#but. (saying this through gritted teeth and snot and tears) what the fuck

[pluviatrix]

ive been thinking about how the first game in the timeline begins cuz he couldn't catch her as she fell from the sky and the last game ends because he could catch her.

[p1nkcanoe]

swiss riding aether or mountain (the big boys) spoiler warning: he cries

Swiss should’ve kept his mouth shut. He should’ve never poked the bear just to get a rise and see if Aether would actually do anything. Because it turns out, he will. 

“I don’t know,” Swiss had said, sighed dramatically and shrugged his shoulders while nursing the rest of his tea from breakfast. “I just wanna feel it, y’know? I haven’t really felt it in a long time. Nothing really does it for me anymore.” 

He’d taken a drink, side eyed the quintessence ghoul from where he sat at the end of the table, silently completing his crossword leftover from yesterday morning. “And what would it be?” He’d asked. Bored. Wholly unamused and ignoring the obvious bait the multi ghoul had casted out.  

“I wanna feel it. Wanna be fucked to the edge like I used to be. And don’t even say you can because you’ve gone all soft on me the last couple times.” 

Rain, adjacent from him, raises his eyebrows and flicks his eyes between the two, suddenly intrigued by the ghoul's stupidity. 

“Oh, yeah? Is that so?”

“Yeah. You always hold back.” 

Aether looks up over the top of his glasses, nods, and gets back to his crossword. “I’ll keep that in mind.” 

And he had. 

Hours later and Aether had caught Swiss while he was walking through the halls, had pushed him into his bedroom and locked the door tight, made him strip. Now he’s got him posed over his hips with his arms crossed tight across the center of his back and his tail squeezed tight around a fist. He holds him upright and still, pounds his cock into that hole and shows that ghoul exactly how soft he’s become. Swiss screams until his throat goes raw, cries out into the room with every muscle tense in his lean body, and just takes it. 

It’s brutal. Animalistic. Aether groans and growls from below him, holding him tighter every time he tries to squirm or get away from the bruising force of the cock pistoning into his ass. His knees ache, his thighs burn, and his hole gets used over and over and over. Abused. And he takes every second of it because he asked for this. It may not have been exactly what he had in mind when he’d poked the ghoul and made his admission, but who’s gonna complain about getting their brains fucked out by the thickest cock in the abbey? Swiss sucks up the snot that’s begun to clog his nose and squeezes his eyes shut to try and rid his vision of the tears that refuse to stop flowing. He pays the price now and he’ll feel the consequences tomorrow. 

“Oh don’t look so comfortable,” Aether grunts from behind him. Sarcasm drips like poison from his fangs. He feels another brutal thrust enter him and chokes on his voice. “We can’t have that, can we? We need you to feel it. Do you feel it yet? Is it too much yet?” 

His breathing is heavy and labored, pushed out between his breaths, but Swiss knows better than to point it out. So he lets his knees slide open across the sheets and he sits, grinds his ass deep onto that cock and tries his best to grind with his arms so painfully trapped against his spine. It hurts. He’s not supposed to bend this way despite how much he wants to. But Aeth is right, he needs to feel it. He will. He cries out from behind gritted teeth. 

“Get up. On your feet.” 

One of Aether’s hands holds his arms while the other maneuvers him awkwardly to plant his feet flat on the mattress. He switches hands to fix the other foot. Swiss squats, speared on top of him with his thighs up by his chest. It’s a position he’s never been folded into before and it makes his muscles burn even more. It’s delicious. Like fire. 

“Bounce on me. Go ahead, be the little slut you are and bounce on that cock.” 

He tries. The angle is weird. So is the inability to bounce without the aid of your arms. He barely lifts himself up an inch before his body gives out on him and he slides back down with a punched huff. 

Aeth spits, grinds his dick up so hard that Swiss swears he’s trying to get his balls inside, too. “Fucking useless. Always making me do all the work.” It’s hard to argue when your body feels like pulled taffy. Aeth uses his arms as his leverage, pulls him up and down his cock just by the strength of his arms and meets him halfway on the drop with devastating punches of his hips. Swiss feels every thrust in his throat. He howls, chokes on a sob, and new tears force themselves from his eyes with every drop of his useless body. He feels it. Finally, he feels it.

[sailing-through-hawkins]

✧ sequel to the death says hello microfic that i wrote ages ago and just straight up forgot to post whoops, have some steve doing his best ✧

"Come on, come on -"

Steve skulks around the neighbourhood, muttering under his breath. He doesn't know if breathing in Upside Down air matters anymore considering they already - well, it wasn't the air down here that almost killed him.

Steve woke up with a gasp, gulping down air like he hadn't tasted the ashes in hours.

"Steve! He's awake! Guys, guys -"

His eyes blearily scanned the room, messy with supplies (black blood stains everywhere), and found Robin right next to him, gripping his hand tightly enough it hurt. Dustin was laughing right into Steve's chest, which was definitely covered in snot and tears but he hugged them both anyway.

