Ghost: Still think she’s a liability. Someone who won’t raise arms against an enemy isn’t meant to be on the team.

Cpt: Already tried. Laswell says we need the numbers. As long as she does her job there’s nothing I can do. We can’t be down a medic and it’s either her or nothing.

You shook as you continued reading the conversation.

Liability. Coward. It went on and on about how weak you were. Why couldn’t you just carry a small pistol instead of expecting everyone else to keep you safe.

It then switched to your personality. No one should be that happy. Annoying. A yapper. Couldn’t get a word in most of the time.

On and on they went until you realized they spoke so freely because they didn’t realize you were in this group chat. What did they say when you weren’t around?

You felt like a fool having extending more than just trying to be a civil coworker, but a friend. Taking on tasks that weren’t your responsibility simply to help them.

Getting a floral arrangement delivered for Johnny’s sister after she had given birth. Talking on the phone to the nursing home where Price’s mother resided trying to sort out her insurance. Taking priority Kyle when he was injured after falling out of a plane (both times) over your other patients. And always having the electric kettled going in the morning so Simon could have his tea without waiting too long.

You were helpful. Just because you had one boundary didn’t mean their words held any merit. But still you couldn’t help the deep feeling of just… betrayal? Rejection? You weren’t sure there was a word fitting enough to sum up how utterly stupid you felt.

Maybe they were right. This wasn’t a civilian setting. This wasn’t just life and death for your patients, but for you. You were out in the field with no form of protection except from others.

You weren’t abandoning your morals. You couldn’t. Not when every fiber of your being told you to remain steadfast. There was only one solution.

You didn’t have much to pack. Uniform was issued to you. Your stethoscope and some other tools came out of your own pocket. Your laptop, phone, charges. You packed all your lounging clothes and miraculously everything fit into a military duffle. Which wasn’t actually anything impressive given how big those things are.

You were confident in your decision even if it made you feel like a failure.

As you stood outside the office door you returned back to the group chat. One by one you proceeded to block all of them. You knew when you left the group they would know that the notification would pop up and they either wouldn’t give a shit that you finally knew what the actually thought of you or they tried messaging you to make amends to cover their asses. You weren’t sure which was worse.

Once you had blocked the last one, you left and knocked on the door that you had been idling in front of. A faint ‘come in’ was granted before you walked through.

“Hey, Kate.” You greeted. “Can we talk?”

[madamechrissy]

Silent Serenades

♔ An arranged Marriage with Duke Gojo ♔

♔ Pairings: Satoru Gojo x you - in this chap it's Satoru Gojo x mistress, Nanami x you It's messy and will get messier :)

♔ Warnings: Sex, infidelity, mentions of past self harm, panic attacks, cheating on both ends, cruelty from Duke Gojo. OOC. ANGST. Say hello to Mr. Nanami hehe. Gojo is TERRIBLE still, you're warned

♔ Word count this chap: 7.8k

♔ Summary: you are the diamond of the season, he is the charming Duke, it’s the marriage of the decade. Prominent families joining, and it so happens that Duke Gojo is gorgeous. But, he doesn't want you, and now you're trapped in a loveless arranged marriage. Royal AU, dark bridgerton vibes, Cruel Gojo x reader. OOC Set in 1800s England. Gojo is awful at first, HEAVY angst Basically- Gojo is a royal dick and doesn't wanna marry you

♔Part Two - ♔ Playlist ♔ Masterlist

Part Three

The next day, you had your Nanny help you dress into a simple blue dress that hugged your curves just right, but wasn’t too revealing. You had your hair up in a neat bun, with little ringlets framing your face, along with a little bonnet that has a pretty blue ribbon wrapped around under your chin.

“You look stunning, Lady Gojo.” She says softly, and you smile at her in the mirror.

“Thank you, Nan. I feel more… determined this morning. I shall have a good day, no matter what.” You say with a little smile, and she hugs you tight, you hesitantly head down the grand, winding staircase, and when you turn toward the door you bump right into Satoru’s hard body.

“Oof!” You nearly fall, but for some reason he catches you, his arm wrapping your waist before you careen on your backside. You gasp, looking up at him then, and his face is soft for just a moment as he holds you, as he looks at your face carefully, then lower. “I’m so clumsy. I’m sorry.”

He eases you to stand, adjusting his own blue suit that he is wearing, along with a brocade vest and elegantly tied cravat. His trousers are clinging to his well formed thighs, along with a glimmering pair of hessian boots. You may despise him but the man clearly dresses impeccably, something you also do, though he’d likely never admit such things.

“You are quite clumsy indeed. Off to town?” He asks, he’s brushing himself off as if to get the touch of you away. You nod nervously, looking down a bit, fiddling with the lace on your dress.

“I am indeed, do you need anything while I am out? The modiste is right by all sorts of shops.” You ask, earning a raised brow, pursed full lips… his eyes raking over you cruelly. You tense.

“I need nothing from you but for you to not exist, perhaps.” You gasp then, stepping back at the insanely harsh words, from nothing. He sighs, blinking a bit, running a hand through silky white hair before looking at you, then when he sees your tears, his haughty expression changes.

You say nothing, as you feel your chest pounding with your heart’s rhythm, your throat constricting. Composed and perfect, how!? How when you try so hard to be kind and he so casually destroys you, destroys that positivity you’d cultivated this morning. You tremble as you fight your tears, but soon they’ve overtaken you, and you’ve turned away, clutching your throat as it wracks through you.

You’re damn near hyperventilating when he has a hand on your shoulder, that burns you and fills you with disgust. “I shouldn’t have said that, are you…” You turn to glare up at him through your tears, and it’s the first time you see emotion in his face, his eyes swirling with a thin film of moisture. “I shouldn’t have.”

“I try so hard… every day… to just… to just…” You can’t breathe now, and you can feel the blood pressure rising, you can feel your fingertips go numb as your lungs refuse to work.

“Please, let’s sit, you’re-”

“Hands… off…” You’re practically wheezing now, but Gojo doesn’t remove his damn hands, he’s trying to lead you to sit down on the steps, and you’re smacking at him through the blurry vision of your tears.

“Can I get you something, you don’t look good. You-”

“You… don’t… care. Let me… not breathe…” You feel like you’ll faint then and there, as your hands press on your throat, and Gojo is gripping your shoulders, turning you around then, before you know it he’s yanked at your corset strings, loosening them, and you finally get a breath, leaned over the rail, shaking.

He’s rubbing you right between your shoulder blades as you sit on the step in front of him, trembling as oxygen comes back. You hate his touch, you hate him, you hate him so much. “Breathe.”

You want to laugh, but you can’t manage to.

Breathe as if it’s so simple.

It’s quiet as he’s rubbing your back, and it feels… calming, and you hate it, hate his touch, with his long, elegant fingers brushing bare skin. “I’m quite alright now, you may go. Do not let me ruin your day.”

His hand pauses its gentle brushes, now one is sliding down to your shoulder, and his exhale makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. “You lace your corset far too tightly, it’s digging into your back.” He makes you tremble as he runs his touch down the red criss cross marks left on your delicate skin.

“I have to make sure I don’t look bigger to you than I already do to you.” You whisper harshly, and he laughs, dark and husky.

“I already said that wasn’t true. Don’t expect me to repeat that.”

“Yes, well. Why not let me stop breathing, it would solve your problems, wouldn’t it?” You turn then, chest heaving as your body greedily sucks in breaths. “You wouldn’t have to look upon my face again.”

He blinks a bit, lips setting in a terse line as his jaw clenches, hands falling down to his sides. “I shouldn’t have said it that way.”

“Is that one of your half ass apologies again? What have I done to deserve any of this, I ask again. Any of this.”

“You need to calm down, you’re all red again.” He’s touching an overheated cheek, so you smack his hand away, earning a more typical glare from him.

“There were times I wished I didn’t exist.” You rub that scar then, looking away in the distance, your heart starts to slow down finally. His eyes dart to the action and he takes your hand in his, looking down in confusion, you yank it back quickly.

He gulps now, eyes locked there, looking visibly more pale. “I did not mean I wished you dead. I meant… not in my life.”

You blink back that emotion, wishing you could fully hide your reactions, but he pushes you until you’ll break. “I also wish I wasn’t in your life, Duke.”

You both sit there, hatred and anger lingering between you, forcing you to stand then, swiping at your face. “You cried.”

“Imagine that. Even I have a breaking point.” You adjust your dress then, as he stands, tall and looming over you.

“Turn, I’ll fix them looser.” You want to argue, but you cannot tie your own corset, so you oblige, and he begins to tie them, firm but not too tightly, deft fingers working each ribbon. “Corsets are nonsense. I don’t enjoy them. Too much work to make a woman naked.” You laugh humorlessly at that, as he keeps lacing you up.

“Well good news for you, you’ll never have to take one off me.” You quip, making him pause, stepping just a little closer, sending shivers down your spine.

He clears his throat, continuing on now. “That’s true. Thank God for that.”

You blink in anger, struggling to hold it in. “Indeed. I’m sure I’m quite hideous to you, aren’t I?”

He says nothing for a moment, hands on the ribbons of your corset just paused there, as you both breathe heavily in the entryway of the Manor. “I have not seen your body to make such judgments.”

“I’d never show you, fret not. Imagine, the first man that sees me naked tells me how disgusting I am. I’ll make sure the one who does finds me beautiful. Ah!”

He ties it tight finally, and just stays there behind you. “So eager for another man to see you naked?”

“No, I’m not, but I know the one I choose will find me beautiful. Not passable, or adequate.” You turn now, looking up at him, seeing the anger in his gaze. “Imagine if every time I saw you shirtless I said ‘unattractive’.”

He scoffs at that. “Tch, you wouldn’t, who would?”

You scoff then, smiling a bit. “Who would say that to me if they saw me topless? I assure you, nobody would.”

His eyes dart back down then, to your breasts, pushed high and full, tantalizing his gaze, but they then trail back to your pretty face. “You’re awfully confident about such things.”

“Yes well, you won’t ruin that for me too. You already have ruined my life. You will not take the confidence I built, hard as you try.”

“An abundance of it.”

“So men can have it, but women cannot? You wish for a simpering little chit to beg ‘oh Satoru, please call me pretty!’ That must be why you enjoy Miss Catherine so bloody much, and why you hate me.” You’re putting the back of your hand to your head, simpering, and earning a sharp laugh and a scowl.

“You expect men to fawn over you, as they always have, just like Lord Geto did last night, hmm?” You smile as you remember just how much Geto did think you were beautiful, and Satoru’s eyes narrow at that.

“No, I expect kindness and not cruelty. I expect to have a morning where I’m not told to not exist.” Gojo looks down, his broad shoulders hunched. “All I asked was if you needed something. You’re the cruelest person I’ve met, and you thrive in it.”

His cheeks turn red, as he looks down at your lips, eyes lingering where you've left teeth indentations from biting so hard. “You don’t even know me.”

“You don’t know me. And you never will, by your own choice.” You push past him then, and he stops you with a hand on your wrist. “What!?”

“Do you have the money I left for you in your room?” You laugh at that, a bark of laughter really, why does he insist on lingering and hurting you more and more!?

“Yes, I do.”

“You may also put anything you want on my credit. Jewelry, or shoes, ribbon, whatever you require.”

“I won’t use your money for more than necessary.”

“I’ll not have my wife with a bare neck, and there’s a masquerade coming. Purchase a mask and jewelry accordingly.”

You sigh, looking down at where he still holds your wrist, big hand taking the delicate thing over. “Fine, then, I shall do so.”

“Very well.” He lets you go slowly, but he lingers there, like the pest he’s becoming “Are you fine to go out in this warm weather after nearly fainting?”

“What do you care, it could eliminate your problem. You’d get my insanely high dowry and I’ll be gone.” You smile coldly back at him, his mouth is open, his pretty eyes sorrowful.

“I-”

“Goodbye, your grace. Tell Catherine hello when you fuck her for me.” You walk out then, slamming the manor doors behind you, pressing your back against them and struggling to come to.

Just when you think he cannot get more cruel, he does, and he’s forcing this dark part of you that you don’t know what to think of.

It’s a bit of a drive into town in the grand carriage, but the air is crisp and the horses are moving swiftly. You see the little shops as you pull up, the horses clipped and clopped on the cobblestone streets. The numerous people are all dressed in their Sunday best, couples holding hands, and it’s quite the sight.

The modiste is a charming little shop with a bell that tinkles when you walk in, and immediately a flurry of activity starts. The women inside all look up at you, gasping. “Your Grace! What brings you to us?”

You blink, as the woman who had called out is a beautiful woman with a pretty accent, she has light blue braids that decorate her pretty face, making her look mysterious. “Hello Miss Mei! I wish to pick out some new dresses for the season, it’s been a while since I’ve had any new ones made, also we have the masquerade soon which is the priority. Would you mind helping me?”

“Oh, of course, of course!” She says, bustling over, she’s tall and curved and so elegant. “Let’s get you into the back so we can have a proper look, shall we?” She grabs your hand and pulls you back into the back, as you realize the woman’s quite strong.

“Your Grace, we are so honored to be of service to you!” Her assistant, Utahime, is a delicate and pretty brunette, who cheerfully greets you. You smile over at her.

“Please, just call me Lady Gojo for now. I am not feeling so formal today, and I’d like to enjoy your company without the title weighing on us, if that’s okay?” They both nod eagerly, and they get to work, pulling out fabrics and dresses, asking your opinions.

It’s refreshing to be around such genuine cheer, such pure love for their craft, and you find yourself smiling more and more as you look over the fabrics, for a beautiful moment your cruel husband isn’t in your mind. Utahime holds up a deep blue that matches his eyes, though, but it’s beautiful. You sigh.

“Oh, yes, that’s lovely!”

“It’s perfect, Lady Gojo! And it’ll compliment your husband so nicely!” She says, as Mei Mei agrees, holding up a silver one. “This would be for a masquerade?”

“I’d like to think so, yes. I’ve not been to one in so long!”

The girls giggle a bit, as they start pulling out designs, and your mind drifts off to a past you’ve pushed aside. You’d gone to a masquerade once, before you’d met Gojo, and you’d felt so alive, dancing with a mysterious stranger, feeling his hands on you, feeling so desired. He was blond, wasn’t he!?

You’d been so young then, you still were but twenty one, but you were perhaps seventeen when you’d danced in his arms, and you can remember those glimmering hazel eyes drinking you in, a lazy smile on his face. You’d fancied yourself in love then and there, just a teenager of course, and you two had almost kissed on one of the balconies.

He’d cupped your face so delicately, and your eyes had fluttered shut. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve seen, darling.”

“You’re the most handsome man I’ve seen, Sir.” You’d tip toed, finger lifting at his mask teasingly, making him laugh. “Even more handsome I imagine without this.”

“I should say the same.” He begins to lift your mask then, off your face so gently, then he had sucked in a breath, running rough but gentle fingers down your face. “Stopped my heart.”

“Oh, you go on, Sir.” You look down shyly, but he’s tilting your chin up, his breath warm and sweet against your lips.

“An angel amongst mere mortals. Should I have such an honor?” He’s leaning further, and your heart is hammering in your chest, then you hear it, your mother.

“Shit!” You back off, putting your mask back on, earning his chuckle.

“The angel has a mouth.” You giggle then, leaning up and kissing his cheek, before backing away. He reaches for you, but you’re running off. “Perhaps we’ll meet again, Sir!”

“Let’s try this one on!” Utahime says, holding up a gorgeous gown, and you nod eagerly, shaking out of your reverie. Ah, to have been young and hopeful.

You allow them to help you out of your day dress and into this beautiful creation, and as you look in the mirror, you can’t help but feel like that girl again, the one who felt alive, the one who felt desired. The one before Satoru Gojo in just a week or so had been absolutely destroyed. You see it in your eyes, she is still there.

“You’re positively glowing, Lady Gojo!” Mei Mei says, and Utahime nods in agreement.

“Thank you, thank you both so much. This is just what I needed!” And it truly was, as you spun in the gown, watching the fabric flutter around you like a storm of silk, it’s the prettiest silver you’ve ever seen.

“We can have this adjusted before the masquerade, Is there anything else we can do for you?” Utahime asks, and you look over to the side, seeing a few accessories. “Oh, a necklace perhaps?”

“Yes I believe so. Perhaps silver to match?” Mei Mei grabs a few to show you, as you try them on, looking into the mirror.

“This one!” Utahime says, holding up a necklace with glittering sapphires. “It’s so beautiful on you!”

You agree, and they put it around your neck, the cool stone resting against your collarbone. “How much?”

It’s an insane amount but…

Fuck Gojo, you can at least get pretty things, yes?

“Thank you, so much. You’ve made my day.” They both smile broadly, and you realize how much you’ve missed this, the simple kindness of others. Leaving the manor is like a huge breath of fresh air.

As you leave the modiste, feeling so much lighter, clinging to your bag with some of your purchases, most will be delivered as they’re still being made. Then you see him, a man in the distance, watching you, and your heart stops. He's tall and blond, just like this dream of yours, just like that night…

It can’t be, can it?

He looks right at you across the bustling street, and his face lights up in recognition, a small tired smile on his handsome face. He comes across the way, stopping in front of you now, and your heart thuds in your chest. Oh but if you’d met him again, could everything have changed? But who was he?

“It’s the mysterious masquerade angel.” He teases, and you giggle a bit, as he takes your hand and kisses the back of it with warm lips.

Your eyes take in his every feature, from his sharp cheekbones, to his thin upper lip and full lower, a conundrum that begged for kisses. His hand that holds yours is so strong, rough, not like the gentlemen you’re used to, and it serves to make your heart flutter.

His hazel eyes that you remember vividly are tilted up like a cat, and he has dark circles under them, serving to show along with rough hands how hard he must work. His sandy blond hair makes you remember that dream, and suddenly you feel even more flustered, as you put it together. He’s nearly as tall as Geto and Gojo, but he’s much broader, shoulders massive under a sleek tan suit.

“How rude of me, just staring.” You give him your name, and it sounds far too good on his lips, with his deep, sultry voice, emanating so much warmth and kindness when his lips quirk. You realize he’s still holding your hand.

“Kento Nanami. It’s a pleasure to meet you again.” His thumb brushes your ring then, and he frowns down at it. “Ah, and met you too late?”

“It’s quite a long story I’m afraid, Mr. Nanami.” You say softly, he looks at you curiously, studying your face.

“Forgive me for saying this, but you look so very… forlorn. Have things been rough in this… marriage?”

“Oh…” You’re nearly about to cry in front of a near stranger, but he makes you feel so comfortable, you ache for him to hold you in his arms. “It’s been rough, yes. I should not go on here…” You notice people looking, so you ease back your hand reluctantly. “I’m afraid as Duchess I’m highly watched, and don’t get the luxury of parading mistresses.”

“What? Mistresses… oh. Fuck.” He huffs those words then, and tilts his head, and you begin to join his walk. “I know some areas that are not so busy, I live just a block from here.”

“That would be nice, thank you Sir.” His arm brushes against yours as you all walk, and you remember dancing in his arms that night. “I’m so surprised you remember me.”

“I’m more so surprised, my Lady. Or… your Grace now is it?”

“You don’t need to call me all that, please.” He hears the pain in your voice, his hazel gaze taking you in seriously as you continue to walk together, the gentle breeze blowing your bonnet nearly off. It starts to fly and you catch it, giggling breathlessly, and Nanami pauses, taking it fully off.

“I cannot even say how beautiful you are, even moreso than before. Surely the Duke would have me whipped, hmm?”

“No, actually, it’s an odd situation. He cares nothing for me.”

“Even if you…”

“No, even then. You know, I was seventeen then, Sir.” You tease, gently pushing his hard chest with two fingers, making him flush even more on those high cheekbones.

He grimaces at that. “Oh gods, were you?”

“I turned eighteen the next week, but yes I was just a girl then. How old are you, Mr. Nanami?”

“Twenty seven. I am a tired twenty seven.”

You roll your eyes. “Just six years, silly man.” He is still holding your bonnet, and he awkwardly hands it back to you, smiling apologetically. Your fingers brush, and you both pause then, it’s like little shocks run through you, you gasp a bit as you gently take it from him. “I hear daily I’m intolerable, so you have free range to speak. It’s quite nice to hear.

“Noble men seem to think they can do whatever they wish, I'm afraid. How are you not enough?”

Mr. Nanami’s words make your palms sweat, as you feel his nearness, the heat from his body as you walk next to him, to where the crowds were more dispersed. It was a little warm out as well, the sun shining on his golden skin, making it glow, as you all stand far too close, and you enjoy it so much you’d feel bad, if your husband wasn’t Satoru Gojo.

“He does not… we do nothing. It’s simply only his mistresses. So it’s not that I’m not enough, it’s that I don’t exist in that way at all.”

“What!?” He pauses again, raising a light brow, and you hesitate, looking down, where he has the most ludicrous tie on. You briefly imagine pulling it, pulling him down… what is wrong with you?

“I’m disgusting to him. So.” You hate the emotion choking your throat, he’s scowling down now, and you’re far too close. “It’s a long story, but it was arranged, and he did not want me.”

“So he doesn’t want the most beautiful woman in London?” You blush furiously, shaking your head a bit. “So who does he expect? There’s no lovelier.”