Apparently the venom was a late-bloomer and only caught him the night after everything went down, in his fucking sleep, like some grandpa. God, he hopes he gets to be a grandpa before he almost dies again.

Then again, considering the fact that he argued to come back to the place that's tried to killed them like twenty times in the past three years...

He's probably got enough grey hair enough to count anyways.

But he couldn't let them hold him back, not when he knew, when he had a gut feeling that Eddie. Wasn't. Dead.

Dustin stared at him blankly before his face scrunched up into the most pissed-off expression Steve's ever seen from the kid.

"Are you fucking kidding me? Steve, you - no, fuck you, get -" He shoved himself away and stomped out of the room. "Fuck off!"

Steve sighs. He should have been more - tactful about how he said it but - he knows, somehow, he just can't explain it. Maybe he's wrong but - but it's his gut that made him run back to the Byers' house way back then, it's his gut that made him stick with the kids when Dart went missing, it's his gut that made him talk shit at those fucking Russian interrogators and he's made it through every time. So he's trusting his gut.

Fuck.

What was that?

Spinning around, Steve arms himself with his axe. It's a different weight than the bat but he thinks it's like, narratively appropriate or whatever.

Something leaps at him and he swings, chopping at a massive demodog. Fuck, is it a pack?

There are more, surrounding him, he's ready, but they stay back. He wants to flinch at their growls but he can't, he has to find -

A creature, almost like a demogorgon, crawls through the crowd of dogs. Steve's grip on his axe tightens as it slinks closer and looks down at him and it's -

"Eddie!" Steve almost laughs but - "Eddie?"

But his gut tells him to run away.

With an animalistic roar, Eddie-not-Eddie lunges at Steve. He dodges, barely remembers not to swing, and runs back. The - the not-Eddie growls, maybe at him, maybe at the dogs, and circles around Steve like some kind of messed up predator.

"Come on, Eddie," Steve hates begging, he hates it, but he has to. "I don't know what happened but -"

Eddie snarls, lunging again and Steve barely dodges, and he begs, and Eddie almost gets him and he dodges and it keep going on and on.

It takes ages, they keep circling each other while the demodogs watch like some messed up gladiator battle. It's fucking frustrating.

"You piece of shit," Steve pants, but Eddie's breathing heavy too which means it can't be hopeless. "You just gonna let Vecna tell you what to do, huh? So much for sticking it to the man -"

The demodogs shriek, throwing Steve off so Eddie can leap at him and they're on the ground.

"I came here," Steve grits his teeth, ignoring the sparks of searing pain running up his back as Eddie digs him deeper into the ground. He pushes back, the axe held between them. "For you, jackass. Because Dustin needs you. He - agh - he looks up to you."

Eddie somehow tosses the axe away and Steve has to grab his hands before they can claw at his face.

He doesn't say anything.

The dogs howl.

"Are you listening to me, Eddie?" Steve yells, pushing back against Eddie's grip. His jaw aches and he pushes up as hard as he can, until they're nose-to-nose, hands shaking against each other's. "You're Dustin's hero!"

He just keeps snarling, not even flinching at the sound of Dustin's name and something in Steve snaps.

"So fucking act like it!"

Steve smashes his head onto Eddie's, stumbling back as the creature falls to the ground with a howl. Shit, at least his ears aren't ringing too hard.

"What the fuck, Steve?!" gripes a hoarse voice in front of him and Steve would laugh out of sheer, crazy relief for it. "What was that for?"

"Shut the fuck up, Munson," Steve inhales shakily. Fuck, he shouldn't be this weak from a headbutt, right? "You're the one who...who -"

"Wh - woah, easy, I gotcha." Something's holding on to him. Maybe he's holding on to someone? He doesn't know, everything's too heavy, too foggy. It all blends together. "Steve? Hey, hey, stay with me, come on!"

"Gotta get up," Steve mumbles as the light fades away. He thinks he feels someone's hand in his hair, familiar but cold.

You'll need more grey than this, Steven.

And then nothing but darkness.

[shintin]

Gunpowder Dreams

Chapter 6 (Heartworm)

↳ Vash the Stampede x Female Reader

They didn't know a wounded man would show no mercy when they took the best thing he ever had away from him. What did they say? Don't poke the dragon if you can't take the heat; if you do, expect the flames.

Genre: explicit smut, toxic relation, romance, angst (Mafia au).

Warnings/Tags: +18, NSFW, Alternative Universe/Modern Setting, no spoilers from manga and anime, dominate Vash the Stampede, sexual situations, dub-con, graphic violence, gore, angst, toxicity, gunplay, manhandling, cunnilingus + fellatio, creampie, fingering, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, hair pulling, too many smut scenes, emotional trauma, and etc.

Song Recommendation: K'naan, ft. Adam Levine - Bang Bang

Note: Blood again, but this time it tasted sweet.