“Thank you, Mr. Nanami, but… it matters naught. It’s lonely, loveless, and I am stuck in it. I do wish we met sooner, but my parents…”

“Surely there are things to be done, even with a Duke. If you’ve done nothing, an annulment is possible. My good friend is a lawyer, perhaps I could ask discreetly?”

You tilt your head to look up at him curiously. “Why would you help me? You don’t know me.”

“Why wouldn’t I help a pretty damsel in distress, hmm?” You smile up at him, with watery eyes, and watch him suck in a breath as he studies you.

“Are you a knight in shining armor, Mr. Nanami?” You whisper, he bows then at the waist, peeking up at you and making you melt.

“For you, darling, anything.”

Fuck.

“Anything, hmm?” You both walk down the trail to the park, where it’s quiet this time of day, grassy knolls and beautiful lush flowers bloom. It fills you with an odd peace your soul has been so lacking.

“I imagine any man would offer the same. Except for your…” He trails off, as if he does not want to say his name, to say you’re married.

“The Duke.” You say softly. He sighs.

“Mmm. I’ve heard he’s a rather immature, foolish man. But to be so… such an imbecile. Is mind boggling.”

“He’s cruel to me.” You both keep walking, you’re walking with a stranger practically, but you feel more comfortable than you have since you’ve been stuck with your husband. His words still make your heart ache.

Wish you didn’t exist.

“Has he… hurt you?” Nanami pauses you, in a field surrounded by willow trees, casting blissful shadows across you both, shade from the warm sun. You lick your lower lip when he caresses your cheek gently, before pausing. “I’m sorry I should not be so bold…”

“No, please don’t stop, it feels good.” You put his hand back, your breasts rising and falling with each breath in your bodice, drawing his gaze for just a moment, before he respectfully looks back into your eyes. You’re holding his hand on your face, falling apart inside. “Not physically really. His words are the knives that twist in my chest.”

“You don’t deserve that. This sadness in your eyes… It's heartbreaking when I think of you a few years ago, glittering eyes and a beautiful grin.” You gulp a bit, stepping closer, inhaling the scent of him, like warm sandalwood.

“I wanted so badly to see you again.” You admit, lashes fluttering as you study his strong chest in this light blue dress shirt, it looks so broad and strong, your fingers itch to touch it.

“I’m not in your social circle, I’m a mere businessman. Who partakes in boxing at times.” You brush your thumb across his knuckles, calloused and scarred.

“I can tell you know how to use your hands.” He blushes then, and you blink a bit. “Was that bad to say?”

“Forgive me but… how much have you done?”

“Oh… nothing. A kiss. The duke said he will not lay with me.” Nanami takes a shaky breath, running a hand through his hair now.

“Using hands… it made me think about things I should not. Touching you.” His husky whisper makes your tummy clench with… is this desire?

“Oh.” Your voice is a breathy whisper. “I’ve seen him with his mistress, um her… riding him. So I've seen sex.”

His hazel eyes widen. “You’ve seen it!? Him with her?”

“Well yes, he doesn’t hide it. She’s always around.”

His jaw clenches, and you watch a vein popping out of his strong neck, you errantly trail a fingertip down it, making him tense even more, his free hand now on the nip of your waist. “I hate this for you. I’ll try to help, if I can.”

“For now, I will be stuck in this, and all I can think of is how good I’d feel in your arms. It’s very scandalous of me. Isn’t it?” He blinks then, lowering his face until you’re so close.

“No, it’s not scandalous to want affection. I’d say that makes you human. But would this hurt you? Would he hurt you for it?” He’s pressing you back gently, until your back is against a thick oak tree. You can’t stop the little whine that escapes the back of your throat as your own hands slide around his thick waist.

“I would not reveal who you are. But I’ve told him I will have someone find me beautiful, the first person to see me, not grotesque or… passable.”

He scoffs then, his hand sliding up the side of your breast, pressing just so, and your head falls back, as you can taste coffee on his breath. “He should not get to see your beauty. So does my darling simply want a hug from me, or does she wish for something else?”

“Your darling, hmm?” He smirks a bit, his eyes growing lidded with desire, as his hard body pressed against yours.

“Do you know how many dreams you’ve occupied? Running away from me and cursing like a man.” You giggle, brightly, and he laughs with you softly, your breaths intermingling together. Would you truly kiss two men in two days, and neither of them are your husband? “That was the grin.”

“It’s easy to forget the world with you, it was that night as well. You have no clue the awful week I’d had before we danced.” You run your hand up and down his chest, over the silky tie, fingers itching to pull him in.

“I’m glad to look upon this face again. I thought you were a dream.”

“I may have… seen you in my dream too.”

“I’m not so worthy.” You shake your head, eyes drinking him in slowly.

“You’re a very handsome man, Nanami Kento. Would it hurt you to… to kiss someone that can’t fully be yours though?”

“I’d suffer any sort of pain for a chance at you.”

“You go on too much.” You tiptoe then, pulling his tie, and one hand braces by your head on the tree, the other sliding down your back, making your nipples go taut against your bodice.

“So use your words, darling, let me know what you want?” You bite your lip at his sultry words, as you feel yourself back at that night, in his arms.

“A kiss, mysterious man. You owed me one.” He exhales then, pressing you further against the hard wood of the tree, and his lips descending on yours, so gentle and sweet, a featherlight touch that ignites something inside of you.

You whimper into his lips, and he moans, opening them then, and sliding his tongue inside, you press yours against his, in a back and forth dance, swirling around each other. Your teeth click as the kiss deepens, and now his hands are both on your little waist, overtaking it, burning through your corset, through your dress, fuck his touch feels so good, you’re leaning up for more.

Your hands enwrap in his silky hair, messing the perfect set of it up, then he shocks you, picking you up, just dangling you off the ground, you squeak a bit and he pulls back, hungry eyes, his face stark with hunger, mirroring your own. He eases you down, sliding on his hard body, and you cling tightly, trying to catch your breath.

“Imagine this pretty face cumming.” He whispers, and you are blushing as you don’t fully understand.

“Um… what is that, Mr. Nanami?” He pales a bit, sighing and cupping your face now, his free hand sliding down your hip now, leaving goosebumps in its trail.

“I’ll surely go to hell for not just you being married, but so innocent. Corrupting one as such seems a one way ticket to hell.” You giggle again, though he’s serious, glaring a bit at you. You kiss him once more, enjoying the sigh he makes.

“Explain, Sir. An order from your Duchess.” You tease, and he rolls his eyes a bit, stepping back to look at you.

“Cumming… or climaxing, it’s pleasure. For you.” He murmurs, his gaze glinting green in this light now, licking that glossy lower lip now. Your tummy clenches again, and now you feel heat… between your thighs, making you look down nervously. “Am I saying too much?”

“It’s having an odd effect. Um. Here.” You take his hand, gliding it down to your lower tummy, watching his eyes dilate, so dark as his cheeks hollow with him sucking in a breath.

“That would be desire. Is this a… first?” You nod nervously, furiously blushing now.

“To this extent yes. It’s spreading lower.”

“Going to hell for this.” You are curious but he’s back to kissing you again, and now his hand is sliding to your breasts, and he yanks your bodice down, making you gasp as he peers at the breasts that have spilled. “Fuck you’re so beautiful.”

“I… um… Nanami?” He’s cupping them, and your eyes flutter shut at how good it feels, him squishing them so gently in big hands. “Nanami!”

“Perfect. May I?” You look down curiously, as he’s sitting now, pulling you onto his lap, straddling him obscenely. You’re a mess of emotions and desire, as he kisses down your collarbone. “May I kiss them, darling?”

“Oh, you want to?”

“I’m dying to.”

“Yes, you may. Ah!” You gasp in pleasure then, as you’re feeling something hard against where you’re so eager, that apex of your thighs. You grind on it, moaning at the friction, and he’s sucking your nipple into his mouth, it feels so good you get wet down there. “Oh no!”

“What, darling?” He asks softly, and you feel so embarrassed, looking down. “You’re so hot there.”

“It’s wet. Is that…”

“Fuck you are killing me.” He’s pressing your hips down further, and you whine out in pleasure at the friction, as he’s sucking another nipple in his hot mouth. Your body is reacting so hard to it all, your head falling back, and you’re moaning loudly now. “Wet is very good, darling. But… you’re quite loud.”

“Is that bad?” He chuckles, pulling your top up, shaking his head.

“Not if we weren’t outside. Perhaps… alone.”

“Let’s do that?”

“You’re so eager for that, hmm?” You nod, and he is kissing you again, leaning up and moaning, hands trembling against your hips. “Are you sure? Do you have so much time?”

“Does it last long?”

“Pleasuring you yes. I am thinking of too many ways currently.” You take a shaky breath, trying to compose yourself.

“What are the ways? Mmh.”

“Those noises you make, gods.” He kisses down your throat, wrapping arms around you. “I’m dreaming.”

“I am.” He chuckles against your collarbone, tickling it, your hands cling to his broad shoulders. “It’s like my woes faded for a few moments.” You say sadly then, as you come to the realization of just what you’re doing. It hits hard, how easily you fall into this man’s arms.

“I could please you with my fingers, with my mouth, or both. To start.” You bite your lower lip, as you grow impossibly wetter against him. “But we’ve done a lot, and I don’t want to overwhelm you, when you’re so upset already.”

He is correct, you’re acting on instinct, there is no… thoughts here.

You were Gojo’s wife.

Would you be as bad as him if you go further?

“I’ll let you know where my apartments are, then you decide what you want. And darling, I’ll give it to you.” You feel tears flowing then, and he swipes them away, kissing on your cheeks.

“You mean make love?”

“I’m not sure you’re ready for that. No, I would please you.”

“What if I ask so sweetly?” He chuckles, and taps your nose, shaking his head at you as he eases you up to stand, holding your hands.

“You cuss and are so wanton, hmm?”

“I suppose I’m not so ladylike.”

“You’re very much a Lady.” He kisses you again, gently once more, brushing his lips over yours. “I will make some inquiries quietly, if you so decide to try.”

“I’m afraid it will be no option but it surely won't hurt. I am so very glad we met again. You’ve made me so happy.”

“I didn’t make you cum though.” You are a mess at that, and he’s smirking at you. “You’re too adorable to tease.”

“Sir!” He kisses you again and again, until you both get heated again. “What if I stay so quiet?”

“Can you even? If you’re so loud from kissing?”

“Hush, Sir.” You stick your tongue out, making him chuckle, then you hastily get yourself together, as you all head back to town. When you’re by your carriage you dread what awaits you at home. “I hope to see you again, Sir.”

“I ache to see you again, darling.” He kisses your hand once more, helping you up into the carriage, and your heart is still pounding as you ride off, covering your face and struggling to not rip your damn corset off. You’re so wet between your thighs you reach your finger down scandolously, up your skirts, finding sticky wetness glistening on your fingers.

Fuck.

You’ve never felt like this, Suguru’s kiss and unfortunately Satoru’s touches had felt a bit of that pressure, but Nanami has wrecked you. The way he touched you, kissed you, the way he looked at you. With adoration, the whispers of his sweet words tickle your ears still. You run your finger down your lips of your sex, shivering at how sensitive you are.

You’ve never touched yourself.

You’ve kissed two men in two days, now you play with yourself in a carriage, you don’t even know yourself… but fuck if it didn’t feel good, to lose yourself in his arms, and fuck if you weren’t tempted to see him again. He’d seen your breasts, which were now firmly back in your bodice, but you can see the little red marks left from his bites, from him sucking on them.

Your heart is going to burst from your chest, as you walk into your home then, and Satoru is moaning, you hear it clear as day. You tense a bit, because it sounds too loud to be far away, then he’s right there, bending over some other mistress, right on the dining room table. When he hears you he pauses, looking back and you’re getting a view of his entire ass, and someone’s thighs.

“Really, on the table?” You demand then, and he rolls his eyes, as the mistress squeals, pulling back and covering up. “Where’s Catherine?”

“She said she couldn’t any longer because you’re too nice and she feels horrible.” He adjusts himself, but not before you get an eye full of his… very large cock, huge and curved with a pink tip. You feel an odd hit again in your tummy, but it mixes with disgust as you realize where it had just been.

“I’m sorry. I won’t be as nice.” You say, and he scoffs, as you walk past now, yanking off the table cloth, not moving a single thing on it with the movement. Satoru’s blue eyes get wide in shock when you shove it into the mistress’ arms, a little brunette girl. “Have those cleaned you little chit, understood? I’ll not have you soiling such fine linen.”

She sputters, then runs off, nodding. Satoru smirks, surprising you then, you figured he’d be irritated, but he saunters to you, his dress shirt wide open, tie hanging loose now. You feel such disgust from him, clearly covered in her, red lipstick all over his throat.

“Do it in your chambers. Could you at least give me that kindness?”

“You don’t enjoy to watch? You don’t picture yourself there?” He presses you against the table now and you smirk up at him.

“Oh, not with you I don’t.”

His thin white brows lower, as he takes you in now. Your hair is loose and flowing, and you have red marks all over your breasts, earning a full fucking scowl. “What on earth have you been doing?”

“Just kissing, don’t worry. But… I got so wet, now I know what you meant that night, Duke.” You put a hand on his chest, and feel his heart race under your palm, his chest heaving as his blue eyes bore into your face.

“Wet?”

“Mmhmm. Soaking wet.” He shuts his eyes, sucking in a breath and looking away, hands clenching the table on either side of you so tightly you would think he’d break the wood. “I wasn’t that night. How could I be? Smacking doesn’t have that effect.”

“Yes well you would have been if I’d touched you.” He leans in closer, a breath away, and you just continue to smile, batting your eyelashes.

“You never will, so no matter. But I don’t think so. I think I enjoy…” You shove at him, making him step back. “Rougher hands.”

“Rougher hands!?” You giggle now, and he glares. “You’re in a good fucking mood. Ice princess can laugh?”

“I can when not being told not to exist. When not walking in on some whore screaming your name.”

“Oh whores are they, and you?”

“I’m a lady who has a terrible fucking husband. For now.”

“For now!?” You walk away now as he stumbles back, but he follows you, as you glide up the stairs, humming. “What does that mean?”

“No sex, no marriage really. So we’ll have an annulment. But we’ll give it some time for now, perhaps a year, so that you can keep ahold of that dowry.” He’s following you up each step, until he’s pinning you against the wall, but he doesn’t scare you, you see him losing it.

“So what we have sex? Is that what you’re getting at?”

“Oh no, I’m glad we don’t. I can’t wait for my first time to be special. Oh I hear my breasts are beautiful by the way.” You tap his chin with a finger, grinning, and he is huffing now, one hand entangling in your hair, the other sliding to your bodice.

“Men say anything to get under a lady’s skirts.”

“Mmm, maybe so. But it was nice to hear. Don’t worry, I won’t ask your opinion, I see who you fuck and… it’s nothing like me, is it?”

“You assume they’re that nice? Show me then. All talk.” You raise a brow, and he is fingering the lace of your bodice.

“I’m unnatractive to you, what’s it matter? But sure, Duke, you can untie my corset and let me know your nasty opinion.” You rush into your room and he’s following you, overheated as he unties you at a stupidly fast pace.

“Let me guess, he sucked on those perky nipples?” He whispers, yanking your corset off harshly, and you tilt your head curiously, feeling the chill of the room when he’s yanked it off fully. You take off your bodice, turning in just your shift then, hands on your strips as his gaze is…

Hungry?

No.

Psychotic.

“Perky hmm? Yes, he did, and it felt so good. Well, here…” You slide your shift down to your waist, looking down as you wait for his nasty comments. He says nothing, but you hear him bump into your nightstand. You look at him curiously, as his mouth is slack open, staring at them openly. “Go on, make your insults.”

He just stares, and it’s… odd, your nipples are hard from the chill of the room, as your lush breasts sway slightly when you shift from one leg to the other. You sigh, rolling your eyes then, and covering yourself back up, as he’s still sputtering, and he comes to grip your wrists now, in a tight, bruising grip, bringing your attention to his face once more.

“Say it, your Grace. Passable? Or grotesque?” You whisper, and he leans down now, until his lips are far too close, making you want to simultaneously recoil and lean closer.

You hate this man.

“They’re perfect.” He says softly, and you do back away then, with shocked eyes, as he gulps, clearing his throat, blue eyes lingering down to where your breasts nearly hang out in your shift.

“You jest with me, of course. I know you don’t-”

“They’re fucking perfect.” He says again, then he lets you go, and you feel the very room close in on you.

“As nice as the little slut you’re fucking now?” You quip, angrily, and he rakes a hand through his hair, looking down, his abdomen flexing as he moves back. “Catherine was prettier.”

“Jesus fucking…” You look down then, and notice it… the huge bulge in his pants, and you blink a bit in confusion, looking back up at him again. His face looks tortured.

“Well thanks for saying one nice thing about me. That is… surprising.” You mumble then. “It looks like you’re wanting to finish fucking that girl though.”

“Blasted you’re stupid.”

“Me stupid?”

“Stupid.” He pulls you against him then, so you shove at him now, glaring up at him. “What, I cannot touch you?”

“We don’t do that. And thank you for that, because I get to have true pleasure, and not some forced formality.”

He searches your face then. “Did you cum?”

“Did I… no… what’s it your business!?” You demand heatedly.

“You’re my wife.” Those words are so meaningless, where you once hoped to have meaning, it makes you laugh then, losing it, there was no longer composure.

“You wanted this, to do nothing with me, and guess what, I want that too. You smell like her cheap perfume, you’re covered in her wetness, you think I want you?” You ask, and he grips tighter, scowling at you.

“You think I said I wanted you? For nice tits?” Ah, there it is.

“No, I don’t, that’s why I found someone who does. Works out, doesn’t it, dear husband. Now go on, you have whores to fuck. Hop to it Duke.”

“Hop to it… you insolent little…” You’re just giggling, and he’s not glaring, it’s like he’s confused who you are.

“I see why you’re always fucking, even kissing does put me in quite a happy little mood.” You tap his cheek now, earning another grip on your wrists. “Not kissing you though, that was horrible.”

“I didn’t try to kiss you.” He whispers, lingering close once more. You ignore the flutter of your pulse at your throat. “I never wanted to kiss you.”

“That’s for the best. I’ve lost my appetite after seeing her on that table, so I won’t eat tonight. Best for you I imagine.” He glares now.

“I will have it sent to your room.”

“No need.”

“You’ll eat.” He commands through gritted teeth, and you just blink at him in confusion.

“If you wish, dear husband.” He stomps away then, slamming your door, and you can’t help but smile. You’d gotten under his fucking skin, and you got to kiss sweet Nanami Kento.

Gojo does send up food for you, he’s very confusing, isn’t he? You nibble carefully, hearing him louder than ever in the room next to you. You sigh in annoyance, but when Nanami enters your mind, you smile, you feel warmth radiating through you. It could be hopeless, but it was such a beautiful feeling you were thriving from it.

Unfortunately, instead of Nanami, it’s your rather horrid husband that is under that tree with you, that’s sucking under your breasts, with his blue eyes looking lustfully up at you, his perfect cheeks hollowed as he grinds his length against where you’re so wet. You hate it, that even in your dreams you cannot escape him, and you hate it more when he’s bending you over that table.

That Goddamn Duke.

You hate him.

[nix-nihili]

"kiss me."

it's a whisper, soft and breathy, and when charles doesn't say anything at first, edwin wonders if he'd said it at all; if the words had ever made it past the terrified tightening of his throat to sit between them like a ticking time bomb.

but the arms wrapped around him, grounding and warm as the sun had been on a crisp, bright day when he could still feel anything beyond his own orbital path's personal sun, tighten, loosen, then tighten again.

finally, charles pulls back from the embrace and stares at him – catalogues him. edwin resists the urge to shrink away. this is charles after all. charles who has seen him at his very worst in Hell. charles who would burn the world before ever even thinking of hurting him. charles who he is wholly, surely, utterly, in love with.

charles who may love him back.

edwin almost expects charles to pose a question, to ask him if he's sure? as if he could ever not be sure about this.

but charles doesn't do that.

there are hands on edwin's face, cupping his jaw, his chin, his cheeks, gently, oh so gently. another arm brackets his waist, pulling him flush against charles, closer than they already were. edwin sucks in an unneeded breath, his own hands suddenly unsure of where to rest but he doesn't get a chance to properly panic because-

because-

his first kiss had left him feeling like a fish out of water; surprised and confused. all of it had happened so quickly that edwin hadn't gotten a chance to process much of it at all.

but when charles tilts his head closer, closing the gap between them with a gentle tremor in his frame that edwin mirrors, the surprise that accompanies it is for an entirely different reason.

charles kisses like he's afraid. charles kisses like it's his last. charles kisses like he's withholding.

edwin shall not have any of it.

with a crashing tidal wave of confidence, edwin reaches up to hold charles' face, one hand sinking into his curls as he deepens the kiss. there's a gasp, the hand on his waist tightening, and edwin takes advantage of the opening with fully formed intent until they're both crushed together, utterly unsure and uncaring as to where one of them begins and the other ends.

it doesn't matter. none of it matters. all that matters is the positively sinful sounds charles seems to be unknowingly making, causing edwin to sink and fall and topple into the all-encompassing pit that is charles rowland.

a tick, or two, or a hundred pass before they finally separate, panting with the force of it all.

"that was-" charles starts, then stops, gaze flitting all over edwin's face with an entirely different sort of cataloguing aim. edwin finds himself doing much the same: charles looks delightful, cheeks barely coloured crimson, curls falling out of place, and eyes wide.

his lips look thoroughly kissable, a quality edwin had not realised could be heightened and he almost pulls charles in again before charles says- swears, "I love you."

there is a place in edwin's chest that once contained his beating heart, an organ that had only found itself thrumming away thrice after his death: twice in hell and once in port townsend.

and then, here, standing across from charles, does edwin find his heart restarting to the sound of those words. the three words that leave him reeling far more than the kiss ever could have. the three words that pull him closer to the centre of his orbiting pathway to leave a softer, but just as searing kiss.

"I love you too," he says into it with a smile and a beating heart and a love that is mirrored.

[httpscomexe]

is chapter 4 of runaway will be coming out soon? just genuinely asking, take your time don't feel rushed!!! i absolutely adore your fics 😍😍

Runaway 4

Summary: Xavier takes others over you, leaving you with Logan's worst nightmare. Staying with Wade Wilson.

(Find What I’m currently writing by checking my pinned post)

Parings: Logan Howlett x Hybrid!Reader

Warnings: Mentions of kidnapping, forced drinking, sexual jokes, fourth wall breaking. (Individual warnings per chapter) This will most likely be a non-con fic.

Word Count: 4155 (Find all chapters here) CH5

P.S. If you’d like to be tagged, ask in the comments, you also have permission to send an ask, but make sure it is NOT anonymous, so I know your username, don’t worry, I’m scared of confrontation too. But this is a SAFE SPACE where I will not judge. Thank you again.

It becomes sort of a routine with Logan.

Wake up, let him brush your hair, let him choose your clothes, study, eat dinner, let him brush your hair, sleep, and then repeat. Occasionally, he would have days where he was busy, and you knew better than to try finding Wade. Since he’d taken your phone as a punishment, you hadn’t been able to contact anyone else either. But you didn’t think much of it.

And right now, it was morning. The sun was shining through his open curtains, light shining onto your thighs as you sat on the floor, Logan sitting on the bench at the foot of the bed as he brushed through your hair, his fingers occasionally stroking over your ears.

“Okay, what does this word mean?” You held up the book you were reading, and you pointed at a word on the second page.

“Do you know how to say it…?” He asks you, still brushing through your hair, you weren’t sure why he still was, since there weren't any tangles left.

“Sub…Lim…” You try pronouncing the word, stuttering a little. “Inal?”

“Good, now say it all together.” He asks, taking a tie off his wrist to pull your hair up into a ponytail, but he changes his name and continues to brush it.

“Subliminal? What does that mean?”

“Read the sentence, try to figure it out…” He tells you, sectioning your hair now to part it into box braids.

“It says ‘As is typical with this method, no part… particip…ant… participant reported being aware of the sub…liminal faces.’” You struggle a little, and hear him chuckle behind you.

“Good, what do you think it means?”

“Well…” You think about it, trying to remember what Xavier had taught you about root words, and just as you’re about to explain your thought process, there’s a knock at the door, making your ear twitch slightly to the sound. “Ow…” You move your head away, the pointy end of the brush he was using the part of your hair pokes the sensitive skin of your ear.

“Shit… sorry… are you okay?” He quickly gets down to his knees, and his hand fans over your large ear, and there's another knock at the door, the person behind it getting impatient.

“I’m okay Lo, go see who’s at the door.” You gently nudge his hand away, and you watch as he sighs and stands up to open the door, leaving you to gently rub your ear. You weren’t sure why they were so sensitive, but you were sure it was because you weren’t grown in your deer form yet. You’ve only spent a few hours in that form in total in your many years of being alive, so of course, it wasn’t very… developed.

“Jean?” You can’t see too well from your position on the floor, the bed being in your way.

“Hey, I wanted to talk about something, is Bambi here?” You stay quiet.

“No, she’s out with a friend.” He clears his throat, and you understand what to do, you crawl to the other side of the bed so you wouldn’t be visible to Jean.

“Can I come in?” You hear Logan step inside, then lighter footsteps until Jean is sitting on the edge of the bed.

“So Xavier told me…” You hear the bed move a bit more, and assume Logan sat down next to her. “Having her here is too risky.”

“Too… risky?”

“Yes… Considering she’s a hybrid and all.” You hear her sigh. “Obviously, people are searching for those. And if anyone finds out that she’s here… Well… Then we’re compromising the safety of everyone in the mansion.”

“So what? He wants to just throw her out?”

“No, he will provide her with a home and clothes to hide her-”

“It’s not happening.”

“It’s not up to you, Logan.” By this time, your ears were already pinned down to the back of your head, and if you weren’t sitting on your ass, your tail would be between your legs.

“She will die…”

“She’s survived all this time alone already. What difference would there be?”

“Yea she’s survived!” He half shouts and half whispers. “She’s survived because they catch her and hold her like a fucking animal.”

“Logan, why are you whispering? We’re alone.” There’s silence for a few seconds, then a sigh comes from Jean. “Bambi, you can come out.” Your ear perks up slightly, but you don’t move, she wasn’t in control of you.

“Bambi honey, come on out.” You stand to Logan's demand, slowly before crawling onto the bed, sitting near Logan.

“Hey… Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” You tell her, but your ears are still down.

“It’s just… If they find you here, it’s putting everyone else at risk, and Xavier would… Well he’d rather lose 1 hybrid than lose hundreds of mutants.”

“I understand.” You whisper, but your eyes meet Logans.

“When does Xavier want her gone?” Logan's voice comes out gruff.

“As soon as possible. He was hoping this afternoon.”

“And why isn’t he the one telling me this? Why did he send you?” She’s quiet again apart from a sigh. “God he’s a fucking pussy.” His head turns towards you. “There’s a duffle bag in the closet, start throwing our clothes in it Bambi.” He stands up, and Jean stands up with him, a stunned look on her face with wide eyes.

“I’m sorry… Our?” She watches as you disappear into the closet, and her jaw goes slack as Logan follows behind you. “No, no. Logan, you can’t leave.”

“Says who?”

“Says me, Logan. We need you on missions.” She stands at the opening of the closet, and you ignore their conversation, deciding it doesn’t have to do with you.

“You guys will do just fine without me.” He says, reaching over your head to grab a heavy jacket. “Here hun, carry this one. It’s cold outside.”

“Logan-” She grabs his arm, and tries to pull on him. “You can’t-”

“No.” His tone changes completely, from just simple annoyance to straight anger and frustration. He clearly wasn’t happy about Xaviers negligence, and the last thing he needed was the stubborn red head pulling on his arm and telling him he can’t. “I am not leaving her out alone in fucking New York to be kidnapped by another fucking gang.” He pulls his arm away from her and he points in her face. “If you guys need my help so fucking bad, then you better talk to Xavier and figure out a way she can stay here.”

“Logan, there are hundreds of lives on the line, you could at LEAST do the logical thing.”

“The logical thing?” His voice gets louder, and you take a small step away but continue folding clothes and stuffing them into the duffle bag. “I lost my entire fucking family and everyone I knew in my fucking universe, and Bambi is the closest thing I have to family here.”

“The closest thing you have to a family? Logan you fight beside us in missions that could end up with the entire state exploded to dust and what? We’re not your family?”

“No, you’re not. The Jean that was my family is fucking dead, the Xavier that was my family, guess what? He’s fucking dead…” You glance over from the corner of your eye to see Logan take a progressive step towards him with each name. “Ororo, Hank, Scott, everyone that was my fucking family is dead. So excuse me if I don’t want to see a walking fucking corpse every last waking second of my life, and be reminded of my fuck up, everytime I see you motherfuckers…” Jean was now packed into a corner, Logan's face barely inches away from hers, and you can see the way her jaw is clenching. “So don’t you fucking dare tell me what I can, and can not do. I have no connection to you, and will have no fucking problem sending three fucking blades down the centre of your throat.” She doesn’t say anything, only swallowing her spit before her eyes move to yours, still in the closet and frozen in the middle of folding a pair of Logan's jeans before you had become invested in their argument.

You’ve never seen Logan so pissed.

“Fine… Leave.” She looks back up at Logan. “Have the lives of a couple more hundred people in your hands because you left, again.” Shit… You watch as his claws slowly extract from his hands, and you put the jeans down, slowly approaching in case Jean becomes a target.

“You better take that back…” They stare at each other for a long moment. Only the sound of the fan above spinning and the heavy breathing from Logan could be heard through the room.

“Make. Me.” Logan.

“Oh…” He chuckles. Logan…! “Now you’ve done it…” Logan!

“Logan!” Your voice comes out small, and his head twitches a little as he looks over his shoulder. He looks as if he had forgotten you were there. “Can we leave… Please?” You glance down as his claws are hidden back beneath his skin, and it heals over quickly.

“Right…” He growls a little, and backs away from Jean after one last look. “Are you ready then?” He asks, ignoring Jean now as he goes into the closet and lifts the duffle bag, tossing in the last pair of jeans before zipping it up.

“Yes I’m ready…” You stand in the centre of the room awkwardly. “I guess…” You mumble, and Logan sways his hand in front of him, signalling for you to move ahead of him as he grabs his keys, and you’re out of the door quickly, leaving Jean alone in the room, and his arm slides behind your back to walk next to you.

You were sitting in the passenger seat, watching in the mirror as Logan tossed the bag in the back, slamming the door and making the truck shake a little before getting behind the wheel and starting the engine.

“So where are we going?” He sighs, thinking of an answer to the question with one hand on the wheel as he stares at nothing. Then he reaches into his back pocket, and takes out his phone, handing it to you. “Call Wade.” You take the phone. “Act happy or whatever, and ask if he has space for both you and me…” He growls a little again, looking out his window as you find Wade’s name in his contacts, and you ring it.

“Peanut? And I thought you deleted my number.” The sound of Wade's voice alone was enough to make you smile.

“No, it's me.” You chuckle a little, expecting him to recognise your voice.

“Oh, darling. Bambi, you’re using Logans’ phone. Everything okay?”

“Yes. Everything is fine. But he and I were wondering if you had space for both him and me?”

“They’re kicking him out already?”

“No, they’re kicking me out actually.”

“What? That’s ridiculous. I have the couch, and I have an air mattress that I let Logan sleep on before he left me for one-eye. You guys can obviously stay here.” Logan sighs, but he starts the engine and speaks up.

“Still living under that bridge with Althea?” He asks gruffly.

“Of course, I wouldn't want to leave this humble abode. But peanut?” Logan grunts. “Do you mind picking up dinner? I’ll pay you back. We just need pizza.”

“Sure. What kind?” He turns over his shoulder and begins backing out.

“Hawaiian, no ham. And then just normal cheese.”

“Okay.”

“Thanks pea-” Logan reaches over and hangs up before putting the truck back in forward and he drives out of the parking lot, leaving the mansion behind.

“Can we also get some brownies?” You ask, putting the phone on the centre console.

“Of course, Bambi.”

“Oh, my two most favourite things ever are here!” Wades’ voice is joyful as both you and Logan walk inside of his little home, the smell of sweat and dog smacking you in the face.

“Male strippers and cocaine?” Another voice comes from a different room.

“Bambi and pizza!” He hugs you, and Logan grunts from behind. “Male strippers is my third favourite, silly.” He calls back, letting go of you and taking the pizza boxes from your hand.

“Hey Bam, how about you go shower, the bathrooms back there.” He points to the room where the other voice came from. Just another person comes out, wearing glasses and with a white afro and walking cane in one hand.

“Who the hell gives birth and names their kid ‘bam?’” She says, feeling around a little for the couch and mumbling something along the lines of ‘why does Wade keep moving the fucking couch.’ “That’s a stupid-”

“Her name is actually Bambi.”

“That’s a little better.” Just a few sentences in conversation between Wade and Althea, and you could tell just how close they really were besides their constant bantering. “Wait, her?”

“I know right? Logan managed to pick up a little girl.” Wade says giddily, placing the pizza boxes on the table and opening them all before taking two cheese, a pineapple, and three brownies.

“Oh then it’s not as surprising, I thought she was your girl.”

“Look, Wade and I need to have a talk.” Logan says suddenly, gently grabbing your arm to get you to look at him. “How about you go take that shower, okay?” You nod, and take some clothes from the duffle bag he's set on the floor.

“I promise the bathroom is the cleanest place in this house.” Wade tells you as you walk by, grabbing a brownie as you pass him. 

“Just ignore Wade's toys, he uses them when Vanessa is around.” Vanessa? “Or whenever Gossip Girls is playing… Wish I was deaf.”

You walk into the bathroom, the sound of Logan's voice disappearing as you close the door, and your eyes immediately land on the large dildo sticking to the wall, which you try your hardest to ignore and not laugh at as you turn on the faucet and remove your clothes.

With the time that you’re in the shower, Logan takes his time explaining to Wade why they need a place to stay for a while, at least until they find another place.

“God they are such pieces of shit. Like I get where they’re coming from with saving hundreds or saving one, but there’s also like either you save one hundred chickens or you save one unicorn. One’s just more important. You don’t find any mammal hybrids anymore.”

“Exactly, but also Jean got pissed off at me because I told her I’m leaving. Apparently I’m so important and they can’t win without me.” He takes a large sip from his beer, an understatement when half the bottle disappears down his throat.

“I mean they’ve survived and fought so long without this world's Logan before…” Wade tells him, snatching another cheese pizza.

“Look, if I ever end up having to leave…” He sighs, regretting his next words. “Just promise to take care of Bambi. Other than you, she’s all I have left.”

“Wow, talking about me like my life doesn’t matter.” He chuckles, shoving the cheesy bread into his mouth, getting the red sauce on his lips.

“Well you can’t die, she can.”

“Now, now. I was joking, Peanut.” Logan grunts at the use of the nickname.

“What’s this girl's real name anyways?” Althea asks, using a nail fail on her nails, not even realising how incredibly crooked they were becoming.

“No idea, I’ve been calling her Bambi cause… Well, she’s a deer hybrid.”

“Ah, ah. She’s a fawn hybrid.”

“Fawn isn’t a fucking species, it’s an age.”

“Yes, but she’s not a deer.”

“Pretty sure she’s full grown.”

“Maybe in her human form. But she hasn’t spent nearly enough time in her deer form to call herself a deer.”

“What are you talking about…?”

“Look at it this way, if she spent the majority of her life in her deer form, then she’d be a full grown deer, and whenever she turned into her human form, she’d be a toddler. Right now, she’s a toddler in her deer form, AKA, a fawn.” He pauses and looks away from Logan, eyes landing on Althea. “Al honey, if you keep doing that to your nails, they’ll be sharp enough to give someone a Prince Albert piercing.” He looks away from Althea and at a wall. “Readers, I don’t suggest looking that up.”

“Who the fuck are you talking to?” Logan growls, and he can hear the sound of the shower being turned off.

“He does that sometimes, you learn to ignore it.”

“Maybe you do, but you’re blind. He literally just stared at the fucking wall and spoke to dust.”

“Like I said, you get used to it.”

As you get out of the shower and dry yourself, some sort of talk about walls and dust quickly changes into how Wade is a psychopath. Throughout your entire shower, you were thinking about where you’d be sleeping. Of course, knowing Logan, he’d let you choose between either the air mattress or the couch. The problem is, you didn’t know what’s been done on either of them. You knew Wade pretty well, and judging by the dildo still suctioned onto the wall, he didn’t really care who knew about what he did, and he didn’t mind where he did it. So you were sure there would be stains on either one.

“There she is.” Wade automatically silences the conversation as you walk out of the bedroom and back into the living room wearing only your favourite white lace panties and one of Logans’ hoodies, which looked oversized on your smaller body.

“Want the couch or the air mattress Bambi?” There it is. You still had the towel in your hands, and you were drying your hair as you sat next to him on the couch.

“Yea I had a question for you about that.”

“What’s up?”

“Is the couch even…” You look at Wade. “Clean?” You ask it in the nicest way you can, and the sight of Althea suddenly breaking out in laughter seems to stun Wade.

“Careful now, don’t want to have a stroke.”

“Oh fuck you.” She stops laughing and looks in your general direction. “Want my honest input.” You nod, but then remember she’s blind.

“Yes, please.”

“Sleep on the floor.” She tells you, then stands up with her walking cane, and heads towards her room, closing the door behind her.

“Logan, where would you rather sleep?” You expect him not to answer, and to just tell you that where he sleeps is based on your answer.

“I’d prefer the couch, an air mattress is like sleeping on a damn rock.”

“Can I just… Can I just sleep on you?”

“Oh. My. God. You better say yes, she’s offering to sleep with you.” Wade stands up from the couch, stretching in place before heading to Althea's room. They sleep together?

“Wade, we sleep together all the time.” Logan sighs.

“It was supposed to be a sex joke, Sheldon Cooper.”

“Who…?”

“Ignore it…” Logan holds his hand out, preventing you from saying anything else.

“Goodnight, Peanut. Goodnight, Bambi!” He calls from the room before closing the door, and you can hear the sound of him throwing his jeans down on the floor before the bed in the room creaks under his weight.

“So…”

“What do you mean sleep on me?” Logan asks, interrupting you.

“I mean like… You sleep on the couch, and I sleep on your body. Like you’re my bed.” He stares at you for a moment, as if deciphering your request.

“Yea… Yea, we can do that, that’s okay.” He groans as he stands up, tossing his beer bottle in a pile of more bottles, some broken from previous other bottles being tossed on them.

“I’m gonna eat first though, does Wade have anything to drink?” You ask, standing up as well, and skipping a little to his fridge.

“Ugh… I know he has beer.” He tells you, opening another closet and pulling out a few blankets as you open the fridge and search for something other than alcohol. You simply will not touch it.

“Gross… Is the sink water-”

“Don’t even think about drinking the sink water.”

“What does he give her?” You point down at the slobbery looking dog that’s been snoring this entire time, kicking her legs in her sleep.

“Probably his own saliva.” He tells you, and it almost sounded serious as he covers the couch in clean blankets. “Did you bring your hairbrush?” You nod, walking back over to the couch. “The beer?” He quirks his eyebrow, reaching down to find the hairbrush in the duffle bag.

“Beer is gross.”

“Grab me one then.” You turn back around, opening the fridge again to grab a beer for him. “Sit here.” He points to the couch, and you sit exactly where he’s pointing, and he sits behind you on the back of the couch as you’re seated between his legs.

“Thank you baby.” He takes the beer from your hands, and removes the few braids he was able to get in from that morning and afterwards he pops the beer open.

“How does your ear feel?” He asks once they’re all out, gently touching your ear with his fingers and stroking the fur gently, causing you to purr quietly.

“It’s fine, it was just a poke.”

“Good, I didn’t mean to hurt you Bambi…”

“I know, it was my fault. I moved.” He doesn’t say anything back, instead, he grabs the hairbrush and begins to gently brush through your hair, and again, as always, he’s careful to avoid your ears, using his hands to gently pull threads of your hair off the fur.

“Are you sure you don’t want the couch to yourself?”

“Logan, you know I don’t like sleeping alone.”

“I know, Bamb. Just trying to make conversation.” He tells you, and you reach forward, him gently letting go of your hair so he doesn’t pull it as you grab two cheese pizzas, the pineapple box completely empty.

“You have to drink something.” He continues brushing your hair, occasionally taking a sip of his beer as he focuses on brushing.

“I know, but beer is gross… We can always go out and get apple juice in the morning?” You suggest, and he sighs behind you.

“You haven’t drank anything all day.” He tells you, and you look up and over your shoulder at him as he sets the brush aside and puts more of the liquid in his mouth, you watch as his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows.

“I’ll be alright.” You tell him as he stares down at you, and his right hand finds your chin as he lifts your face up slightly. Then he presses a single kiss to the corner of your lips, pulling back for a moment to take another swig of his beer, and his lips find yours fully now. His fingers squeeze your jaw carefully, but enough to force your own lips open, and he spits the alcohol into your mouth, making you involuntarily pull away but he keeps you still, replacing his mouth with his hand and covering your nose as well so you’re forced to drink the foul liquid.

“Now we either do that about five more times, or you drink the rest yourself.” He tells you, holding the half-filled bottle up to your eye level.

“Fine…” You groan, taking the bottle and sipping from it as he watches you.

“Good girl…” Your tail begins to wag on its own again at his praise and he removes his shirt before lying down on the couch with only a lamp on a small table next to the couch to illuminate a small portion of the room.

“Do I have to drink it all?”

“Just half is okay.” He tells you, and you close your nose before downing half of what he’s given you, hacking a little at the taste.

“Done.” You hold out the bottle to him, and he takes it, swallowing the rest before tossing the bottle towards the rest as before.

“Alright, lie down…” He pats his stomach a little, and you quickly crawl on top of him, taking a soft blanket from the side with you.

“So… since we’re living with Wade now…”

“You don’t have to ignore him…” He answers your question before you even finish asking it, and he shuts off the light behind him, casting the room in darkness, barely seconds later you feel his hand on your head as he gently scratches that spot behind your ear, making you purr.

You were relieved you wouldn’t have to ignore Wade, considering you’d be living with them for who knows how long.

“Just don’t ever sleep with him when I’m not here.”