Chapter Index - Next Chapter

The screams of pain bouncing around the tiled walls were getting a tad annoying. Sometimes it sucked to be both the boss and the hitman.

Vash Saverem. He was known for deriving pleasure from hurting others, but today, he had no goddamn patience for this whiny asshole. Normally, he possessed the patience of a saint; he knew how to bide his time in pursuit of what he wanted most. However, when he was trying to get some real answers, and the dude was too busy shitting his pants and crying to give him a coherent response, Vash's tolerance waned, and his frustration began to surface.

Within the Mafia circles, a proverb echoed: The biggest misfortune for Vash Saverem's enemies was that they were Vash Saverem's enemies.

Poor man.

"This knife is about to go halfway through your eyeball," he issued the warning. "I'm not even going to show you any mercy when I shove it through all the way to your empty brain."

"Fuck, man," he cried. "I already told you; I only visited the port a couple of times. I don't know anything about trades or whatever the hell you're talking about."

Vash concluded coldly, "So, you're useless, is what you're saying." He inched the blade closer to the man's eye. The victim clenched his eyelids shut as if that thin layer of skin, barely a millimeter thick, could shield him from the knife's assault.

Fucking laughable.

"No, no, no," he pleaded desperately, his voice trembling. "I know someone there that might be able to give you more information." Sweat trickled down his nose, mixing with the blood on his face. His unkempt, greasy gray hair was matted to his forehead and the back of his neck. Guess it wasn't actually gray anymore since most of it was painted crimson now. Vash had already cut off one of his ears, along with mercilessly tearing off ten fingernails, severing both Achilles heels, and placing a couple of stab wounds in specific locations that wouldn't allow the fucker to bleed out too quickly. The sheer number of broken bones sustained by the wretched man made it clear that he would never rise or walk away from this place.

"Enough with the crying, start talking," Vash snapped, scraping the knife's tip against the man's closed eyelid. He cringed away from the knife, tears spilling beneath his lashes.

"H-her name is Dominique. She's one of the operation leaders responsible for dispatching men to capture the girls. She-she's a big deal in the port, b-basically runs the whole thing there."

"Dominique, what?" Vash barked.

He sobbed. "I don't know, man!" His voice filled with anguish. "She just referred to herself as Dominique the Cyclops."

What the actual fuck?

"Describe her appearance," Vash demanded with an impatient grin, his words forced through gritted teeth.

He sniffled, his chapped lips tainted with leaking snot. "She's tall, with black hair," he managed to say. "And she wears an eyepatch over her right eye due to an ugly scar."

Vash massaged the back of his neck, groaning as the muscles relaxed. It'd been a long fucking day. Especially since his fucking heart hadn't stopped pounding, he was plagued with the unbending need to find an excuse to see you again—and this monkey face was wasting his time.

Vash's mind felt scorched as if it had been seared in a sizzling skillet. Concentration was a near-impossible feat when the taste of you still lingered on his tongue, and the sensation of you tightly wrapping around his gun remained vividly etched in his memory. You were even more exquisite naked. With the sweet melody of your smoky cries echoing in his head, he would come in his pants if he wasn't this full of rage. Indeed, you had the potential to be a good fucking medicine for his piles of anger.

Crying out loud! Focus dickhead!

"Cool, thanks, man," Vash remarked casually as if he hadn't been torturing him slowly for the past two and a half hours.

The man's breath steadied, and he lifted his head to look up at Vash through disgusting brown eyes brimming with an abundance of hope.

Vash almost laughed.

"Y-You're releasing me?" he asked, staring up at the blond man like a goddamn forsaken dog.

"Sure," Vash chirped. "Come on! Get up and go."

Gazing down at his severed heels, the man was acutely aware that attempting to stand would result in an inevitable loss of balance. "Please, man," he blubbered, "Could you lend me a hand here?"

Vash nodded slowly. "Yeah. I think I can do that," he replied, just before swiftly retracting his arm and driving the blade deep into the man's eye socket. He died instantly. The foolish hope hadn't yet vanished from his eyes. Or rather, his one eye. Huh!

"You were involved in Gasback's affairs," Vash declared aloud, though he was no longer capable of hearing him." As if I would spare your life," he finished with a laugh. Retrieving his knife from the eye socket, he cringed at the suction sound, threatening to disrupt his plans for upcoming meals—which was annoying cause he was feeling hungry. While he did enjoy himself a well-executed torture session, he certainly wasn't a jerkwad who got off on the sounds that accompanied it. The gurgles, slurps, and other unsettling noises produced by bodies enduring excruciating pain and the insertion of foreign objects were not a soundtrack he would ever find soothing enough to fall asleep to.

Wait a minute! There was a contradiction within him. Because he found immense pleasure in witnessing your pussy singing for him while his gun glided in and out of you. It was delicious as it was torturous for him. He imposed the punishment upon you, fully aware that it was ethically questionable. It was wrong, he knew it, but he had no fucking shame. After all, he never claimed to be a good man.