Tags: @shybluebirdninja @atomicheartbroken @hazydespair

[writingsofwesteros]

can i request something about mean jacaerys? Like either a dragonseed or alicents daughter where he loses his temper and they have really rough sex where he gets kind of degrading and then at the end gets sort of possesive? thank you so much sorry if thats not a lot to go on!!

AN: Hi, I hope you like it x

NSFW

“I could throw you to them,” Jace grunted in your ear; his weight completely on top of you now. “All of those mongrels outside.” The Prince only continued to taunt you, “I bet they would adore ruining a Princess of the realm, hmm?” Of course, no words could escape you as his fat cock pushed deep with his hips rocking without care. Those bright locks of yours like a halo around your head as he reaches for the headboard in need of leverage. The night had been long already with his cum already flooding you with ease and he still had more to give. The bruises would move over your body in the morning, you were sure of it. Just as every other time he had taken you.

“I think you would like it too,” Jace taunted you some more as he whispered into your ear before pressing open mouthed kisses down your neck. “Please…” You hardly knew what you were begging for as your stomach began to tighten in pleasure. Your sweet, creamy pussy clamping down at his words and actions. The act only had Jace chuckling in your ear. “Such a little whore I have,” Jace tugged on your thick locks; bringing you against his body as his lips passionately captured your own. His tongue danced with your own as he dominated you without care. It was not as if you could fight him. No, you had learnt that lesson. His free hand moved towards your fat cheeks as he roughly palmed at you.

As ever a ring of cream formed around his thick length, which only had Jace smirking even more. Gods, you were just too delicious for your own good. Jace enjoyed ruining you as he thought of your brother’s taunts that had always come his way. His hand came down on your arse once more; the redness returning as you whined his name so prettily. Jace couldn’t help but do it again. You cried his name out as your body only shook with the intense pleasure coursing through you. His hot mouth moved down your chest; pressing bites on those ample breasts of yours. Gods, he could not wait until they leaked with milk. His cock twitched against your gummy walls at the thought.

It only took another thrust or two and your climax was ripping through you with ease. Jace could only grunt at how tight you became. His length was completely coated in your wetness, which had the obscene sounds echoing in his chambers some more. “Fuck, you are so sensitive.” Jace whined as his thrusts slowly came to a stop. You were too tight for him to push in and out - for now. His hand snaked around your body as he roughly palmed at your sweet, ample breast. “Such a good girl for me.” Jace whispered his praises that only caused you to shiver. His cock twitched against you once more whilst his thick cock only became more soaked with your wetness. His mouth began to water at the erotic sight.

A shiver ran down your spine as you slowly turned to look over your shoulder; your face a mess and Jace only began to thrust some more. Jace had such hunger for her and his own release was yet to come and all you could do was take it like the good, little Princess you were. His hand slowly moved towards your stomach now; pressing against the bulge whilst you shook against him. Gods, you were so sensitive; it was hard to keep your mind clear as he pushed deeper again and again. “Do you think your mother will take you back now?” Jace taunted; dark amusement dripping in his tone with ease. His thicker fingers soon pushed against your tongue as your drooling coated them without thought. 

Sweetly, you began to suck on them as Jace’s grunts of pleasure began to echo in your ear and his thrusts only quickened. His own stomach began to tighten now as his free hand moved to reach for the headboard again. The change of position only pushed him deeper; your sweet, spongy spot being teased without mercy. Gods, he would forever have you in his bed and a part of Jace knew that he would now. There was no giving you back. A dark smirk tugged on his lips at the mere thought, especially when you were going to be with child soon enough, he thought to himself. That thought alone was enough to push him over the edge. 

Your sweet moans were music to his ears as his cum flooded you without care or warning. Your toes curled as you reached for his curly locks to tug on. His thrusts began to slow now as he pushed deeper and finally stayed there. His hand moved to cup your sweet, ample breast. His thumb brushed over your sensitive breast as he rested upon you. “You are mine,” Jace whispered into her ear whilst his free hand only roughly palmed at your breast some more. You only whimpered in reply as finally your eyes locked with him. A shine of sweat over both your bodies that glistened under the candle light. “Jace…” Softly you began to speak but the Prince was in no mood to listen.

“Shhh, there is no need to speak.” The Prince whispered against your ear and you knew it was an order. His soft lips began to press down your neck, gently marking you as if the noises he had forced from you were not enough to stake his claim. You hated how your body began to melt back into him as his muscled arms wrapped around your body. Your mouth watering scent brushed over him as Jace’s doe eyes began to flutter. Gods, he desired to stay here forever. The Prince would make sure that happened; even if he had to tie you to him. His cock twitched at the mere thought as images flashed through his mind. Your moans only came back at the feel of him against your gummy walls.

Jace leaned in and passionately captured your lips once more; pushing in his tongue without invitation as you moaned against him. He nibbled at your bottom lip as you tugged on those curls of his once more as your desire only grew. The Prince only smirked against your neck as your body slowly began to rock against him.

[bokettochild]

So the thing about a lot of Prince! Legend reveal fics is that they miss out on all the juicy bits of the aftermath. Warriors thinking of Legend as like this secretly honorable, noble person who should be protected as he carries the precious blood of Hylia

And then Legend tells Warriors to piss off and wins a battle competition for best trick shot kill and Warriors has to reconcile both images of Legend in his head

Legend meanwhile sees Wars treating him differently and is paranoid about waking up with a knife in his back bc he's a stain on the Royal legacy due to being a boy/raised as a commoner/rude

And then Sky wants to connect to Legend as family and Legend wants to stay away from any reminders that he's royalty

And his Hyrule! Have the guards gotten over the mind control and respect him but he doesn't trust them still? The royal knights he grew up knowing and trusting until his first adventure? Do the villagers of each town acknowledge him? Do they know there's a prince but not that it's Link? Do they think of him as a rags to riches story or as a class traitor?

There's so much good shit I don't see explored a lot in the prince!legend headcanon that I would love to see and so I'm excited about you seemingly want to focus on this rather than just the shock value

I'm so glad you're excited! I actually haven't seen the poll results yet, but the reception in the comments/tags has been overall very positive and encouraging, so i think i'll probably be writing this thing LOL

There is a lot of change I want to explore with the fic, but while fluff is a must, I probably will touch on the heavier aspects of what Legend's being a prince would mean for him, Hyrule, and the systems in his world in general.

I sort of like the idea of his lineage being an open secret to those who knew him growing up because he's a dead-ringer for the late queen, and since he never knew that, he's never made an effort to hide it. While there might be some who think of him as a class-traitor, I don't think it would be that many of them, since he does work for a living, doesn't live like a prince by any stretch of the word, and never puts on airs or treats the people of Hyrule like they're below him. He's hard working, helps anyone who asks, and generally is a decent guy, so the people who are most affronted at his existence would probably be other nobles/religious folks.

Wariors and Wild will probably both be having a lot of conflict with trying to reconcile the ornery vet to a prince, especially when he is still very much a teenager, but I think, since Sky and Legend are pretty close already in cannon, they'd come out okay.

My take on Sky probably doesn't care much about the royal part of things, just that Legend is family, and considering most of Legend's family was killed by Ganon, I think he'd enjoy having that.

Anyways, the shock factor will probably play a role, at least at the start as everyone finds out, but yes, I want to go beyond just the initial realization we all like playing with and actually dig into the world-building and dynamics and how Legend's being a prince effects all of that!

[silenttrxxs]

mafia/assassin choi san! x reader

mentions of violence, swearing, blood, possible smut

another day, another dollar they say, but some thing was different about today, the air was thicker in a weird sense, something was not feeling right to you and you usually had a good sense for figuring something out before it happened it’s what got you into this mess in the first place.

you woke up as per usual slipping on your house shoes before truding your half asleep body to the shared kitchen flicking the kettle on before standing there and rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you team mates ushered around speaking nonsense about the days plans before you could even utter a word your view was blocked by him.

You tutted and rolled your eyes and turnt to stir your tea and moved around him, going and sitting down on the kitchen island next to Wooyoung, the teams accountant, well that’s what he liked to call himself if anyone wondered, he usually spent his nights counting up the money from the days work and ensured each member had the right shares and all profits were accounted for.

The other team members being Yeosang, the teams hackers, or like he liked to call himself, a messenger of sorts… well he was more allusive than that he would give himself the name of Blue Bird. Hongjoong, the sniper, or what he wanted to call himself was the best shot out there… he wasnt exactly wrong. He never missed a shot ever. Then there’s yunho, the resident navigator, he’s always in charge of ensuring everyone is in the right position and that the plan is to go without a single hitch, next was yunhos best friend and right hand, they both worked together, Mingi being the slightly stronger of the pair made sure that yunhos back was always covered, if something was to happen it was Mingi who would protect the team, but he did have a slight favour for yunho and it showed. Jongho, he was the pure muscle aside from the leader he made sure that all logistics was managed and that everything was accounted for although he was the youngest looking at the group it’s self you would be mistaken that he was the oldest. The oldest being Seonghwa, the resident doctor, ensuring everyone’s health was in the best shape along with ensuring that the comfort of everyone was guaranteed, some would say he was like the mother to everyone, he certainly gave that vibe off.

Lastly was the shadow covering your small frame as you stirred your tea. The leader of the group. Choi San, the most feared name of the city, the sheer mention would make the worst people quiver in their boots and run in the opposite direction.

The name struck fear into many but not you. You had been roped into this group after being caught in the wrong area at the wrong time and San had managed to sweep you off your feet and took you back to the bunker. And now you’re here 6 years later, sparing your life for the sake of money and goods, the goods were made and collected to spread a bigger message and everyone in the group believed that the system that was there was screwing people over more so than helping them so it was about time that people fended for themselves and took what was rightfully theirs.

You took the time bringing the cup to your lips as you raised your glance to meet his eyes, the same eyes that had been screaming hellfire at you for the night allowing you what 1 hour of sleep, this being noticed by Seonghwa that just tutted and shook his head as he passed by.

“What do you want san?”

“Nothing you usually make us both a tea but looks like you are feeling a little selfish today?”

A loud scoff leaves your mouth as you roll your eyes taking another sip.

“You know where it is san, I’ve barely slept because of you and today is a big day”

San sighs and looks at you, his anger and frustration subsides as you look at him, sheer exhaustion dripping entire body. He walks over to the kettle flicking it on and making his tea as he sighs running his hand through his hair before grabbing the cup and sitting next to you on the stool, taking a sip of the tea.

“Today is gonna be hard, you know I don’t want you out there y/n”

“You don’t have a say in the matter, im part of this team am I not?”

“Yes I just don’t want you hurt y/n”

“It’s part of the job San, you are always coming back late, I’m always finding you cooped up with Seonghwa getting treatments for your wounds it’s worrying”

You let your gaze fall to his chest as speak, remembering the mission that caused the relationship between you both to fall apart at the seams.

You had been given coordinates from yunho, positioning yourself at the bridge, gun cocked and ready for the opposition but a slight detail was missed, they had one more member than you, the opposing teams member emergered from the shadows without you being able to process a single second to breathe your body was falling, into the abyss of water below, the last sound you managed to process was the snap of the necklace that you had spent your entire life protecting, given to you by your late father. The water cascading over your body as it swallowed your body, the only thing you remember was waking up in the bunker, the bright light of Seonghwas torch shining in your eye as he completed his checks making sure you was as good as you could be given the circumstances. The night took a turn, screams and curses being thrown at each other, not a single one of you being entirely sure why you was so mad at each other but something was bothering you both. You had always had feelings for him, but never wanting to be the one to spark a single thing you held back watching from the wings as he lead the team, being at his beck and call at any moment, you caught the sly glances he would share to you but waved them off, trying to ensure your delusions were not fed.

Now you’re here, mad for the lack of sleep and the fact that your necklace was lost, and mad you couldn’t look at the man in front of you without your heart beating ten times more faster than normal. You looked at San again the hurt flooding your body as as you allow the memory of when he had been shot invade your mind again waving it off as much as you could you took a sip of your tea again and sighed.

“San..”

“Yeah?”

“Look I’m sorry, I am just as worried about you as you are for me, I think there is something I need to tell you”

“Hmm I’m listening”

“I-I have feelings san, for you… that’s stupid and insane for me to say, I can’t be falling for you that’s going to cause chaos for not only you, being the leader and all… but you know my history…”

“Yeah I pulled you away from the enemies side for a reason y/n, you think it’s just you feeling this way, it’s not, I’ve been watching you for years without you even knowing… but for you to feel this… the same feelings that I feel is … not what I expected but it’s certainly not something I’m willing to allow to fall through the cracks of my fingers”

San stands moving your stool for you to face him, you gasped as his hand was holding your chin urging your face to look up at him.

“Y/n I am in love with you”

San smiled as he leant into you attaching his lips to yours as he pulled your body closer to his, the kiss becoming heated as your feelings mixed together like a deadly potion that could kill everyone around, the air becoming thinner as the unsteadiness of your thoughts spilled from your body into his.

San felt every emotion that was possible, the sheer joy radiating from his body as he melted into the kiss. His hands finding purchase on your hips as he lifted you from the seat, taking your body to the couch, laying your body down gently as his lips found your neck, peppering the skin with burning kisses, marks being scattered along your skin as he looked around. His breath catching as he tried to compose himself.

“God you drive me crazy” he breathed out before pulling his phone out and ushering the entire team to stay in their own dorms as he dealt with his situation.

“Please San” you breathed out as you moved against him.

…..

Will make a part 2 as … my brain isn’t braining … hope you enjoy…

[tennessoui]

3 or 60 for the Stacy's mom AU pretty please?

thank you for sending this in <3

[from this list of prompts] / [Stacy's Mom AU]

3. Do they wear the other’s clothes? (sweatshirt, bandana, necklace, etc.)

honestly as much as they'd both probably enjoy wearing each other's clothing, their styles and color choices are just so different that it's too noticeable and both of them are committed to flying under the radar with their relationship. the most they could get away with is probably anakin dumping his cloaks on obi-wan's shoulders at the slightest shiver from a slightly chilly day. obi-wan now owns like. 12 of anakin's cloaks. he has no intention of giving any of them back.

i imagine obi-wan attempts to give anakin a poorly carved jappor snippet after he reads about the cultural traditions on tatooine. it's really really ugly and it sort of looks like someone's hacked it to pieces and then set it on fire, but master skywalker takes to wearing it religiously.

also i think master skywalker's fascination with obi-wan's hair grows deeper now that he gets to play with it whenever he wants and lace his fingers through it, etc etc, and he takes a lot of calming joy out of playing with it at night if he's awake and obi-wan's asleep, which turns into braiding different sorts of hairstyles into his hair. obi-wan takes to wearing them around the Temple when he's awake - they're much fancier than the padawan braid and much, much more elaborate (because anakin can never do anything half-assed)

60. Who pulls the other closer when they’re sleeping?

lmao ok i think obi-wan's preferred sleeping position is with anakin draped on top of him which anakin is happy to accommodate. but anakin also runs hot, and obi-wan hates being hot in his sleep so anakin often wakes up to obi-wan-shaped fists and feet shoving him away (only to get cold a few hours later and pull him back closer as if he's not a jedi master but obi-wan's personal weighted blanket)

anakin doesn't really mind but he definitely fantasizes about retiring from the Order, convincing obi-wan to follow him, and moving them to some arctic snowy planet where obi-wan is always a little cold and never ever shoves anakin away during the night

snippet (pertaining to question 3)

At first, Obi-Wan is inclined to believe that Quinlan is doing this on purpose, out of some practical joke or in an attempt to tease him and prod at him as if they're still padawans. As if Quin doesn't have a padawan of his own now.

Obi-Wan blinks down at the young girl's upturned face. "Uh," he says, glancing up at Quinlan and resolutely not turning to stare at Anakin, who he can feel shaking with silent laughter beside him.

"Please," Orka adds, placing her hands behind her back. Not for the first time, Obi-Wan wonders how in the Force such a sweet child became Quinlan Vos' padawan.

"Uh, well," Obi-Wan says. "The thing is..." he stares hard at Vos, but the other man just looks expectant and slightly confused, arms crossed over his chest as he leans against the tall duracrete pillar of the fountain behind him. "I think actually Master Skywalker would be thrilled to help you with your hair, Orka."

Quin raises an eyebrow. "Seems unlikely," he mutters, just low enough for Obi-Wan and Anakin to hear. Obi-Wan flushes even as Orka stomps her foot.

"But I want you to braid my hair, Knight Kenobi!" she says. "You have the best hair in the entire Order, all the padawans think so! Please braid mine to look like yours!"

Obi-Wan winces. Behind him, he can feel Anakin's hair traversing up his back to tug teasingly at the end of one of his longer braids. It's incredibly unhelpful. So is the fact that his lover is sitting there and laughing about this whole thing instead of trying to find some way to be helpful.

"The thing is, Orka," Obi-Wan says, clearing his throat. "I don't. Ah. Know how to braid your hair."

Quinlan and Orka both tilt their heads to the side in perfect mirror of each other. It would be cute if Obi-Wan did not feel so incredibly close to humiliation.

"What, you can't figure out how to braid someone else's hair?" Quinlan asks with his eyebrows firmly knitted together. "I'd think it'd be easier than doing your own. Less need to be...you know. Flexible. To get it done. And I mean, I know you're flexible, but..."

Obi-Wan closes his eyes, even as he feels Anakin's chin come to rest on the top of his shoulder. Oh of course, he's no help at all when faced with a youngling's innocent request for assistance, but the moment Quinlan Vos even slightly alludes to his and Obi-Wan's shared sexual history, and Anakin has to say something.

"I braid his hair for him, little one," Anakin tells Orka, reaching out and tucking a longer braided piece of hair behind Obi-Wan's ear. "What Knight Kenobi is too proud to say is that he doesn't actually know how to braid at all."

Orka's eyes widen and she turns to look in between the three of them as if this is an incredible, total betrayal.

Quinlan's own eyes also widen, but he looks more like Life Day has come early. "Oh," he says. "Oh."

"Shut up," Obi-Wan snaps in forewarning. "Whatever you're going to say---"

"But it's always all pretty by breakfast!" Orka protests, eyebrows knitting together. "Do you braid his hair for him every morning? Even before you eat?"

Anakin's Force signature is far too smug. He's enjoying this far too much. Obi-Wan is far too in love with him anyway. It's terrible for his health and his pride.

"Sometimes adults like to have sleepovers just as the younglings do," Obi-Wan says delicately. "Just as the younglings do," he repeats loudly when both Anakin and Vos snort. "And yes, sometimes Master Skywalker enjoys braiding my hair. During those sleepovers."

Mostly, Anakin enjoys braiding his hair either in the aftermath of sex or sometime during the night when Obi-Wan is asleep and malleable and Anakin is kept awake by some nightmare or another. Mostly Anakin enjoys braiding his hair because it's the only sort of claim he can lay on him--not while they're both still Jedi.

And mostly, Anakin. enjoys braiding his hair because he spent years seeing Obi-Wan walk around the Temple with another master's braid hanging down his shoulder, and he'd hated the sight of it.

"Oh," Orka says. She considers this new information before she turns with narrowed eyes to Anakin. "So you can braid my hair."

It sounds like a threat. This time, it's Obi-Wan who has to cover his snort with a cough.

[daughter-of-sapph0]

what do you gain from sending cruel anons? satisfaction? approval from others? does someone pay you to do it? I never understood why you freaks do that bullshit. it's useless anyway.

I'm not publishing your anonymous ask. no one deserves to look at that slop.

it doesn't even hurt me. nothing you say to me can be worse than the pain I've already felt. your words mean nothing to me. you can tell me to kill myself all you want. you'll never be louder than the voice in my head who almost convinced me to do it.

I've already reached my lowest point in my life. I've gotten better. I love myself too much to let you take that away from me.

you, on the other hand, are sitting alone in your room and copypasting the same generic message to random trans people you see online, because your life has literally no value, because you will never do anything of note, because you're unworthy of any sort of affection from others, and you will die alone, unhappy, unfulfilled, unaccomplished, and your last dying wish as you sit on your death bed surrounded by no one is that you could have spent more time being a cruel heartless bigoted irredeemable cunt to people online.

meanwhile I'll be living my best life. I'll forget about your entire existence later this afternoon. I'll continue to spend time with the people I love, and help spread positivity to people who need it. I will outlast you. I'll live my life to the fullest while you rot in your isolation. I will outlive you. my legacy will continue after I'm gone while people will try and pretend that your ilk never existed. I will outlove you. I will be a reminder that your negativity and hatred is but a momentary stain on existence that will be washed away by unconditional love and support.

I'm no longer speaking to that anonymous asker. instead I address this to my followers, as well as anyone else who may see this post: do not answer anon hate ever. it's not worth it. those people do not care about your response, and only receive gratification from seeing you suffer.

I know a lot of you weren't online in ye olden days. but back then, we had rules for the internet. and one of them is to never feed the trolls. feeding the trolls mean they win. somewhere along the line some of them managed to convince people that blocking the trolls means they win. that's not true. blocking means you win because you'll never have to see their disgusting horrendous comments again. the block button is your best friend. use it.

if you get anon hate, delete it. block the sender (which I'm pretty sure now ip blocks whoever sent the ask), and if it continues, turn of anons, or even turn off asks in general. do not let them hurt you. do not engage. do not respond. do not answer them. they aren't looking for a debate. and you won't change their mind. answering their ask just exposes their slop to all your followers. and none of them want to see that shit.

remember that for every hateful anon message you get, there are 100 people who love you unconditionally and care about you. do not let the loud hateful minority win.

maybe what I'm doing counts as feeding the troll. I'm not directly answering their ask, but I'm still getting involved. but fuck it. I'm turning their hate into positivity. I'm using this as a moment to spread awareness to others.

if you're a person on the internet who's received hateful messages, especially if you're trans, I promise you that you're not alone. ignore them. find people who care about you and love you. I promise that the small annoying obnoxious voice does not represent the opinions of society as a whole. I promise that nothing they say is true. I promise that you are loved. unconditionally. forever. simply because you are you.

[appleflavoredkitkats]

i will make a proper analysis post for this one day but i genuinely think the "fundy's mind" stream is fundy's magnum opus. it does so much in one short stream. it perfectly portrays the fundamentals of fundy's character while also leaving so much to be interpreted and decoded.

like of course half of the metaphors and mysteries put into that episode hinted his involvement w las nevadas. but, and i think this point stands better considering how his story was executed and concluded, i think the stream was such a perfect encapsulation of the cyclical nature of fundy's abandonment and self-worth issues. it is "fundy's mind" after all.

we see glimpses of wilbur, literal monologues of how he feels brushed aside. i think back then, our interpretations of the books were a little too literal— which was not wrong to assume at the time. fundy was having prophetic dreams, of course it was normal to think he could have been a time traveler or something of that sort.

but, in the present day, i feel like if you look into the texts of these books in a more metaphorical sense, it makes a lot more sense. there's definitely a theme about "waking up" in a metaphorical sense, but the dreams flip this phrase on its head in some sort of way, as if dream!fundy was trying to get fundy to look away from the books.

i posit that dream!fundy demands fundy to wake up because it actually shields fundy from the painful truth deeply embedded in his psyche. meanwhile, sleeping actually causes fundy to dig into this truth more as it causes him to stay into this dream world. so when fundy chooses to sleep, he's not shielding himself away— rather, it represents the metaphorical "waking up", beholding truths that he typically shies away from.

but then what is this "truth"?

well, when dream!fundy gives up scaring fundy off, he confesses to an evil someone who will destroy fundy and everything he ever loved. of course, this pertains to quackity, but here's the thing. if dream!fundy wanted to protect fundy, then he would have obviously warned him about quackity without hesitance.

i'd argue that quackity being some big baddie is half the "truth" dream!fundy is trying to warn him about. then what is the other half that's missing? i think it has something to do with the "you're not real" statements.

those seem like a scare tactic at first. if not, it does not feel like it's meant to be the "painful truth" dream!fundy is trying to shield from fundy because he says it multiple times before the actual "truth" is revealed. but i think the reveal actually becomes more impactful if you read it as "there will be an evil person out there, always, that will make you not real."

and i guess to explain— there's, like i said, a cyclical nature to fundy's issues. he follows someone, dedicating himself to the country until it all inevitably becomes futile in the end. it happens with all iterations of l'manberg and las nevadas. i've always stated that fundy is the embodiment of the nations he's apart of, and he dies alongside it whenever it comes down to it.

so when the book mentions, "you are not real", "this place isn't real", and "but he [those who left him, specifically quackity] is", i feel like it's not just talking about quackity and las nevadas. rather, if we think about it, this is literally the formula in which fundy's arcs literally follow. he becomes nothing alongside the dissolvement of a nation, because those he trusted and followed were real threats.

and what i think this dream hints in particular is that, las nevadas would be the last straw. after this, his existence becomes virtually nothing. he is rendered nothing.

which is literally what happens in the end.

fundy's storyline has always been about being sidelined, always forgotten or used as a punchline for a joke. in this case, i feel that the dream isn't just warning him about this, but rather it's literally his destiny to be forgotten. that is the painful truth dream!fundy doesn't want fundt to know. that's why he sounded so defeated by fundy's stubbornness and curiosity by the third book— he does not want fundy to know that it's literally in his fate that he ends up becoming nothing.

and, well, it's true. the last we see of fundy is when he jumped into the l'manberg crater after cutting himself off from wilbur. it's even stated that fundy didn't die to end it all, but rather to "get away from wilbur". at the same time, we see fundy donate schlatt's sword, one of his prized possessions, to the museum.

he literally cuts off one of the most integral, most defining, aspects of his character— his devotion to nationhood and those who embodied it. and after that, we never see him again. when fundy chose to choose things for himself, to separate himself from l'manberg, physically and ideologically, he's gone.

it's as if he's not real.

we never really know if fundy left for the best or the worst, really. but in the narrative of the dsmp, separating himself from l'manberg literally makes him null. that's the truth his dreams were trying to shield himself from.

[vechter]

is the best leader of the dcu or the "leader of all superheroes" superman? because i've seen many debates over batman, superman, martian manhunter, wonderwoman. but i always thought it would be nightwing! people say batman is the tactician and superman sparks hope in people and guides them, doesn't nightwing do both?

maybe im underestimating supes here! of course everyone loves and trusts him (who wouldn't?) but i always thought the "leader" of the dcu was nightwing

hmm. can't not put the titans (1999) #1 panel here:

ok fr tho, i don't think i can answer this in a manner that does it justice because i've only read a limited number of superman comics. but my understanding of the JL dynamic, so far, has been that batman is the tactician while superman is the guy who's the moral centre— in a kind of head and heart way while wonder woman is the balance between the two— operating from a place of both heart and head.

however, the trinity defer to martian manhunter for leadership several times, even going so far as to nominate him for chairman in one of the JL runs after rebirth (can't remember the exact vol and issue and honestly, i rlly don't want to look sorry).

as for nightwing, he's definitely the ideal leader- there's tons of canonical evidence where all the titans look to him for leadership and several times, bruce even tells him that dick is meant to lead the JL, going as far as letting dick be a contingency leader in cases where the league falls (like obsidian age).

dick has usually done a good job anytime he's had to lead and he does make sense because like you said, he can be the best of batman and superman: head and heart. but personally, i don't think it's where dick would thrive (this is not to say he wouldn't do well— he would!!) but lately, i feel like dc has rlly been pushing him as the leader in big world events, which is good because i was getting real tired of nightwing being dumbed down and losing his competence but it feels a little... i don't want to say disingenuous... but something along those lines.

dick, imo, is sort of the heart of a pre-n52 dcu. here's an excellent meta that captures the kind of importance dick has.

also, there's a separate argument to be made about how dc started putting all of the bats in leadership positions when they saw how well received dick was as the leader of the titans but that's kind of a different tangent as to how the ability to lead is not a bat-trait but more of a person specific thing lol

tldr: look at these panels from martian manhunter (1998) #0:

i think this is a very good encapsulation of the guy who should lead the league and what it looks like

[theloganator101]

The Great BNHA Review: Katuski Bakugou, the Character That Ruined Everything

Yeah, that's right, this guy gets his own section in this!

Because he's literally the catalyst that ruined what could've been a good series if he was just left behind after the battle trials.

So by now I’m sure we ALL know who this douche is, he’s part of the main cast who used to bully Izuku and was also the one who gave him that degrading nickname Deku. And from there has become a sort of rival to Izuku to butt heads with... but here's where things kind of start to go wrong.

Hori found himself liking him out of everyone and decided to make BNHA his wattpad fanfiction where everyone loves Bakugou and blows sunshine up his ass whenever he becomes a topic of discussion.

And that isn't even the worst part, no no no, the worst part is that Bakugou himself is a flaming dumpster fire of a character!

He's always yelling everything he says so it makes it hard to listen to him, he's obnoxious and rude to everyone around him, is pretty much talented at everything he does so he comes across as more of a Gary Stu than anything... And he's never. Punished. Once.

At least in a way that's satisfying.

Sure he got put under House Arrest for being out after curfew, but the reason why this doesn't work is because Izuku ALSO gets punished alongside him! When he was only defending himself and couldn't run away! And the fact that Izuku got more flock for it AND was the one to apologize to it... I'm sorry but that's literally fucked up!

And I know there's gonna be some people that'll say:

"Well that's how it is in the real world, it's being realistic of how bullying situations usually goes."

I'm sorry, I don't go to fiction to be reminded of how much the world sucks. I go to fiction to experience a good story and watch characters grow and become better versions of themselves!

But Katsuki Bakugou, never goes through any of this!

He never grows or learns from his past mistakes, he never learns that his behavior is toxic and how it effects the people around him, and he never becomes a better version of himself... In fact he only got worse if the ending is anything to go by!

He just stays the same because that's how the fandom adores him as! A potty mouth arrogant asshole character who happens to be hot in their eyes!

To put it simply, he's a leech to the BNHA story. He sucks away screentime and attention that could've gone to the other characters that needed it to make their stories hit harder. He sucks away the nuance and themes the story was supposed to have in order to keep him in a good light without acknowledging his bad actions. And to hammer in the worst part about Bakugou.

... He prevents Izuku from growing and becoming the main character he was supposed to be. In fact I would even go as far to say Hori probably wished Bakugou was the main character instead, if he loves asshole characters so much, then he might as well make one the main character in his next work.

Edit: This part is an add on as I completely forgot about it and couldn't do it earlier today as I was at work, but now I'm here to fix it.

Bakudeku... this ship is a stain on all shipping. It's literally Abuser x Victim and it's disgusting how people romanticize this so much. And I believe it's this ship that twists their views on relationships and it'll cause them to get into abusive relationships since it's so normalized in this fanon ship that shouldn't even be seen in the positive light that it is.

So to end this part off before we get to closing thoughts, Katsuki Bakugou is without a doubt the worst anime character I have the misfortune of seeing. He's the shining example of what happens when you play favorites and trying to show everyone how great they are.

Fuck you Katuski Bakugou. You ruined BNHA.

[vrystalius]

HI!! I’ve literally just been getting into Demon Slayer again, the phase never goes away 🥲

anyways, would it be alright to ask for a Genya x reader who’s Gyomei’s hardworking Tsuguko who has a hard time taking breaks? Take your sweet time and have a great day/night ❤️

Just for one minute…

You’ve been overworking yourself to the bone, training during the day and taking patrolling shifts during the night. Genya is starting to get worried about you not taking enough breaks…

Pairing: Genya x gn!reader

When’s the last time you’ve eaten? Drank some water? Heck, when did you even last sleep? Genya just finished his mandatory training for the day, watching you from the engawa of Gyomei’s estate. You’re really working hard to become stronger and more powerful and to become a hashira yourself one day, but this is a little too much on your body. Even Genya is starting to notice and that must mean something.

He had some sticky rice laid out on a cloth, positioned on his lap, making some onigiri with salmon filling. He carefully shaped them in his calloused hands, wanting them to look at least a little presentable. He’s not the best cook after all but wanted to make you a small meal to eat together, as some sort of reward for you working so hard. But also because Genya wants to personally see how you’re ingesting something edible other than hopes and prayers to not faint from exhaustion, dehydration or starvation.

To be quite honest, he may be using the food as an excuse to hang out with you a little. Gyomei continued to encourage him to speak and hang out with you to create a bond. It was obvious to Genya how his master tried to push you two closer. For example, assigning you to train and spar together, ordering you to patrol side by side during the nights or just frequently suggesting to hang out together during breaks. Doesn’t he know how much Genya sucks at talking to you? You make him extremely nervous with your pretty eyes and gorgeous smile, and especially with your kindness. You’re so attentive and nice to him, it makes him nauseous every time.

Genya figured it’s his turn to he nice and attentive for once, so he called you over to have lunch with him.

“I made too many onigiris to eat alone, want some? You’re probably hungry, haven’t seen ya eat at all today.”

You can’t resist saying no to that hopeful, little smile of his, but after sitting down together and letting your body rest, you fell into a minute long sleep while still slowly chewing onto the rice. Your body leaned over and against the railing and your mouth was slightly agape, the rice beginning to fall out onto the wood below. Genya worriedly shook you awake from your one-minute-nap.

“Hey… you should drop some night shift or at least let me do them. You really need to rest. I-I’m worried about you.”

He turned his head away after finishing his sentence, wanting to hide this stupid blush that is taking over his whole face. Is he seriously not able to control his face around you? Like, at all?! It’s extremely embarrassing and is probably coming off as childish!! But as Genya was beating himself up for being so flushed around you, he heard a soft sigh escape your lips.

“Just one more minute…”

Your voice made him turn his head towards you. You just hunched over and fell into a deep sleep, your mouth slightly agape. Again. Well, at least you chewed your rice until this time, but you failed to swallow it all since some still stuck to your cheek. You looked so awfully tired and yet peaceful in this sleeping state. Genya groaned quietly and slowly wrapped his arms around your shoulder, carefully shifting your position to lean your head against him, your full weight resting against his body.

Genya took the half-eaten onigiri out of your hands and put it onto the cloth he got it out from, wrapping it back up and placing it aside for the moment. He wiped the rice sway from with his sleeve.

You can eat the onigiris later, but for now, you really needed the sleep. He smiled slightly at your adorable expression while his hand soothingly started rubbing your shoulder. Genya’ll let you rest like that for as long as you like. You really deserve it.

💠

Hello, hello! Currently I’m uploading this from my mobile data so I am hoping and praying that I have enough to last for three days in this wlan-lacking-establishment. It’s nice though, me and my friend get to share a large room and we are right next to the forest and a creak! Also, so sorry for completing this request so late, hope you enjoyed it anyway!! I’m currently receiving a lot of asks to continue my Gyutaro fic and I am currently trying to figure something out!! Just know I am thinking about it a lot and am really trying to come up with something XD (Man, I really suck at doing part 2s. :,))

Anyways, make sure to EAT, SLEEP and DRINK enough! It’s currently 1am and I need sleep desperately. XD

Take care of yourselves <3

[inkformyblood]

i hear you call my name (it feels like home) GhostSoap

Written for the GhostSoap server Balanced Equinox event! For the fic complete with John's POV (written by the wonderful ChaoticEmmeline) here is it on ao3

Tags <3: @imjustheretofightforlove @mossyroach

Fantasy/Medieval AU, Mistaken Identity, Sort of Fake Dating, Mutual Pining

Simon scuffs his heel along the stray stones on the road, a thin plume of dust following the action. The mark wouldn’t last long, obscured in the same instant of formation by the man behind him in the procession, but it existed for a moment. 

He hadn’t thought it would be sunny when he first met his fiance. 

He hadn’t thought he would meet them at all.

Succession is a strange thing in his kingdom, one of many things that could be considered distasteful about it from an outsider’s perspective, and Simon had been nothing more than a blade in the shadows, a body on the battlefield, directed first one way and then another to coat his hands in gore for the sake of his orders. Orders given by his father and then his older brother when he began to step into the role. He doesn’t want to think overtly about the change in circumstances that has left him in this position; married off like some third or fourth daughter, his hand suddenly the best thing about him. 

His jaw is clenched, an ache stabbing through the scar tissue over his neck, and Simon, reluctantly, relaxes the muscle. He presses the ball of his thumb against the hinge of his jaw, feeling bone shift beneath his touch. The sensation is muted through his gloves, heavy dark leather and what feels like every drop of moisture in his body pooling into the lining. His eyes sting with every other blink between the glare of the sun and the damenable temperature doing its best to cook him inside his formal clothes. Another corner, another field fit to bursting with vibrant crops spilling as far as the eye can see. Simon breathes in, ignoring the taste of ash that clings to his tongue. 

He’s getting married after all. 

Married.

When he had received the order, it had been delivered much like any other, a piece of parchment sealed with the family crest accompanying a wrapped bundle. He’d been hoping for some fresh rations, would have taken new weapons, and, instead, it had been clothes. Formal enough that he wouldn’t embarrass the family, not formal enough to match the occasion. 

He misses his armour. Entering the city had gone smoothly enough, an eyebrow raised by one of the guards at the sword strapped to his pack, and his brace of knives sat unevenly against his hips beneath the delicate stitchwork on his tunic. Too short on the torso, a touch too broad in the shoulders, but he was able to keep his mask on. It’s a simple thing, dark fabric drawn up over his nose and encircling his cheeks and neck, but it is heavy with sweat, his breath fogging against his cheeks with every exhalation. Above him, ahead of him, the castle sits; a towering construction with towers and battlements protruding from it. Couple of weak spots that Simon can immediately spot, more likely lingering just beyond his scope of vision. 

There’s a man on one of the battlements, too far away for Simon to pick out anything more than the general shape of him. It’s his hair that catches Simon’s eye, a streak down the centre of his head that catches the faint breeze like a pennant. Simon tips his head back as the procession works its way beneath the open gate, a blessed sliver of shadow blotting out the sun for a moment. Even the air is heavy here, thick against his tongue, and Simon tugs at the base of his mask, drawing it away from the hollow of his throat in search of some relief. He finds none. 

There will be none. 

Behind them, the last of the procession steps into the castle and the towering doors in front creak open, heavy chains rattling with the effort. 

Three more weak points.

No, four. 

A guard close to Simon drops his spear, both hands clinging to the fragile flag he carries, his eyes wide with panic as he tries to catch it regardless, tearing himself in two directions. Simon moves on instinct, swinging his leg out to catch the blade with his boot before he continues the movement upwards. He catches the spear with one hand and holds it out to the guard, maintaining his grip until it is secure once more. Turning away, Simon surveys the procession, already in motion once more. 

Fuck. 

He’s lost his place. 

Simon moves back into the crowd, setting his shoulders in a rough line as he works his way through it. The movement must be obvious from above, a blade cutting through a field of swaying wheat, and Simon keeps his head lowered, just enough to keep his focus on his target. 

“Name?”

“Riley delegation,” Simon answers the steward, halted at the doorway. His shadow bleeds in front of him, a wash of darkness against cool stone as the sun brushes against the top of the castle walls. He looks monstrous.

He is a monster. Not something he’s likely to forget, formed and forged and ready to kneel in front of the altar he is going to be sacrificed on. This kingdom is prosperous but untrained, untested. Simon and his kingdom will be the threat in the shadows to keep the smaller monsters away, chaining Death itself to ward from household pests. 

The steward nods once, eagerness bright in his eyes. He’s young, his cheeks flushed pink, and he nearly bounces on his heels as he turns to face the main hall. “Riley delegation,” he announces, his voice filling the space. 

Simon keeps his gaze down, watching his shadow blur in front of him. One heartbeat, then two, and he can move once more, making his way down the stairs. This entire event feels wrong, like he’s folding himself into a shape he was never meant to wear, something intended for someone softer, sweeter, suited for good things. He pauses in front of the throne, bowing to the seated pair. He’d heard the gossip about the current king and queen, about their careful and dedicated manipulations for the marriage of their fourth son, the man being offered up to Simon’s kingdom as a living bargaining chip. A snarl tugs at the corner of his mouth, still hidden behind his mask, and he pushes the expression away as he straightens, aiming for a routine compliance. He’d been subjected to drills, same as any other soldier, and this is nothing more than that. Just another drill. Walk there, stand here, do nothing, be nothing. 

King Duncan is a solidly built man, just beginning to go grey at the temples, and he holds himself well, broad shoulders and belly speaking to the prosperity of his kingdom. Next to him sits Queen Marion, slightly shorter than her husband with her hair braided and piled on top of her head. It could be concealment but Simon doubts it. They’re a well-matched pair, their eyes dark and intent as they look down at Simon, drinking him in. The Queen opens her mouth, the beginnings of a smile tugging at the corners, and Simon flushes in reflexive embarrassment at his ill-fitting clothes, his ill-suited self. 

“So, you’re the ambassador? Emissary for the Riley kingdom?” 

There’s another man, slightly offset to the King and Queen, an oversight Simon would not make again. He’s leaning forward, his stance wide and his weight tipped over one leg. A flash of recognition hits Simon, the same man from the battlements, not just a guard but someone more important. A personal detail, maybe. But, no. 

Simon’s gaze flickers to the circlet around the man’s brow, a beautiful and delicate piece that only heightens the wild ferocity that the shaved hairstyle adds to the man. His eyes are blue, striking enough that Simon doesn’t answer for a long moment. And then, another. 

“John,” Queen Marion says, her tone bright. 

John doesn’t flinch but there’s a lessening of him, a rounding to his shoulders, his weight sliding onto his back leg. He’s no longer a warrior in that instance but a child being scolded by their mother. He catches Simon’s gaze once more, the blue of his eyes a touch darker as his brow furrows before the expression is wiped away. “Apologies, Your Majesty. I spoke out of turn.”

“Ambassador, Your Majesties. No need for apologies, it was my error and mine alone.” Simon is ruined. He’ll build his own funeral pyre later because this man standing before him, the man who is turning to grin at Simon like Simon is the one who wove the stars into the sky and coaxed the sun into rising, is his fiance, his future husband.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Ambassador?” John pauses, tipping his head to one side. 

Simon swallows, keeping his hands flat at his side. His fingers itch to pick up a blade, not for any solid reason but to have, to be able to flick it along the flat of his fingers just to watch John’s gaze follow it. A moment of reprieve from digging his own grave, tossing another shovelful of dirt over his shoulder. “Simon, please, Your Majesty.”

Safe enough of a name to give. If questioned, it wouldn’t be uncommon to share a name with the Prince and, selfishly, Simon wants John to know him by his proper name, instead of his title. 