The sound of the door creaking open jolted him from his reverie, and he lethargically lifted his head from the red rivulet trickling across the pristine white tiles, its stream leading toward the drain at the room's center. His gaze fixated lazily upon the figure who had just entered.

Damn it! Not again. Not at this moment. Drenched in soiled blood and ravaged by unholy thoughts chewing the shit out of his mind, the last person he wanted to encounter was Bradd, ready to reprimand him for Devil knows what reason.

"Did he prove to be of any use?" Bradd asked, his eyes scanning the scattered droplets of blood adorning Vash's visage while his disheveled hair hung over his forehead, unlike the upright style he was so into.

Exhaling wearily, Vash averted his gaze from his counselor, using the sleeve of his navy hoodie to wipe his face. "Yeah, he provided a name. Dominique the Cyclops. Rings any bells?"

"Nope," Bradd said, popping the p. "But I'll ask around."

"Maintain a low profile." Vash's voice carried a tone of exhaustion; his eyes fixed on the stream of blood flowing from his black gloves.

"Worried about Knives finding out?"

"No. It's none of his business," Vash responded, raising his head. His eyebrows knitted together, creating a deep crease on his forehead.

With each mention of his brother's name, an inferno of annoyance engulfed him, fueled by memories of abuse and shattered trust. He was merely a child, bereft of his mother, and Kni, his sole remaining family, had spared him no mercy with his blades.

The flames of animosity flickered in his eyes, casting a fiery glow upon his features. There was a time he stupidly yearned for reconciliation, for the chance to mend what had been broken, but the intensity of his hatred held him captive.

His gaze lingered upon the scene before him, a stark reminder of the darkness that pervaded their lives. He knew the bridges between them had not only been burned but reduced to smoldering ashes. The hope of brotherhood had withered away, replaced by a vicious reality—they were forever destined to be distant figures, forever intertwined as business partners in a family tainted by treachery.

Bradd's voice barely reached him, distant and faint, as if echoing from the depths of a well. "You've made saving those girls too personal."

 Vash squeezed his eyes shot. "It is too personal."

"But if news spreads, it could potentially impact the business."

"I don't give a fuck about business!" Vash's voice erupted in a furious outburst, his words laced with venom as he forcefully expelled them. Veins throbbed on his temple, his knuckles growing pale as he clenched the knife tightly, the sharp metal biting into his palm. "It was Nick's fucking last wish, and I'll be damned if I don't make it come true," he growled, his voice unwavering.

"Take a breath, boy," Bradd's voice coaxed, tinged with a hint of resignation. " I've never had much success reining you in once you've set your mind on something. My role is simply to remind you of the consequences and express my genuine concern. Besides, since when do you handle dirty jobs yourself?" Bradd inquired cautiously, mindful of avoiding Vash's agitation and any potential stains on his clean shoes as he approached closer, hands tucked into his pockets. He leaned down to inspect the lifeless body, and his face quickly twisted with nausea—a soft fucking man. Yet, Vash found relief in Bradd's loyalty, remaining steadfast amidst the dark dominion of a world where boundaries blurred, and power was asserted through ruthless actions.

Vash's anger dissipated quicker than anticipated. Interesting. "You know what they say, right? If you want something done right, do it yourself," he replied, running the stained knife blade along his blue jeans. Each deliberate stroke aimed to purge the weapon of lingering traces of claret. At this point, he had lost count of the clothes he had to get rid of because he had started to resent the smell of that shit—a less-than-ideal habit for someone viewed as a monster.

A monster.

Tsk!

This wasn't exactly breaking news.

He was used to it.

But the fact that you referred to him in such a way was a pain in the ass, perhaps because he had grown accustomed to being addressed by that name by people whose sins towered as high as Mount Fuji. Yet, when you, as someone nearly innocent, employed that word as well, something unsettling stirred within him that was definitely not pleasant, and now, he couldn't get it out of his goddamn mind. You had become a persistent distraction—a brain worm. Metaphorically speaking, of course, not the dog-killing kind.

"You don't need to shoulder the entire workload alone. Allow Livio and me to help you with this. Your burden—"

"I was bored," Vash interrupted. "Stop digging my shits. Nothing good gonna come out of it."

"I can't agree more," Bradd said, dragging a chair to a considerable distance from the stinky corpse and taking a seat. He crossed one leg over the other and fixed his gaze upon Vash as though he were a patient under surveillance in an asylum. Well. In a way, here was like an asylum.

Once Vash had sheathed the knife, he removed the gloves and casually tossed them onto the deceased's chest. Then, reaching into his hoodie pocket, he retrieved a cigarette. Rolling the tension out of his neck, he ignited the cigar and drew a deep breath. The tobacco filled his lungs, providing an instant sense of calm.