“Ambassador Simon,” John nods. “I’ll need to catch you later. We’ve got lots to talk about, yeah?”

“John,” Queen Marion sighs. John bounces back on his heels with a small laugh. She continues, addressing Simon. “We thank you for the journey. We understand it is a notable distance from your country and we appreciate yourself and the Prince travelling to us for this engagement. I trust he will be following shortly?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Simon, the second Prince, answers, lying through his teeth and the thin cloth of his mask. “The Prince will be arriving shortly.”

⁂

Simon doesn’t look at Roach. 

The other man had detached from the rest of the delegation several dances ago, choosing to forgo the array of delicacies laid out in front of them — in celebration of the upcoming wedding — to haunt Simon’s shadow. He’s a solid presence behind Simon, his own mask drawn high over his features and his hood pulled low across his brow to obscure the rest, and Simon doesn’t need to look to know the expression on his face. 

One dance flows into another, both unfamiliar to Simon although that was only to be expected. The music he is accustomed to is rough and ready, a handful of notes coaxed out of hand organ that had already been battered by a sword twice, a low whistle from chapped lips and a mouthful of blood. A few of the others slip onto the dancefloor, wraiths in dark leather with their masks pulled high over their faces to match Simon’s own. There’s comfort in that kind of wordless solidarity. Roach’s foot presses over his own and Simon realises he had been moving, tapping the heel of his boot in time to the music. 

He still doesn’t look at the other man. 

He doesn’t need to. Roach’s hand digs into the dip of Simon’s waist, a touch of cruelty in the familiarity of the gesture, and Simon straightens, fighting the urge to cringe away from it. The touch didn’t hurt; it tickled.

“Alright,” Simon murmurs, keeping his voice low. There’s a courtier four steps away who is some sort of spy for the crown, another just across from them who is either a renowned gossip or yet another agent allocated to their group. “I fucked up.”

Roach is his closest friend, hell, his only friend in whatever way the word could be applied to either of them. Two broken pieces somehow coming together to form a disjointed whole.

“Royalty doesn’t fuck up,” Roach whispers, his voice catching on every harsh consonant, dragging its heels over the softer vowels. “It will be explained as caution.” He pauses, swallowing. “And the Prince keeps watching you.”

Oh? 

Simon deliberately hadn’t been watching the high table, tracking the shadows out of the corner of his eye but little else. He’d be called back up soon enough to be shown to a room to prepare for the feast later on that day, and from little he knew of his father’s court, he would have to assume that from the moment he stepped foot inside the castle that he would be watched. Roach is safe enough, along with the other members of his party, but no-one could be trusted until the wedding is completed and Simon can officially call Prince John his husband. His fascination meant nothing until then. 

Roach presses his fingers in further like he is trying to claw open a barely healed wound, fingers curling so there’s the rough edge of nails through the bunched fabric. “Look.”

Objectively, Simon knew John to be a beauty before he had travelled here. There had been a portrait included with the missive pulling Simon from the front line to trek across three countries to arrive here, but it must have been a few years old or painted with little consideration of the man it was meant to show. The man Simon would have expected from that tiny smudged picture is short, near-waifish in stature, with honey blond hair cascading over one shoulder. It had been too small to see much in the way of his features but the only accuracy was the blue of John’s eyes, the solitary mastery on display. Prince John marries the features of his parents well; the broadness of his father and the height of his mother, not as tall as Simon himself but there is some strength to him. He would be a wonder with some more concentrated training.

Simon cuts his thoughts off there, letting them fall bloodless to the ground. This marriage would be nothing more than a partnership that promises to be beneficial to both parties, nothing more. He can’t let himself forget that. 

The Prince’s gaze flickers to Simon before he looks away, his cheeks pink. 

That’s strange. Unexpected. 

Simon is used to people looking away from him. He’s aware of what he looks like, how out of place he is in this ballroom, some hulking behemoth ripped from the battlefield and shoved where he was never meant to exist, but people didn’t normally blush when they averted their eyes from him. 

It’s a good colour on the Prince. Pretty, even. 

The Queen holds her hand and the music falls silent. The pair that had broken away from Simon’s party pause in their twirling, arms wrapped around waist and shoulder, closer than they should be for propriety's sake, but they’re from Simon’s court. Some eccentricities are expected and should be exploited ruthlessly. “Thank you all for joining us for this time leading up to Prince John’s wedding.” She smiles sweetly through the applause that her words bring, a chill prickling over the nape of Simon’s neck. “If the Ambassador from the Riley delegation would please join us for a moment?”

Simon does so, feeling the blade he is forging for himself sing against his neck. He can survive this. He has to. 

⁂

Life in the MacTavish kingdom moves slowly, hours dripping past with the same consistency as honey. It isn’t the same as the uneasy quiet before battle or the achingly long time after that can only be spent nursing new injuries and commiserating over loss; this time feels hopeful, the kingdom mustering under fresh banners of their Prince’s upcoming marriage.

A marriage Simon can only hope he hasn’t tarnished before it has even happened. 

“What would you do—” Simon asks Roach as the other man leans over the small basin in the corner of their room, “—if I threw myself off of the battlements rather than face this party?”

The rasp of a razor is deceptively loud in such a quiet space. Simon watches Roach work, the deliberate stretch of the skin around the jumble of scar tissue on his cheek so he can navigate the blade over the sparse hair growth there, steam fogging up the polished mirror resting in the alcove. In the other man’s hazy reflection, a smudge of the mirror wiped clear before it begins to cloud once again, Simon catches Roach’s gaze, dark against dark, and shrugs. 

Roach grins, uneven, lopsided, a shattered mirror to Simon’s own. “Take you either way. Pretty up your corpse and stand you against a pillar.”

Simon laughs. He can’t help it. The sound struggles out of him, quiet at first then louder. Roach braces himself against the side of the basin as his shoulders tremble, every breath catching at the apex with an aching hitch. In another life, this would be all Simon would have to concern himself with, battles and the spaces between, going where he is ordered and killing whoever he is aimed towards. The door on the far wall had been opened once into the adjourning room on that first night, the ostentatious set-up intended for Prince Riley had been meticulous from the firewood stacked in perfect rows in the grate to the heavy embroidered comforter drawn over the lower half of the bed. Simon hadn’t dared to touch it.

Roach wipes the remnants of the soap from his face before he draws his mask back up over his nose. He crosses the room in a few steps, tipping himself backwards onto the bed in the same manner Simon had moments prior, his head near Simon’s hips, his hips near Simon’s head. They’re the same like this, warriors with soft sheets against the layered scars on their backs, both out of place and clinging to stability. Simon just might be able to find that here. 

“Tell me truthfully, Simon.” Roach raises his head, the motion a whisper against Simon’s fingers and Simon does the same. His voice is hushed, intended for Simon’s ears alone, and a prickle of unease courses down Simon’s spine. “What do you think of the Prince?”

Simon bites the tip of his tongue, grinds the blunt edge of his teeth until it aches. It’s Roach asking, his only friend, his shadow, the one person he could count on in the entire decaying world. “I could grow to care for him.”

“Could?” Roach tangles their fingers together, squeezing until bone creaks beneath the pressure. “Have, Si.”

There’s no time to consider the weight of his words, a deep toll echoing through the castle to summon the guests to the ball. Simon stands on legs that don’t seem to be able to bear his weight and doesn’t look at Roach at his side, always by his side. 

Prince John isn’t what Simon had expected. He’s only had a few occasions to interact with the other man since their first fateful introduction, but the man has dominated Simon’s thoughts. It had been a small moment, Prince John half-turning his face towards Simon while caught in a conversation with another. His mouth had initially been pressed tight together, a thin line of pressure making the fullness of his lower lip more apparent, but he had discarded that stress in an instant as he had smiled over at Simon, one brow arched in a silent question. Simon is nothing to this man, a delegate from a kingdom as mired in darkness as John’s own is awash with light, a false Ambassador denying himself for no other reason than reflex. 

(He knows why.)

John would have come to Simon’s side if he had gestured for him to do so, because he is a kind man, a good man. There is an intent focus about him that would feel clinical if John had been anyone else, a glint of wonder in brilliant blue eyes that hadn’t yet given fruit or been torn up for the harvest, and Simon would let himself be known down to the marrow if John asks him to. 

(He is afraid.)

Simon’s kingdom is reclusive, exporting warriors and a handful of trade goods. Their wealth is in blood and bone instead of something that lasts, affection never factors into a decision. This marriage is no different to any other order Simon has been given, his role carved so deeply into his flesh that it hasn’t scarred. It simply is, he simply is. He can’t love John, he wouldn’t survive the loss of it.

There’s still battlefield mud on Simon’s boots as they sweep into the Royal Hall, Roach half a step behind and bristling with the weapons Simon had been unable to keep on his person. He feels the absence of his sword like a wound through his spine, a hollowing at the core of his person. He couldn’t understand how people could live like this, exposed, vulnerable. Prince John doesn’t strike him as a man who would willingly roll over and let scavengers pick at his ribcage; instead, he’d be a symbol of righteous fury, teeth bared and bloody. 

At the high table, the royal family sits, gold shining at their brows and place settings. It’s a striking image, King Duncan resplendent in finery and flanked by his wife and son. Three openings to cut his throat, four if Simon can break one of the goblets into something more substantial. He doesn’t look directly at Prince John, trying to devour his fill in scant movements tracked out of the corner of his eye, and it still burns like he’s staring into the sun. Simon blinks and the afterimage stays with him, haunting him. 

There are roots growing in his lungs, thorns pricking his veins from the inside-out, and Simon doesn’t know what will bloom if he lets it. 

Queen Marion is a softer figure than her husband and son, silk where they are gold-leaf steel. Her hair is carefully coiled on top of her head and Simon’s gaze flickers over it, tracking the shift of one of the ornaments as she stands, drawing every wandering eye to her. It’s an impressive skill, one that would make her a formidable opponent on a battlefield Simon is entirely unaccustomed to. He could learn to be, would learn to be if the Prince needed it of him.

As Simon makes his way to her, commanded by little else than a raised goblet and an inclined head, he hears the wildfires of gossip burst around him, a deliberate dissection of his entire being from the stitching on his doublet to the mask he wears. It’s different to the version he wears on the battlefield, thinner in some attempt at civility but the fabric is still dark, the stitching heavy and deliberate to partially obscure the features beneath. He knows a handful of the rumours that circulate about his kingdom — difficult not to with some of the concerned clucking that follows himself and his companions down every hallway, ladies clustering behind their fans as if they are solid stone, servants unaware of how much their voices echo — but the whisper circle around their masks more than anything else. 

His favourite is the most fantastical, a children’s bedtime story given just enough substance to stagger. A handful whisper that the Royal family of Simon’s kingdom are cursed to never die but are not spared from decay so beneath the masks they wear, their faces are nothing but gleaming bones, their skin stolen from corpses.

In truth, soldiers wear the masks and the nobles follow suit to try and steal what little favour they could from wells long since run dry. Simon’s scars are not the most extensive in the army, the sharp lines on either side of his mouth fading to a silver sheen over time, running darker in the chill, but he still feels the blade that made them every morning when he first wakes, a dull ache where he can no longer feel any sensation, a tugging against unforgiving healing when he goes to speak. 

He will need to lower his mask to drink, to eat. 

Everyone will see.

John will see.

“A drink, Ambassador?” Queen Marion asks as he draws closer, gesturing to the place left empty next to her. It’s a high honour, one that even Simon is aware of, and he accepts with a short bow, sitting down carefully next to her. Too many lines of sight for him to keep track of so he settles for monitoring the obvious, the balcony above, the pillar next to the interior door, steeling himself for agony. He lowers his gaze to the goblet, far too fine for the likes of him, the wine inside rich and dark. It could be poisoned. Simon studies her for a moment, the fall of her dress at her wrists and the jewellery clustering her neck, her hands. Her wedding ring is relatively simple, a single outlier amongst courtly trappings, and she turns to him with a smile that he cannot understand but trusts all the same.

Queen Marion speaks clearly as she turns away from him, her voice cutting over the rolling field of whispers like a scythe through wheat although Simon can’t make out her words over the rush of blood in his ears, a wardrum of his own construction. Eyes turn to her, Simon sheltered for an instant by her actions, merely a shadow at her side, concealed by her radiance. He reaches for the goblet, covering the span of his face with his other hand as he hooks his thumb into the fabric of his mask, drawing it down as he drinks deeply. 

“Changing your hairstyle this close to a wedding is certainly a bold choice to make, my son,” Queen Marion continues. Her smile is fond, powder cracking slightly over the lines in the corners of her eyes, and she reaches one hand out to Prince John who leans forward accommodatingly. “However, your circlet. A fine piece of our history, if I do say so myself. If I am remembering correctly, it once belonged to my grandfather, King Ivar of the former Upland territory. He was a fine warrior, skilled in several forms of combat and the piece was a gift from his paramor, Jarl Geirr of the Medipad. Geirr’s artisans were talented craftsmen, renowned for their work. I believe one repeat customer was an Empress from across the ocean and she made the journey personally to secure their wares. We have a rich history in our veins, one that is important to respect and honour.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” John murmurs, ducking his head. 

He cuts a fine figure in a dark grey coat, embroidery picked out at the cuffs and collar in what Simon would lay money on being pure silver thread. It isn’t a colour Simon would have associated with the Prince; the other man reminds him more of sunlight filtering through stained glass, a ruin transforming into something beautiful by his mere presence. Simon glances back to the goblet, prodding his lower lip with his tongue as he thinks. The taste of the wine lingers, memories of plucking berries from roadside bushes and devouring them in handfuls as he marches crowding to the forefront of his mind, the remembered snap of banners unfurling nearly startling him from his seat. He knows that dark shade. 

His colours.

There’s an uneven weight sitting low in his belly, a bonfire accompaniment to the heat rushing through his chest. He isn’t a man prone to blushing, a boon given his pale colouring that would ignite in an instant, but he can taste flames in the back of his throat, overpowering the remnants of the wine. If he can salvage the marriage once his deception is revealed, John will be his husband. He will wear Simon’s colours. 

Simon isn’t going to survive this unscathed, unchanged. 

The meal passes slowly. Beneath him, the court fades into nothing more than a shifting sea of colours. The majority wear blue and green, a few with red, however, the men wear a patterning on their clothing, a repeated hatchwork of different colours and lines. It’s something new for Simon to sink his teeth into, desperate for a moment’s reprieve from the inevitable wildfire in his mind. The Queen speaks to him throughout the meal, soft comments that he can nod and shake his head in response to, her smile never wavering from something soft and… and… 

When the plates are cleared, Simon rises when asked to, the Queen’s hand resting on the crook of his elbow. Through the layers of fabric, he can feel the strength in her grip, the slight indentations of calluses on her thumb and forefinger. She is head and shoulders shorter than him and he’s careful to adjust his stride to hers as they make their way to the dance floor. The panic in Simon’s veins feels solid, a beartrap convalescing around his heart and restricting his breath. So many eyes are watching him, burning into the slope of his shoulders, the thin line of skin visible at the nape of his neck and the beginning of the scar that is exposed there. It’s darker than most of his others, healing raised and jagged. Noticeable. 

“Music,” Queen Marion commands. She’s facing Simon, her face momentarily hidden from the rest of the court, and her expression is fragile, teetering on the edge of something. It doesn’t last long enough for Simon to categorise it, gone nearly before he can notice it amongst the swelling of strings as the first dance begins. 

Simon holds her hand carefully, the thick leather of his gloves blunting the sensation of her skin against his own. He presses the back of his hand to the small of her back as they step together, a simple dance and one that Simon is familiar with. 

“You must forgive my son,” Marion utters to him. Her mouth barely moves as she continues, her voice pitched for his ears alone. “He is a good boy, a brave young man, but courtly pursuits bore him. He will cultivate a court befitting his husband, however. Rest assured, he will serve Prince Simon well.”

Simon catches himself with a reassurance on his tongue, a single brief statement that would tear away any chance at subterfuge he has left, because how could John be anything other than perfect? He swallows it back, expecting the taste to be rotten like everything else in his life, and it’s sweet instead. He tries to speak as softly as the Queen when he answers but it feels like a pale imitation. “Thank you for your insight, Your Majesty. I have faith the Prince will succeed in whatever role he takes.”

Queen Marion inclines her head as the song draws to a thunderous close. “A moment, Ambassador. I find myself needing to attend to the other guests, however—” She doesn’t pull away from him as she turns, scanning the ballroom with a practised eye. 

A moment of respite and Simon takes it gladly, scanning the ballroom over the heads of the assembled figures. He catches sight of Roach in an instant, the man dressed in the same dark clothing as the rest of his delegation and marking a careful patrol route through the gossiping crowd. Ahead of him, enough distance to not draw attention, the King moves, pausing to speak with a member of his court between every few steps. The Chamberlain at his side is the same that first escorted them to their chambers all that time ago. His name escapes Simon for a moment, lost in the mire of everything else he needs to remember before it rises to the surface: John Price. A knight if he’s correct. 

Simon lets himself grin, relaxing in fractions, a slight loosening in his shoulders, his fingers curling more securely against the Queen’s still held carefully in his. At least Roach is enjoying himself. 

Another figure approaches and Simon tenses once more. Queen Marion’s gaze snaps to him for a moment, assessing him like a combatant at first before it changes to something else, maintaining the softness as she looks back to Prince John. “If you would take care of the ambassador?” she asks, gesturing for John to take her place as she steps away. 

Prince John nods once, his gaze following his mother for a few delicate steps before the crowd swallows her up and they are alone in the centre of it all once more. There’s a persistent flush high on the Prince’s cheeks that only darkens as his eyes flicker to Simon’s, sticking for a moment before his gaze lowers, cataloguing the lines of his throat, the slope of his shoulders, halting at his chest before climbing once more. There’s a fervent hunger to the other man, wondering the shade of Simon’s blood and how best to tear his throat out. An artist’s focus, Simon realises, heat slung low in his belly at the thought of being known like that.

It’s the work of a moment to pull his gloves off and tuck them into his belt. 

“Do yeh have a preference for leading, Ambassador?” Prince John asks. Any disappointment he may feel at Simon’s continued presence instead of his true fiancé is well-hidden, his features marble-cast in a joy Simon can delude himself into thinking is real.

Prince John isn’t his betrothed and yet, he is. The man Simon is standing here is more himself than he’s been in years.

“If you’d allow me the honour?” Simon answers. He can feel every rough note in his voice catch in his chest, clumsily hewn next to the sculpture of the other man, fragile enough to shatter with a gentle word.

John’s hand is warm against his own, the tips of his fingers skimming carefully over the harsh texture of Simon’s scars before he settles, solid and sure. “Honour’s all mine.”

It doesn’t feel real. Simon moves through steps he half-remembers, reaching for solidity in a dream and coming away wanting, but everything pales to the warmth of John in his arms. His hands are his first focus, John’s are slightly broader, a cluster of the same calluses that line Simon’s palms scattered there. They fit together perfectly as the music swells, a wavering string calling out in exhalation. There’s the scent of woodsmoke, fusing with the lingering rich aroma of the wine, and a fragment in the back of Simon’s mind slips free. He hasn’t imbibed enough to let the tight control of himself slip, but with John so close, he could imagine that this is what it feels like. It’s the potential that sets his mind spinning, a lapse of concentration for an instant as Simon lets himself enjoy the dance.

The moment doesn’t last.

Simon’s foot catches against John’s, stepping where he shouldn’t be. His reaction is instantaneous, pulling back the first moment he feels the contact but it isn’t enough. They stumble, nearly colliding with another pair with all the grace of a drunken bull. Simon’s cheeks burn, his throat closing like he’s preparing to dive from a cliff. Nothing beneath him, no saviour except, this time, there is.

Prince John chuckles, his mouth twisting into a wry grin. It’s a new expression for Simon to study, drinking it down now that he’s close enough to see the exact way John tips his head to one side like a conspirator with a secret. “Suppose I should stop tryin’ to steal the lead, then.”

Deliberately loud. Targeted to draw eyes away from Simon once more. John’s shoulders are broad enough to hold the blame he’s carrying and Simon’s treacherous heart skips a beat, his vision gradually expanding with a dull haze at the edges. He breathes out carefully, rolling his shoulders to release the knot of tension between them. It’s the same instinct that leads him the battle, the cause of several of the scars that decorate his skin, the urge to fling himself forward and take the blows himself. Strange to be on the other side of it. 

Prince John leans closer, squeezing Simon’s hand once as they adjust their stance, still close enough for Simon to count the individual sweep of his dark lashes. “Don’t mind the gawking hens, my lord.” They sweep past one such couple, their gazes clinging to John, burrs on his clothing, and Simon’s grip tightens, a low unease prickling in his chest. John continues, “My father’s courtiers are good people but prone to excessive nosiness.”

Simon huffs out a quiet laugh and is rewarded by John’s grin widening, beatific and glorious. The Prince surges forward, his words coming quickly now that he’s found his footing, working beneath the chunks in Simon’s armour so sweetly he can barely mind it. “Was the food to yer liking? I’ve been told Prince Simon campaigns often. Do ye accompany him in the field? If anything is too much, I’ll personally have a word with the kitchens.”

He knows Simon only as the Ambassador, not a Prince, not his fiancé. The deception has given Simon a gift, a glimpse into the man who would be his husband instead of the concerned fabrication he had thought he would meet. Simon smiles, the action unfamiliar but easy enough to slip into, wide enough he can feel his mask shift with the expression.

 “It’s far better than I’m accustomed to and your kingdom’s hospitality is greatly appreciated,” Simon says, skirting the edges of the truth. If this was a fight it would be easier, each move strung onto a wire pulled taut against Simon’s hold, but the dance doesn’t feel as treacherous with John in his arms, the lingering burn of his hands held in his. “I’ve spent time on the field with the Prince recently so have had nothing but rations until my time here.”

Nothing but rations for months. What had truly been the defining test of Simon’s subterfuge hadn’t been meeting the Royal family, it had been breakfast the day that followed. 

“It has been better than I could have hoped,” Simon murmurs, his words hopefully lost beneath the swell of strings as the dance concludes. 

He bows his head to the Prince, knowing there would be others swarming to tear free a piece of the other man for themselves. He’ll treasure the glimpse he has been given, keep it close and safe. The Prince’s hand lingers in his, the other man’s hold on his shoulder keeping him grounded for a moment. When John’s gaze meets his, there’s steel in his eyes, a nerve gathered and held tight before it can desert once more.

“If it doesn’t sound too forward, I’d like to meet with you on the morrow, perhaps after our midday meal? I must admit, shameful as it is, but I know little about my future husband’s kingdom. Hoping your insight would at least prevent me from making a right arse of myself and embarrassing him in front of his court, aye?”      

“Of course, Your Highness. I will endeavour to answer your questions to the best of my ability.” Simon draws his hands free and tugs his gloves back on. He can still feel the imprint of the Prince’s touch on him, a heady flush that had little to do with the wine blooming in his chest. He steps away and someone else steps forward to fill his space. Simon turns away, turns to Roach at his side, his shadow again, something jagged tearing at his heart as John slips into another’s arms and the dance begins once more. 

⁂

“Find me something?” Simon whispers to Roach as the pair step outside onto a small enclosed balcony. Plants wreath the ornately carved columns of the railing, a few artfully spilling onto the railing and Roach plucks a leaf as they pass, digging the jagged edge of his nail into the furrow. The scent is immediate, near-medicinal in the harshness, and Simon breathes in deeply, trying to calm the frantic whirl of his thoughts.

He isn’t meant to be in love with his fiancé. 

Fuck. Fuck.

This changes everything. (It changes nothing.)

Roach pauses next to him, turning to study Simon, the movement barely visible out of the corner of his eye. Simon braces himself against the stonework, digging his fingers into the surface. Grit scratches beneath his gloves, the sensation not enough to dull the memory of John’s hands in his. He doesn’t know what he looks like but he feels untethered, free of a leash he couldn’t remember locking around his neck. 

Boots silent against the stone, his hand steady where it wraps around Simon’s wrist, nudging aside the leather until fingertips brush skin, Roach leans in closer. “What do you wish, sir?”

It’s an escape. If Simon asks him to, they will leave, marriage and Princes be damned. But… he doesn’t want to run. He wants to see this to the end. He owes John that much of his tattered heart at least.

“Gossip. Something fun.” If these are to be his people as well, if he is to care for them like John does, Simon will do everything he can to make this work. This may all be for naught but he wishes to try, to try and be a shade of the better man that John deserves. 

Roach nods once and vanishes back into the ballroom on silent feet. Simon leans forward on the bannister, hissing a slow breath out through his teeth. Behind him, music spills out as another dance begins, a wash of golden light cascading to fall at Simon’s heels. There’s a chill in the air, the season beginning to grow cooler with the lengthening nights and shorter days heralding the upcoming wedding ceremony when the balance was starkest. Simon tips his head back, worrying at a loose seam on the edge of his gloves as he watches the stars gleam overhead, uncaring and hungry all the same. 

Footsteps. 

Familiar footsteps.

“Your Highness,” Simon rumbles as Prince John slumps against the stone beside him, closer than he had been previously and yet achingly far from when they had danced together. 

The other man grins up at him, loose-limbed and rumpled, unselfconscious of just how beautiful he is. There’s a heady flush to his cheeks, sweat beading on his brow, and he breathes deeply before he speaks, picking up their previous conversation as if they had never been parted. “So… if ye don’t mind my asking, where does the prince intend for us to live? I’m eager to travel with him, if that’s his mind. I just…”

Simon remains quiet, watching John carefully. There’s a tense strain to his bearing, his smile sharp as he speaks, and something seems to uncoil in his chest as he looks over to Simon in fragments, a gradual loosening. It’s dangerous territory for Simon to be walking in; this kingdom knows him only as the Ambassador he claims to be and their fury at the revelation could be unmatched, but Simon has been in danger every day of his life. He isn’t the heir, only a legitimate spare sent to the battlefield even before he was strong enough to hold a sword.

He’d take whatever punishment was necessary for his transgressions. It would only be fair.

“I’d like him to be happy,” John continues. “Even if we’re ill-suited, I cannae blame him for any of this.”

John has no concept for the blade that he has just neatly slid between Simon’s ribs. Happiness is something made for other people, not something that Simon has been able to crave for himself. Weapons couldn’t be happy, corpses couldn’t feel joy. 

And what is Simon if he’s not either of those things?

Prince John laughs, shaking his head. “Tha’ came out wrong. What I meant is that I’m pleased with this union and hope I can assist in my husband’s future rule in any way.”

A muscle in Prince John’s jaw tightens, the lines of his throat drawn harsh as the shadows pool around them both. Simon aches to reach out to him, to feel the warmth of his touch against bare skin once more, but he doesn’t. He can’t. 

He’d only been a child when his older brother had married, his hands long since bloodied and the wedding had been several weeks past by the time the missive had reached him on the battlefield. Barely two sentences long and ranked beneath his next set of orders, a simple statement about the successful union that didn’t cut as deep as intended. Marriage is a contract, nothing more, nothing less. Simon isn’t so much a fool to think his own would be any different, regardless of his feelings. Even so…

“The Prince wishes the union will be successful for you both. If travel is your wish, I doubt it would be denied to you.”

Simon will make sure of it. 

⁂

“Do you wish you could fight in the tournament?” Roach tugs the needle through the loose seam in Simon’s glove before tying a knot and snapping the thread. They are both pooled across Simon’s bed, the sheets tucked taut beneath them, and the door to what would have been the Prince’s bedroom thrown wide. The day had dawned bright and warm, sweat already beginning to slick down their spines beneath their dark clothes.

“No. It would be strange to fight somewhere when people aren’t actually trying to kill me.” 

Simon flexes his fingers, tugging on the fresh seam. It’s neat work, the stitches small and uniform in the leather like they would be in flesh. Too many of his injuries to count had benefited from Roach’s stitching. “Better that I don’t. Can’t hide the way I fight from anyone who might know.”

Someone’s coming down the corridor. Their heads snap to the sound like the well-trained dogs they are. There’s already a blade in Simon’s hand; he doesn’t remember reaching for it. 

“The Chamberlain,” Simon murmurs, letting his eyes drift half-closed as he concentrates. 

The knock on the door echoes a moment later, brisk with a power behind it. Through his fluttering lashes, he can see Roach stand and make his way to the door. Simon moves as well, placing himself in the crevasse when the door would open. Positioned like this, he wouldn’t be able see the Chamberlain, Price, or the hallway beyond, only Roach’s profile, his mask drawn high over his features, his dark eyes the sole focal point.  The door opens soundlessly and Roach stands, shoulders square, against this new opponent.

“Honoured guests,” Price says. “The Royal Family extends the invitation for you both to join them in the Royal Booth.”

Roach looks the man over once more, his face carefully blank to the outside observer. The hand closest to Simon twitches on the back of the door, once, twice, a cat flicking its tail in unabridged delight. “We will be a moment, sir,” Roach rasps before he steps back, nudging the door ajar.

Simon leans close to his ear, keeping his voice low as he resheates the small blade into the concealed holster at his thigh. “You’re having fun, aren’t you?”

Roach blinks up at him, the very picture of innocence. “Only following orders, sir.”

⁂

Metal rings against metal as Simon makes his way to the Royal booth, Roach walking in his shadow. It’s a familiar sound, the air already sticky with sweat and a sour tang on the breeze that the fragrant smells of roasting meat and sweet honey couldn’t fully mask. A row of tents ring one edge of the wooden fence that encloses the arena and people scurry between them, laden with pieces of armour or weapons. As Simon watches, a knight he recognises as being close to the Prince strides across one of the makeshift alleyways, muddy handprints on his chest and a sword balanced across his shoulders. He ducks under one of the tent partitions and disappears from sight. 

“Good-sized crowd,” Simon says. Too many unknowns, he means, too many targets.

He doesn’t need to be looking at Roach to see the tightness in his jaw, the way his gaze roams over the crowd who never move in closer as they pass through. “It’ll be an experience to watch from the Royal booth,” Roach says. I’ll watch over them too, he means, and Simon ducks his head in acknowledgment. 

Roach vanishes into his seat first, a lower row off to the side with a scattering of other favoured guests. He’s an ink blot amongst their finery and they lean away from him, hiding their whispers behind delicate fans, the back of a gloved hand. Simon’s jaw clenches, something old and bitter condensing at the back of his throat.

He isn’t unfamiliar with the dismissal Roach faces; a lowborn child thrown into the army with no name and no family ties. It had only been chance that they had collided, Roach throwing himself into Simon’s back to knock him to the ground during an enemy barrage. He’d received a wound to his flank for his trouble and Simon’s companionship. They’re an unlikely pair, but they are well-suited all the same, the Ghost and his shadow. 

There are two empty chairs amongst the Royal family; one next to the King and the other next to the Queen. Simon’s steps slow as he draws nearer, sketching an uneasy bow as his mind races. Prince John isn’t here. 

The Queen brightens as his approach but there’s a furrow worn into her brow, her mouth drawn tight against her smile. “Apologies, my dearest friend. My son excites himself into a fit when there’s a tourney.” It’s a sight Simon craves like air now that he’s aware of its existence. “He’ll be joining us shortly, I’m sure. But, please, rest assured he’ll be with us soon.”

Ghost takes the seat next to her. It’s a plush affair, set slightly lower than her own but he still towers over her frame. He rounds his shoulders carefully, intent on letting any curious glances wash over him. His skin crawls with them; it seems that every second person in the crowd is staring into the Royal box, their faces blank and meaningless to him in their slack excitement. He thinks of John and the band in his chest slackens slightly. It doesn’t seem to fit what Simon knows of the man to picture him at the sidelines, he would spend time there surely, basking in the delight of his people, his skin sticky with their lingering touches, but that wouldn’t be the entirety of his experience. 

The sand of the arena is smooth, pale in colour, unmarred by the blood that would soon crest across its surface. Simon has fought on every terrain he can imagine and several others he hadn’t thought possible until he was up to his waist in stinking stagnant water, but sand is unpleasant to get out of armour. Already, he can feel some of the telltale grit between his back teeth, the distant taste of salt. 

Trumpets blare, drawing Simon from his thoughts. 

There. At the mouth of the arena, Prince John strides forward to rapturous applause. He had been made for this, moulded and shaped to be loved and adored. He wears armour on his torso, steel moulded to the width of him and polished to a bright sheen that catches the sunlight on every rivet, but his legs are mostly bare, the only protection a kilt patterned in demanding shades of red and blue. Prince John turns to the crowd first, walking backwards as he holds his arms aloft, his kilt riding up an inch or two to expose the thick bands around his thighs. Broad thighs.

Others file in after Prince John but they’re unimportant. Inconsequential. Simon could not look away from the Prince even if it meant his death, and it would be a glorious sight to die to, one that should be immortalised but would only exist in the fragile confines of Simon’s memory. 

Prince John circles the arena, his grin only growing broader as he reaches the space in front of the Royal booth. Next to him, Simon hears the Queen sigh, the sound catching on her throat until it’s exasperated but fond. “What are you doing, John?” She murmurs, barely audible above the screams of the crowd. They have ceased to be recognisable, a dull heat haze, a halo around the Prince as he reaches into the folds of kilt and pulls free a small ring of flowers. 

They’re the same shade of blue as his eyes.

Prince John bows once, his hair held in a loose tie falling forward across his features, and he steps forwards, rising onto the balls of his feet to hold the flowers out to Simon. “As you know, ma favours belong t’ma betrothed.”

Oh, fuck.

He knows.

The King laughs, the thud of his crown knocking against the back of his throne echoing through the hollows in Simon’s chest. “Or in this case, his representative. Give them a sound thrashing my boy! Show House Riley what they are lucky to recieve!”

Simon stands, leaning forwards against the railing at the front of the booth. It would be too obvious to remove his glove to accept the favour and there is acid in the base of his tongue at so many people seeing the jagged skin of his hands, so he settles for remembering as he holds out a hand, cupped palm like he’s asking for benediction. Prince John’s eyes crinkle at the corner when he smiles, his fingers lingering over the worn seams of Simon’s gloves as he presses the flowers into his palm. 

“Keep it safe for me, yeah?”

Simon nods once before he settles back into his seat. It doesn’t feel real, like he’s caught in an instant between dreaming and waking. His hand rests in his lap, the other tucked beneath it, and the petals rustle with every inadvertent twitch of his fingers. It’s nice. Sweet even.

The flush on his cheeks isn’t visible beneath his mask but Simon burns all the same. John’s a good man. 

He can’t remember much of the tourney when it concludes, the roar of the crowd indistinguishable from the frantic echoing of his heart in his head. He keeps the flower close, fingers brushing the delicate petals like a prayer.

⁂

“Si— Ambassador. Walk with me?” 

Simon doesn’t twitch at John’s sudden appearance at his side having heard the man’s footsteps speed up when Simon came into view, the rustle of abandoned paperwork dropped into a nearby alcove to do so. It’s strange to see John so unaccompanied, stranger still for Simon to be. The Prince’s momentary slip hasn’t gone unnoticed and Simon worries at it like a kernel caught between his teeth as he walks with the other man. Ever since the tourney, the ball prior, the very air between them feels different, charged in heraldry of a storm, and Simon isn’t a betting man; he wouldn’t presume to guess John’s thoughts but he can hope all the same. 

Simon wears a false face. Would John still enjoy the company of the man beneath? 

The ruse had progressed for far longer than he intended from a momentary slip of the tongue to a lie honed to a keen edge. It would be easier to flee than fall upon it when he’s discovered but still he lingers, a man half-starved and suddenly allowed to feast. He stays for John.

“Have ye been t’the gardens? Meant to be one of our treasures.” 

Simon shakes his head and John brightens, scraping his fingers over the new growth on his scalp. He’s wearing the same circlet as he was at the ball, the gold flush against his skin. It moves slightly with the shift of his fingers, a darker imprint beneath it. 

“Jus’ this way.”

The gardens are enclosed, an outcropping within the thicker walls that circle the main keep. The heady scent of roses floods the air as John opens the door with some effort as the lock sticks before he inclines his head and gestures for Simon to go first. Pink, red, white, a few scatters of orange and yellow, it seems that the entire sky is choking beneath the weight of the roses wreathing the door, the walls, any structure left unattended along the walkway that meanders out and back again.

John moves onto the path and Simon follows him, intent on the man by his side. There’s something different about him, an uncertainty that hadn’t been present before the tourney, and Simon can’t find the words to pry closer. His tongue feels like lead in his mouth, just as liable to poison him as it is the Prince. He wants to be able to help, to soothe, but it would be better suited to ask a battleaxe to till a field. A better man than Simon would know what to say, to ask. 

He loves John, he wishes to be able to do this small comfort for him.

John reaches out to one of the low-hanging flowers, bruising a petal between his fingers before he releases it, the bough leaping back into place.“Honourable, to fight for your lands, to fight with your people beside you.” He sighs, tipping his face back to the wash of sunlight. “Even a spare like myself wasn’t given much time on the field. My first was just after my seventeenth birthday. Raiders along the coast. Feathered a few but I was forbidden from engaging in the van. And then there was…”

It is a wonder to just watch John speak. He is already animated, sheer joy spilling from him like his own personal sun burning in his chest, fuelling him to greater heights, but when he speaks, it is like poetry. War breeds good poets to spill mournful dirges and furious rebuttals alike and he has more than enough occasion to listen around sputtering campfires, but he could sit by John’s side and listen to him speak until all of the stars fell out of the sky. John glances up at him, searching for something in Simon’s face and he must find whatever it is as he breaks into a laugh, swaying slightly as he walks. “Last summer I accompanied some of our men to the south. Some of that bad business between Oswye and Craustan ended up in our pastures. Finally met steel with steel and drove the bastards out of our borders. Father and Mother were not pleased. Ye see,” John leans closer, nearly as close as he had been when they had danced. “I wasn’t to be involved in the fray. But the lower houses needed to know that my father wasn’t neglecting them and I couldn’t permit other kingdoms to bleed my people. Negotiations failed and I showed’em how the MacTavish clan deals with problems. Mediated two armies into licking their wounds. Both sides agreed to peace after that.” 

The pride John wears is well-earned, burnished to a near shine and tacked to the swell of his chest. Simon remembers both Oswye and Craustan, some low-lying kingdoms that hungered for more resources, more land, more gold to the detriment of everything else. The royals didn’t care about the state of their armies, their people, only that their coffers were full and their tables alone were plentiful. It had rankled Simon on his passages along their borders while he had been scouting, the few citizens that staggered out of the forests terrified and delirious from hunger and sickness, but then they had turned their gazes towards Simon’s kingdom and he had been unleashed upon them. His leash had drawn tight before they could be wiped from the map; his father preferred to leave them cowed and terrified of his shadow in whatever form it takes. 

It didn’t surprise him that they turned to John’s kingdom next. 

John’s shoulder knocks against his as they walk, companionable in a way that makes Simon want to excavate his chest for the sake of respite. “Tell me some of Simon’s feats? Or maybe just one of your yers? I’m sure you’ve got a few stories to tell. And please… no formalities. Not with me… not when we don’t have the nattering hens clucking around to remind us all of our places.”

Simon laughs then. Couldn’t stop himself even if he wanted to, pressing his hand to his mouth to try and muffle the raspy sound. It pulls his mask flush against his skin, drawing one edge down where his fingers press into his cheek. He pulls the fabric back into place as he straightens, turning his gaze back to John. “If that’s what you wish, John.”

“Johnny.” John leans into his hip, his entire frame curving towards Simon. There’s a sharp glint in his eyes, a hound given a target to chase down and worry into submission. Simon can’t help but wonder what those teeth would feel like pressed against his throat. 

“Johnny.” Simon lingers over the taste of it, sweet like honey, like a golden afternoon. “A few campaigns ago, we were mostly at a standstill outside of the city. Most of any war is sitting around waiting so it was something we were used to.” The only brightside had been that it had been clear and warm. “#One of the battalion commanders had the little bit power go to his head, so he wanted to be kept updated on every arrow that hit the ground overnight to the point where he’d go survey the campsite himself. So, I made sure I picked up some of the enemy's arrows after the battle and spent my night shooting them into the air so they’d land at the camp’s border. He went scurrying after them every time.” Simon shrugs, rolling his shoulders. One of his joints sticks, releasing with a crack and Simon sighs. He misses his sword, the weight of it to keep him grounded whenever his thoughts float whenever Johnny is nearby. “Not quite as glorious as your exploits, I’m sure.”

Johnny’s teeth indent his lower lip, his breathing shallow as he struggles through his laughter. “About the same level, I’d say. Any more?”

Simon grins. He wants Johnny to know him like he wants to know the other man. He isn’t proud of most of what he has done on the battlefield, it had been necessary but that had been all. His hands are caked with blood from the things he had done and he wants Johnny to know the man he is despite that. 

“If you insist,” he murmurs, inclining his head towards Johnny.

⁂

Simon never expected things to turn out like this. When he had pictured his future as a younger man, bleeding on a cot in the corner of a medical tent and not knowing if he’d even have a face when they were through with him, he’d thought of a blade through his belly, a knife at his throat, some inglorious demise in the soaking sodden mud. 

A fiance had never crossed his mind, let alone a fiance that he loved. 

The enclosed garden is as good a place as any to twist his thoughts around his fingers and try and braid the fraying ends into something that made sense. Roach had stepped away, the sharp imprint of his fingers still a bruise against Simon’s ribs, a welcome hurt to focus on given that he had been unable to train since he first set foot in this kingdom. His racing mind is a poor substitute for being able to run. 

Days crept by and his wedding draws closer and closer with no sign of the errant Prince Simon. The whispers are not quiet anymore, the rasp of a powder keg filling to the top and near-enough ready to burst. He would laugh at the rumours if they weren’t so insulting; not taking offence for himself or the empty plinth of Prince Simon, but on Johnny’s behalf. He hadn’t walked to the garden under his own power, steered by a man half his height when Simon had been overtaken by a rage intended for the battlefield, the compulsion to remove his mask so he could better tear out perfumed throats with his teeth. 

His absence is a slight on Johnny, an insult to the man he loves, and it is Simon’s fault. 

He would cut his throat himself if he thought it would help but there’s no sacrifice Simon can make to pull back the seconds that had slipped by, to alter every choice he had made except one. He wouldn’t change falling in love with Johnny for anything. 