"What are you doing here, Bradd?" Vash asked.

"Digging your shits," Bradd said and chuckled.

"Haha, quite the comedian now, are we?" Vash reclined, exhaling a plume of smoke that drifted and dissipated in the air. This shit, this acrid residue, still felt foreign, like swallowing an ashtray. It was a far cry from the flavor he truly longed for. He didn't want this permanently residing in his throat but rather savor it on Nick's tongue.

Well. It's unfulfilled dreams that keep us alive.

"No, seriously." Bradd's tone carried a sense of urgency. "What've you done to that girl?"

Upon hearing the reference to "you," Vash's eyebrows arched upward in surprise, partially interrupting the steady flow of smoke from his lips. A brief cough threatened to escape his throat, but he exerted control and suppressed it. Nevertheless, he couldn't hide the subtle gleam of delight that flickered in his eyes, a spark Bradd keenly noticed.

In an effort to divert attention, Vash lowered his head, using his forefinger to tap the cigarette, resulting in a shower of ash falling upon the fractured leg of the man beneath him. "Why are you asking?" he said, careful not to reveal any emotions or intentions.

"Rollo informed me that she likely hadn't eaten for three days since he returned with all the food untouched," Bradd recounted.

Vash pursed his lips as he found refuge in the concealment provided by his hair today. It appeared that you were not easily tamed. Each scratch he left upon you only seemed to sharpen your claws, fueling you with a desire to retaliate with even greater strength. Just like a wild mustang, you adamantly resisted being subdued. Rather than yielding to compromise, you would battle fiercely until the bitter end, refusing to be trapped within a cage, even if it meant facing the risk of perishing within its confines. You were his wild pet, reserving your fears and moans exclusively for your master. Perfect.

"Why are you sharing this with me?" Vash asked, seeming unbothered while bothered. He ran his hands through his hair, fingers pausing at the rough undercut. "Rather than wasting my time with this nonsense, focus on resolving the issue." He tilted his head and fixed a feigned disinterested gaze upon the counselor.

"I tried talking to her, but she just kept staring at the wall," Bradd disclosed, leaning forward to discern any answers from Vash's expression, only to find none.

Oops! It appeared that the opposite had occurred. He pushed you too much and broke your tiny claws. Weren't you a little mouse nested in the clutches of a ruthless cat now?

"Vash?" Bradd called out, only for him to realize that the flame of the cigarette had been burning his finger without him even noticing. He swiftly discarded it, tossing it to the floor and extinguishing it under his boot.

"You're jeopardizing everything to rescue random girls for Wolfwood while you've already taken one for yourself and are breaking her every day," Bradd pressed on. "Don't you think—"

"That's different," Vash croaked, his voice filled with conflict. "She's his daughter."

"She didn't have a say in it," Bradd calmly stated. "I don't think Wolfwood would want you to torture an innocent person."

Vash's head jerked upward in a sudden motion, his eyes widening in shock. How dare Bradd presume to understand what his beloved Nick would desire or not, as if he knew him better. As if he could fully grasp the devastating pain that tore Vash apart from within. And what harm would come if he were to inflict a glimpse of that pain on others?

A surge of anger coursed through Vash's veins, tempting him to grab Bradd by the collar and unleash a torrent of furious screams, forcing him to taste a tiny morsel of the burden he so eagerly offered to assist with, for it was a burden that was bitter as hell, sadly capable of shattering anyone but Vash himself. He didn't care if the world burned in his wake; if only it could provide even the slightest relief from this unbearable pain. However, deep down, he knew that Bradd's words held a kernel of truth. Nick had never harmed anyone and always strived to convince Vash to stay away from it as well. Yet, here he was, drowned knee-deep in the very mess Nick had wished to spare him from.

The realization made Vash's fingers tremble, but he tightly balled his hands into fists, containing the quivering inside. Did Nick despise him for the actions he had undertaken in the name of honoring his memory? It seemed likely. Look at him. He had not only caused harm in the earthly realm but somehow found a way to cause pain to someone on the other side—somewhere Nick used to call Eden.

Despite his lack of belief in heaven or any existence beyond, a flicker of hope persisted within him, for he wished for its reality because, in such a place, Nick would find unbridled happiness. A happiness that surpassed what he could ever offer. Even though he wouldn't be able to meet him there.

Thieves Don't go to heaven. The teachers had taught him.

And he was a thief. He had stolen Wolfwood's name and besmirched it with his own misdeeds.

Vash released a worn-out sigh and thought tears streaked down his cheeks, but he wasn't crying.

He was just tired.

Something was missing. Or rather, someone. His beloved. His demise. His alibi.

Emptiness consumed him like there was nothing inside of him but this broken heart, the only organ left in this hollow shell. The echoes of screams reverberated within him. He felt the thumping resonating throughout his skeleton.