Behind him, the door to the garden creaks open, the hinges moving a little easier after fresh prolonged use, and Johnny’s boots scuff against the gravel. Simon senses the moment Johnny sees him half-sprawled out in a patch of grass, his face tipped back to the weak sunlight filtering through the clouds. There’s an immediate electricity in the air, the focus of a half-starved wolf stumbling across a stag in the forest and ignoring the sharp jut of its antlers. 

“Simon.” The word isn’t an exhalation or a sob, not a shriek or a roar, simply his name and that is all it should be. Johnny tips himself onto the grass next to Simon, uncaring of the tangle of his limbs as he curls forwards to press the flat of his palms to his forehead, resting against his knees. He’s wearing a kilt, the pattern the same as the one he wore at the tourney, the fabric a heavier weave and it creases at the fold of his thighs, pooling onto the grass. “Ah’m glad to see you.”

He straightens in fragments: shoulders first, broad beneath the thin white shirt he wears, seams straining with the effort; his back next, his spine a delicate hollow that Simon aches to trace his fingers down, to count every vertebrate by touch and not just by sight and guesswork; his head, his circlet tacky with sweat and the shine of the jewels dulled by the uneven smudges of fingerprints over them. His hair is growing in, the defensive prickles of Johnny’s freshly shorn sides beginning to soften. He drops his hands last, his eyes distant, staring at Simon but not truly seeing him. 

Johnny leans closer and Simon doesn’t move away. 

One of Johnny’s hands presses against Simon’s thigh, the other loosely curled in front of his chest, unwilling or unable to reach out. His breath fogs against Simon’s cheeks, barely felt through the fabric except by the slight change in temperature, Johnny’s gaze flickering to Simon’s eyes before dropping lower, watching his mouth. A kiss through fabric, sensation blunted but present enough… 

Johnny’s thumb presses against the edge of Simon’s mask, high on his cheek. 

The Prince moves away, snatching his hands away from Simon as if the very thought of him burns. “Forgive me— you’re not— I cannot do this. To lead you on is to lead myself astray. I have to honour… my prince.”

He stands, sketching out a trembling bow intended for someone high above Simon’s current station, the man John wishes him to be, and flees from him. 

Simon never had cause to be jealous of himself before now, but he finds that he despises Prince Simon with every thread of his being. Tomorrow. This delusion will end tomorrow. He needs to confess what he’s done. 

⁂

“Move aside.” 

Simon huffs out a breath into his cupped palms, a sudden ache blooming in his worn knuckles at the declaration from the door. Dread is a familiar companion, easily notching into the hollows of Simon’s ribs with such ease he wonders how he ever thought this marriage would come to pass. The headboard creaks beneath his weight as he leans fully back against it, the base of his spine relaxing in torturous relief as he settles his sword across the span of his thighs. The blade is still slick with oil, the remnants of which line the cracks in Simon’s palms in the same fashion. It’s lighter in shade than the kind he normally favours, his thoughts skimming over rain instead of blood.

Roach at the doorway doesn’t step away. John may be a Prince, but he isn’t Roach’s.

Instead, he leans back slightly, face upturned towards a world that has only ever revealed the soft parts of itself when it is punching him down and tips his gaze towards Simon. His arms are tense, fingers wrapped around the edge of the door and his other hand braced against the stonework. 

“I said move aside before I do it myself.” Each word is measured, vibrating like a freshly struck fork, and Simon tracks their impact by the pressure in Roach’s grip, the fresh holes boring into Simon’s belly. To see Johnny delighted had been a miracle; what does the man look like angry, what level of devotion could he illicit in fury?

“Roach,” Simon calls, pitching his voice loud enough to carry. His cheeks ache, scarred lips pulled up over his teeth and he can’t say if he’s grinning or matching Johnny’s snarl. “Stand down.”

Simon splays his hands over his sword, one over the pommel, pressing down until the cool metal indents into his palm, and the other against the blade. He curls his fingers, testing the edge against his skin. Honed to a point and hungry. He’s been waiting for this confrontation since he arrived, mud-streaked and exhausted and desperate to be someone other than who he was for a moment. Simon’s a soldier, a wraith bound to this shape, but in Johnny’s arms, he had been human.

It’s a harrowing thing to mourn the loss of.

Simon rests his head against the wall, the edge of the headboard indenting the base of his skull. “The Prince wishes to speak to me.”

(It’s over.)

The door swings wide, Roach’s arm dropping a deliberate few seconds after it does so. The shadows of the room cling to his slighter frame as Prince John steps forward, eclipsing everything else in existence. His blue eyes are bright, the flickering candlelight caught in the glow of them, and he levels his gaze at Simon like a challenge, one of the wickedly sharp halberds decorating the palace artwork made to run him through.

(It’s almost a relief.)

“You’re the Prince.” Sharp, clear, bloodless. John’s gaze flicks over Simon before it returns to Roach. “And who are you, then? His lover.”

Simon’s grin grows sharp, his eyes narrowing. “He’s my friend, the same as your knight. I won’t let him be insulted by anyone.” He jerks his head towards the door, never taking his eyes from Johnny. 

It’s a declaration he’s gone to the ground to defend, beating his knuckles bloody against helmets until the metal is a dull smear beneath his hands. He loves Johnny, will always continue to do so regardless of his impending doom, but he won’t accept an insult to Roach. Roach inclines his head, a flicker of movement in the corner of Simon’s vision.

“My Prince, Your Highness” Roach murmurs and steps out of the room, the door closing behind him. 

John watches him leave, jaw drawn tight beneath the pale wash of stubble over his cheeks. His hands hang at his side, oddly still. There’s a smudge of ink over one finger, dark enough that it could be mistaken as a bloodstain for a single heartstopping instant. “I…” Johnny clears his throat, drawing himself up to his full height and squaring his shoulders. A fighting stance. “I was to be wed to a prince I didn’t know. I was supposed to play my part and be happy, be grateful that I could be useful for only my realm but yours too.”

“Johnny–”

“I’m not finished.” 

There’s the curled lip, the bared teeth that Simon has come to expect; not just anger but hatred, disgust. John jerks into motion, striding to one edge of the room then the other, turn, repeat. His knuckles are pale beneath the force of his grip, every footfall a fresh shovel of dirt onto Simon’s grave. “Was it a ploy all along? I wish to God it was. Knowing you’re here to kill me or my parents makes it easier for me to hate you instead of doing all this… because you didn’t want to. I cannae hate you for that. Marriage, it… it changes you. And I… never wanted Prince Simon to be tied down to me or anyone else. We’re princes, we have duties and expectations… but we’re still… you’re still just… Simon. I only wish you told me sooner. You never had to… I wouldn’t have…

“I never would have thought to love you.”

It is only by the pounding of his heart in his head, the screaming hollow of his lungs, and the bright flash of pain over his palm that Simon knows he is still alive. His hand is flush against the blade of his sword, blood seeping from the fresh wound and staining the sheets beneath him, the dark fabric of his clothes. 

Johnny turns back to him, his chest heaving with every ragged breath even as he schools his features back into court-forged neutrality. “Explain.”

Simon presses his teeth against the tip of his tongue, biting down until the pressure matches the pulse in his hand. “Wasn’t a ploy or a trick,” he says. “It was—”

He’d never been good at expressing himself through words, a waste of resources to teach a blade courtly manners or speech, but he steels himself all the same. Simon fixes his gaze at a spot on the edge of the bed, Johnny a trembling shadow behind the sweep of his lashes. He can’t look at him while he does this, can’t see the final embers of affection die utterly. 

Simon tugs his mask down, pulling the ties free, and letting the fabric drop. 

“You heard the rumours about the Ghost of the Riley Kingdom, about me, yes? Damn fine piece of work. Won us more battles than the fighting did. But, what none of them seem to remember is how old I was when I was sent onto the field for the first time. These—” He drags the blunt edge of his nails over one of the scars that bisect his cheeks, running from the permanently notched corner of his mouth to the swell of his cheekbones. His touch catches on the rough texture, the areas with no sensation except pressure, “—are a reminder of that. I was captured because of my family name, carved up because of my bloodline, and I returned to that duty again and again and again. So, when I arrived here, when I saw you, and I had the opportunity to be someone else for a while?

“I’m not a good man, Johnny, but my actions were never intended to hurt you. I’ve been told my entire life that my duty is to die and you have been the only one who thought differently, who made me believe it could be different. If you wish me to leave, then I will, but I’ll forever be indebted to you for that.”

“I don’t know your reasons, Si. Prince Simon. But I…” Johnny’s thumb brushes against his neck, fabric whispering beneath his touch. “I’d have yer hand. I’d be at yer side for as long as you’d have me. Even in disgrace. We could flee now, I’d have the bishop marry us with our men as witnesses. But if I was never—” Johnny blinks slowly, close enough to Simon that he could feel the trembling inhalation in the way his head spins from it. “—If marriage was never what you wanted, then you would do well to leave soon.”

“There hasn’t been a moment since I met you that I didn’t want to marry you.” Simon closes the distance between them, not to kiss Johnny but to press his forehead against Johnny’s. “But this is your home, your family, your people. How can I ask you to leave all that behind and be a mercenary prince with me?”

“These are my people… this is my home… but Si, I always knew I’d be forced to leave it all one day for a wife or a husband. Because I’m the fourth son, inheriting nothing save a duchy to disappear to once my vows are spoken.” Tears brim in Johnny’s eyes but never quite spill free, the blue nearly obscured behind a film of them. He laughs once, softly. “If anything, the tale of the mercenary princes will be quite famous.”

Moving carefully, as if Simon is some wild thing prone to bolting or biting, Johnny rubs his thumb over Simon’s cheek, the touch there and not at the same time. “Lemme wrap your hands.”

Wordlessly, Simon holds his hands out, palms up. In addition to the sluggishly bleeding wound across one palm, the other is muddied with repeated grinning imprints of a skull. Johnny hisses through his teeth at the sight of them, his brow drawn into deep furrows as he surveys the damage. “Won’t pretend that I’m a dab hand with a needle and thread but I don’t think it needs stitching. Will hurt while it’s healing though.”

“I know.” Another pause, a blink as Johnny’s gaze wanders once more, tracing over the bridge of Simon’s nose, his mouth, the line of his jaw, before he stands and moves to the dresser. Simon continues, “Should be some bandages in the second.”

It’s nice to have someone take care of him. Unexpected, still strange and awkward in a fumbling way Simon hasn’t felt since he was a boy with limbs that were too long for him and a mind that never seemed to quiet. Johnny bows his head as he returns to sit in front of Simon, his mouth moving soundlessly as he works. They never part, not truly, Johnny’s fingers remain curled around Simon’s as he works, drawing the pale cloth tighter and pinning it closed. 

“Alright.” Johnny clears his throat, looking around the room as he does so, but his gaze returns to Simon again and again, shy little glances under his lashes. It’s close to how he would watch Simon when they first met down to the colour high on his cheeks. “We need to move quickly. Not much time before my family notices I’m not where I should be.”

Simon nods once. They untangle themselves slowly, deliberately, and Simon can still feel Johnny’s touch over the blunted pads of his fingers, the cracks in his palms. He returns his sword to the holster, strapping it to his back before he reaches for their packs, slinging both his and Roach’s onto his shoulder. They had never thought to unload them, both ready to leave at a moment’s notice. He turns back to Johnny in the centre of the room, his face pale but determined, smiling at the other man before Simon draws his mask back into place. 

It doesn’t sit as well as it once did.

In the corridor, the knight, Garrick, stands, tipped against the wall close to the door while Roach waits opposite to him. His face is downturned, but that isn’t enough to hide the wide edges of his grin behind his mask. Garrick rights himself as the door swings open, the straps of a few bags clutched in one hand, the other fluttering first over the hilt of his sword then to rest by his side. “Right,” he announces, glancing between them both. “You two kissed and made up?” There’s a deliberate brightness to his voice, not quite in jest but not enough to dissuade Simon of the notion that they both had their ears pressed to the door moments prior.

“Something like tha’,” Johnny answers, stepping forward and reclaiming his pack from Garrick. “Now, let’s go.”

They make a well-fitting if strange group as they make their way around the corner, the Prince of the land, his sworn knight, a foreign Prince masquerading as an Ambassador and his shadow. Simon can’t look away from Johnny just ahead of him as they walk, the confidence in his stride as he hurries them onwards, excitement crackling to the ends of his hair like a lightning strike.  They stagger to an uneven halt as they round the corner, the broad figure of Chamberlain Price made broader by armour standing in the centre. Simon wraps his fingers around his sword, sensing Roach mirroring the movement behind him. He’d need some height to throw the blade, and Simon readies himself for the impact of boots against his thigh, his back as Roach gets that needed height. 

“So,” Price says, “you’ve made your choice, my prince.”

Johnny straightens, squaring his shoulders before he nods. 

“You’ll want to take the west corridor. I’ve asked Lady Sorcha to prepare your travelling clothes. Oh, and Kyle?”

“Sir?”

“Serve him well.”

The remaining corridors weren’t empty of soldiers, a few roaming in fixed patterns that are easy enough to avoid, and handfuls more are pointedly distracted at their posts. 

“Three,” Roach whispers, leaning forward just enough to bump his head into the scant free space on Simon’s back between holster and pack. “Pay up.”

“That last one looked before he returned to staring at the wall.” Simon draws the coins free from the pouch at his waist, holding them back towards Roach. Tucked into the small alcove outside of the castle, the air is cool, tracing delicate fingers over the line of sweat beading on Simon’s forehead, seeping into his hair. Gaz stands at the entrance, his profile cast in sharp relief, before he steps out with a sharp whistle. The distant trudge of footsteps grows purposeful, a small group of workmen heading towards him, and they step out at his instruction, Johnny’s fingers twisting around Simon’s. 

There’s a peculiar stillness inside of a church as if the world has drawn a breath in and hasn’t yet decided to exhale. The light isn’t strong enough to cast coloured shards across the floor from the ornate stained glass windows, but it is enough to illuminate the huddled pews and the altar holding court in front of them all. 

“My Prince.” The bishop is an older man, his hair long gone white and beginning to thin across the crown of his head. He stoops as he walks closer, the hem of his robe dragging softly against the stone. “‘Tis a strange hour for a visit.”

“Aye, it is, Father. But I have a request of ye.” Johnny steps forward, drawing Simon to stand at his side and Simon moves with him willingly. The only warmth left in him are the places Johnny touches, the lingering mirages of his hand blooming and collapsing over the blank bare skin of Simon’s hands. Johnny raises their joined hands into the bishop’s line of sight. “I want you to marry us. Now.”

The bishop recoils as if Johnny had slapped him. His eyes are wide, wild, and he draws his hands close to his chest, fingers pressed together as if asking for some eternal forgiveness. “My Prince, if this is some jest, I must refuse. You are betrothed to Prince Riley, it would be a grave injustice to the realm for you to do this. And to draw the Ambassador into this tomfoolery!”

Gaz speaks, a grin painted broadly across his face. “Father, the Ambassador is the Prince. I swear it on my honour.”

Johnny rises onto his toes, twisting so his cheek is pressed against Simon’s, facing Roach behind them both, before he speaks. “If nearly anyone other than Gaz would try that, they’d be turned on their heel with their ears ringing with scripture before they even knew what was happening.”

Simon tips his gaze sideways, studying the other man. Gaz doesn’t look away from the bishop, his expression warm and earnest, impossible to not be believed. If he had been born in Simon’s kingdom, he’d be an entirely different creature, a viper dripping poison into foreign dignitaries' ears until they were sick with it.

“Indeed.” The Bishop stares at them each in turn, his brow furrowed. “This is most unprecedented, my lords.”

“There’s been nothing scandalous between them, sir. Prince John wishes to respect his fiancés desire for privacy. Prince Simon heads his father’s armies, you see. A large gathering already paints him and John as targets. If they were doing this in sin, they’d never come before you, Excellency.” Gaz concludes with a nod, his hands clasped in front of his chest, beseeching, a careful mimicry of the bishop’s own stance. 

“Very well.” The Bishop clears his throat and spreads his arms, holding them in place. “If the couple would step forward, we will proceed with the vows.”

Simon does as he’s bidden, Roach and Gaz moving into place behind them, as he turns to face Johnny. The other man’s eyes are bright, blue as the fresh dawn, and he has never looked more beautiful than he did in this moment. The vows are rote repetition; Johnny echoing the bishop’s words before Simon follows suit.

The bishop pauses, tucking his hands back into his draping sleeves as he studies them both. “Traditionally, the partner is crowned at this stage, however due to the sudden nature of this wedding—“

“I have something.” Johnny pulls the circlet from his brow, his hair falling askew over his forehead before he pushes it back in a single motion. “If you’re willing, that is.”

Simon kneels on the cool floor of the church, lets the warmth bleed away from him as Johnny stands above, a delicate circlet of gold held in both hands. 

“With this,” Johnny begins, his gaze never wavering from Simon, some deity of old cast in flesh and blood, “I crown you, husband and Prince Regent of the MacTavish kingdom.”

The metal is still warm, sitting high on his brow, slightly off-centre. Johnny huffs out a quiet laugh, nudging the circlet back into place. He holds out his hands once more for Simon to take as he stands, the pair swaying together as he does so. 

“I now pronounce you husband and husband. I invite you to seal your wedding vows with a kiss.”

Johnny cups Simon’s cheek with one trembling hand, blocking the bishop from sight. It’s a small gesture and Simon didn’t think it had been possible to love Johnny more and yet he does. He loves him more with every passing second. Simon tugs his mask down, leaning to kiss Johnny, his husband, his love.

It is just as wonderful as he thought it would be.

“My bonnie husband…” Johnny whispers, eyes blown wide and dark, never looking away from Simon. 

“Yours,” Simon murmurs. “All yours, my husband.”

⁂ 

There’s countless marks worn into the road by the passage of the procession through the laden fields and bursts of rich greenery. No banners snap overhead to announce their presence, barely more than a dark shadow detached from the skeleton of something monstrous, but they are known all the same.

Honoured all the same.

The castle sits squat, a few new towers carved onto its surface since the last time they had seen it. Three places it could be breached from now, four if the fires were banked to glowing coals. One corner is awash with a thick growth of roses, their scent heavy in the air even amongst the warm bloom of harvest that promises golden dawns and distant evenings. 

Simon had left the MacTavish kingdom freshly married and crowned, his husband at his side and two knights at his back. Glancing at Johnny, Simon swings himself down from his horse first, dust covering his boots, a finer scattering working its way up to his thighs. Travelling back had an exhausting undertaking but worth it in the end. 

He holds his hands out for his husband as he dismounts. 

Johnny had become everything Simon had thought he could and more. His hair is still shorn short at the sides, the mane on top woven into braids like his forefathers of old, and his mask is one of Simon’s, doing little to hide the gleam in his eyes. 

The Chamberlain is waiting for them as they approach, grey flecked through his beard and hair, new lines in the corners of his eyes. He moves solidly, having lost none of his powerful frame in the time they’d been away, escorting them to the throne room before he clears his throat and announces, “Riley delegation.”

The King and Queen look at Johnny first. Simon looks to Johnny and meets the man’s gaze fully, his eyes half-lidded as if in a dream before he straightens, turning towards the thrones.

“My King, my Queen. May I introduce Prince Simon Riley, my husband, officially and properly this time?”

[candytwist]

The other night I took Vyvanse and went to Dyke Nite and was incredibly rude to one Mrs. DJ. I have a habit of, when presented with people I find disagreeable but overwhelmingly themselves, assuming the worst of them. I'm always sort of suspicious of PLUR niceties and given some of her online posting in the past I'd sort of written her off as ingenuine in my head; but I’m judging and deriding her based off a series of images I’ve seen on my phone and like two or three interactions we've had in real life, where she's been nothing but nice to me. And I was a cunt because I found her kindness cloying?? What's wrong with me. That's crazy lol. She's managed to cultivate a beautiful community around herself doing what she loves, with the people she loves; I don't even know what I love to do! I am happy for her and dissatisfied with my own life, and I spin around with all that feeling in my head and spit it out on both of us as condescension. 

What a disgusting feeling condescension is! I hate to be condescending but it came out of me all too quickly and happily when I was on Vyvanse. I was so absorbed with myself and trying to establish some sort of position as a person of worth by just babbling on and on and on all night. A lot of things I do I do out of insecurity and resentment. I was going to say most of the things I do, but giving it that much weight can allow me to become defeatist. I don’t say it to distance myself from the weight of wrongdoing, it’s just that I’d much prefer to be rightdoing in the first place lol and I know a teeensy little social foible like this is something that can be changed. The ease of the changing I’m not sure of. It’s not as though I can become a different person at the drop of a hat, it’s small baby steps and acknowledgement thereof. I know I’ll be happier when I stop letting my distaste for the perceived "cringe" from allowing me to stop any connection I’d like to foster dead in the water. And isn't it nice to be happy and to make other people happy? I can find so much joy for the cloyingly genuine in music and writing and etc but when encountering real people in real life that exhibit that I get scared and at times vitriolic about it... I’d like to stop acting out the social #SenselessCruelty that I mindlessly do. I’m usually better at it, blame it on the stimulants! It’s a deeper part of my character but certainly being on a new drug that I didn’t like wasn't any help.

"Be real, it doesn't matter anyway."