He had a heart, claimed science, but he was a monster, said everybody—including you. And he knew it all too well. He knew what he'd done. He wasn't asking for sympathy. But could it be possible that you were mistaken? For if he truly were a monster, wouldn't Nick know it? Then why he used to call him his angel…

Yes. He was angry and vicious and vengeful, familiar with blind rage and bloodlust and a need for vindication. But what about the hatred that was like poison, an unrelenting punch to the gut, an injustice that had been injected directly into his bloodstream and had paralyzed him from the inside? It stifled his breath and stuffed itself into his clothes, gradually decaying him in the shadows of his own hatred.

He didn't know what he was or what he might be. However, he knew he would never want to hurt Nick. Never. Ever. Never, ever again.

He was tired—so utterly tired that he wanted to forget he wasn't allowed to wish for things anymore, and he found himself wishing for one thing that would dispel the grip of his hatred: a friend.

You a child, Tongari? Why do you need a friend? You have me. Am I not enough for you? Oh, right. I am dead, because you couldn't save me.

Rising to his feet, Vash paid no attention to Bradd's presence, his focus fully consumed by his inner turmoil, as he walked toward the door, paying no heed to anything.

"Thank you," Vash uttered, pausing in the doorway, his voice saturated with self-reproach. "I'll handle it. Don't worry." He turned his head toward Bradd, wearing a blank stare with a hint of a smile that didn't reach his eyes, instead like a vat of acid seeped into his skin. Then he disappeared in the corridor, but a subtle but palpable piece of hatred seemed to detach from him and fell silently on the floor.

*

Sadness was a strange sort of thing.

It stealthily approached, silent and motionless, taking its place beside you in the darkness, gently caressing your hair as you slumbered. It enveloped your very being, squeezing so tightly that breathing became arduous. It planted lies in your heart and nestled beside you at night, draining light from every crevice. It remained a steadfast companion, holding your hand only to forcefully pull you down when you attempted to rise.

It'd been over four days since Vash was here.

After he left your room and your screams settled down, you huddled in a corner, contemplating your very existence. Sleep eluded you during the night, and all awake, you doubted. You doubted. You doubted.

Did you?

Didn't you?

Should you?

Why wouldn't you?

Even when you felt prepared to release its grip, break free, and be brand-new, sadness stayed with you as an old friend. It stood beside you in the mirror, locking its eyes with yours, daring you to live without it. You couldn't find the words to fight yourself, to fight the words screaming that you wouldn't be free, never free, never ever free from it.  

Sometimes, it just wouldn't let go.

Just like Vash.

"How're you doing?"

Your eyes blinked rapidly, and a gasp escaped your lips as you squinted at his stature. There he stood, in a snug purple shirt, paired with his usual dark pants and meticulously spiked blond hair. Today, however, he had decided to forgo his usual accessories—no holster, no arm garter, or any visible indication of weaponry. Perhaps he believed he wouldn't need them facing a broken person like you.

Sadly, he was right.

Vash whisked into the room like he treaded air for a living. No one accompanied him. "You look lovely," he complimented.

Sitting on your bed, wearing an old, plane shirt and pants of Gods know who, you had leaned against the headboard; your exhaustion and the toll of sleepless nights evident in the dark circles that marred the delicate skin under your eyes. Your hair, disheveled and untamed, cascaded in disarray, its strands haphazardly draping across your face, mirroring the neglect you had endured. Wrapped loosely around your waist, a blanket served as a feeble shield against the chill that permeated the room. Vulnerable. Miserable. Far from anything that could be described as lovely. Fuck you!

"Hey," he said pleasantly. You could tell he was trying to insert warmth into his presence, but it felt like sticking your hand into a fireplace that hadn't been used in centuries.

Closing the gulf, he moved closer, his woodsy cologne enveloping your senses as he intruded upon your space. You wanted to tell him to get the fuck out of your no-no square, but you couldn't imagine that going over well. You had learned your lesson. Yet, try as you might, you couldn't stop your limbs from stiffening and your shoulders from hiking up an inch. Your fingers twitched with the need to curl into fists, but you refrained from doing it, too.

Contrary to your expectations, he maintained a noticeable distance as he settled into a seat beside you, leaning against the headboard. His body heat would do more for you than the blanket ever could, but his shoulders were too far. Sadly. And it caused something in your joints to ache with an acute yearning, a desperate craving you'd never permit yourself to indulge. Traitor stupid body.

He glanced at you, and you rolled it into a little ball in defense. "Is it too cold in here? I can tell them to adjust the temperature if you want."

You turned to meet his eyes with anger and regret it immediately. There were less than 4 feet between you, and you couldn't move because, in his presence, your body only knew how to freeze. Every muscle and every movement became tense as if encased in ice. Each vertebra in your spine felt like a frozen block. You held your breath, your eyes widening, locked, and caught in the intensity of his gaze. You couldn't tear your eyes away. You didn't know how to retreat.

Oh. Gods.

His eyes.

The blue moons in his eyes were shimmering with an emotion you couldn't put your finger on. Only when he averted his gaze did you realize he looked sad. Melancholic. And you wanted to know why, as if somehow his suffering might offer peace to yours. Yet, the words remained trapped within your throat, unwilling to escape for fear of the consequences that may follow.

In a cautious, subdued tone, he uttered, "You don't want to talk to me." You fought to catch your breath. "It's understandable," he added, his voice tinged with resignation. "It's fair," he continued. "I wouldn't stand myself if I could." He dropped his voice. Dropped his eyes.

You turned your head, drawing the blanket tightly around your shoulders until you were cocooned in the tremors that wouldn't stop terrorizing your body. His presence reignited the trauma you had endured, unleashing a torrent of distressing memories. You couldn't make yourself still. It felt like shards of ice were cutting through your skin, horror clotting your veins. Clutching the blanket with a tight grip, you feared it might unravel.

Just as you were about to stand up with the intention of seeking solace in the bathroom, his voice reached your ears, causing you to pause.

"Don't go," he whispered, eyes on you. "Please," he said. "Sit here. Stay with me. You don't even have to say anything."

Some crazed, confused part of your mind entertained the thought of sitting beside him, itching to be close to him. It was as if a connection had been forged between you, born out of shared pain and despair, and the further you distanced yourself from him, the more this bond felt strained, provoking a deeper ache within you.

You must be insane. Still, you remained rooted in your position, perched at the edge of the bed. However, you chose to turn your back on him.

This time, you wouldn't let him—

His hand was suddenly on your back.

You flinched.

But as his touch seared through the layers of fabric, a scorching heat consumed your skin, causing you to inhale frantically as if your lungs had temporarily failed. You were caught in colliding currents of confusion, so desperate, so desperate, so desperate to be close. So desperate to be far away. You didn't know how to move away from him. For fuck's sake. You didn't want to move away from him. You didn't want him to know you were afraid of him.

He whispered your name, his voice hoarse yet so soft. His arms were stronger than all the bones in your body. He pulled your swaddled figure close to his chest, and you shattered into countless fragments of raw emotion, each piece piercing your heart. And amidst the shards of pain, a transformation occurred. The fragments melted into drops of warm honey, their soothing touch caressing the scars etched upon your soul, scars that he himself had bestowed upon you.

The only barrier between you was the blanket, and he tugged you closer, tighter, stronger until you could hear him whispering soothing notes of a melody near your ear. Familiar one. You had heard them echoing through time. However, like trying to grasp the sun through water, the memory associated with them remained out of reach.

Then, he touched your hair.

Your lips tightened, your eyes closing on their own. You were too tired, too weak to resist. You walked into this house with your fire lit, and within a mere two months, the proverbial fingers had pinched the flame, leaving only a trail of smoke behind.

His hands, encased in gloves, tenderly glided through your hair, his soft touch reminiscent of a child playfully engaging with a cherished doll. Each stroke of his fingertips traced delicate routes, leaving a lingering warmth in their wake. Your lips trembled, your heart heavy as you struggled to comprehend the enigma. Why was he doing this to you?

He carefully gathered your hair, and you nearly choked when he began braiding it. How the fuck! He skillfully wove the strands together with each precise movement, creating an intricately crafted braid. Leaning over, he reached for a wristband from the nightstand and gently secured the end of the braid with it. The sheer disbelief of the situation tempted you to twist around like a dog chasing its tail, wanting to witness this surreal scene with your own eyes. However, you resisted the urge, choosing to remain still.

Bastard of a man.

There was no denying that he could be a great father one day, but given the tumultuous life he led, luckily, he would never live that much, and even though the thought scared you, there was a part of you that wanted to have the privilege of seeing his miserable end.

Or at least, you believed you desired it.

The beats humming deep within his chest and the steel of his scent around your body severed ties to tension in your limbs. His warmth dissolved the icicle barriers that had kept you suspended, causing you to thaw from the inside out. As your eyes fluttered rapidly, they eventually succumbed to the moment's weight, closing shut and allowing silent tears to stream down your face. Why weren't you screaming? Why were you letting him have his way with you? You didn't know.

"It's okay," he whispered. "You'll be okay."

Unspoken between you was the understanding that truth, an unforgiving and possessive mistress, never granted respite. Being "okay" was an elusive concept, forever out of reach. His actions to you left an indelible mark, ensuring that you would never fully recover.

You felt a swelling in your throat as you mustered the strength to mutter, "You ruined my life."

With agony all around, you sobbed, and he didn't do anything to calm you. He just remained ominously silent. He didn't say a single thing as you hurled awful, horrible insults at him and accused him of being too coldhearted to understand what it was like to grieve. You didn't even realize he'd turned you toward himself and had pulled you into his arms until you were nestled against his chest, and … you didn't object. You didn't fight it at all. You clung to him because you needed this warmth. Because it was painfully familiar. Because you'd missed feeling strong arms around you. And he just held you. He smoothed back your hair and ran a gentle hand down your back, and you heard his heart beat a strange, crazy beat that sounded far too fast to be human. His arms were wrapped entirely around you—a refuge and trap.

It took every broken filament in your being to untangle yourself from his embrace. It was painful, but you did it because you knew it was necessary, that it was for your own well-being. Each step you took felt like invisible forks pierced your heart, causing you to stumble in your retreat. The blanket snagged your foot, nearly causing you to lose your balance, but just before you fell, Vash reached out to you.

"Love—"

"Don't call me that!" Your breaths were shallow and difficult to swallow, your fingers trembling uncontrollably. "Just don't." Your eyes were trained on the door. His hand extended towards your arm as he rose to his feet, but you pulled away and walked resolutely in the opposite direction.

His unwavering gaze fixated upon you. Unblinking. His eyes traced a path from your face, down your neck, and along your arms, until they halted at your waist. You instinctively followed his stare, only to discover that your movements had lifted your shirt, revealing your stomach. And you suddenly understood why he was staring. The memory of his kisses trailing along your scars, his hands exploring your waist, your bare legs, the insides of your thighs, his gun sliding in your—

You found yourself clenching your fists tightly, willing the physical pain to distract from the memories carved in your mind. You didn't want to remember. You didn't want to think about those things anymore.

"I'm not going to hurt you—"

"Stop lying to me." Your voice was even, flat; your limbs numb, amputated. "If you're here to take it out on me, just do it already. Don't sugarcoat your torture. Don't play games. Just do it and then walk the fuck out."

Through clenched teeth, he responded, "I'm not here for that."

"Then why are you here?" you asked carefully, slowly.

"Can you sit—"

"If you're not here to torture me, then just go. I have nothing to talk to you." The wounds were still fresh. No need to rub salt into them.

You heard his hard exhalation of breath. He laughed a bitter laugh. "Practically, I'm the only one visiting you, and you want to shut me out?"

You closed your eyes and took a deliberate breath. With a composed tone, you responded, "Yes."

He advanced a few steps in your direction, causing fear to surge through you. In a panic, you screamed, "Don't come any closer! Don't touch me!"

A few seconds of silence joined the conversation. Then, breaking the stillness, he uttered wickedly, "Maybe I want to touch you."

Feelings of disbelief tore through your heart like hole punches, leaving behind a painful void. Temptation whispered in your ear, deceiving you to embrace recklessness, to give in to the aching desperation for something you knew you could never have. In an act of self-preservation, you turned your back on him, hoping to shield yourself from your swirling emotions and let lies spill out of your lips. "I don't want you to."

He made a harsh sound. "I disgust you that much?"

Caught off guard by his audacity, you swiftly spun around, almost forgetting your composed demeanor. His dark ocean eyes didn't leave you, his face hardened, and his jaw clenched. His fingers flexed by his sides. As you looked at him, his gaze pierced through you like two buckets of rainwater—deep, fresh, and clear, brimming with hurt.

"You... you traumatized me!" The words escaped your lips, laden with pain.

He tilted his head, his voice sharp with a hint of sarcasm. "Only because I used a gun to make you come, not to make you bleed,"  he snipped.

You snarled, determined to reject his attempt to minimize the impact of his actions. However, his expression shifted, his posture straightening as he spoke with a hint of remorse. "If I possessed the power of magic and could turn back time, I'd do many things differently," he admitted. "But I must inform you that I lack such ability."

You tightened your lips at the condescension in his tone. "I cannot erase or undo the past." Ignoring your request, he did come closer, crowding you against the wall. He inclined his head, bringing his forehead into gentle contact with yours, the tips of your noses brushing lightly. "Let me make amends," he whispered, a plea for a chance to repair the damage he had caused.

Your face was cast in a neutral mold, and your arms and legs filled with plaster. You felt nothing. You were nothing. You were empty of everything. In every sense. You would never move. You were staring at your toes. You'd stare at it forever. Lost in your thoughts, you lacked the will to fight when he gently tipped your chin upward, his finger guiding your gaze toward him.

He was…he was…

His eyes and lips blurred and faded into insignificance; you subconsciously reached out, grasping his arm for support. The outside world seemed distant instantly as if transported to another dimension beyond your reach. Gradually, your eyelids grew heavy, closing in surrender. Your mind drifted, carried away by the thoughts that mercilessly kicked you in the heart.

He was fast to catch you before hitting the floor.

*

The ceiling was fading in and out of focus.

Your head weighed heavily upon your neck, causing a haze to settle over your vision. Your heart labored, burdened with the strain of unease. A distinct taste of panic lingered somewhere beneath your tongue, evoking a sense of urgency and fear you were fighting to remember where it came from. In a bid to regain control, you made an effort to sit up, only to be confounded by the fact that you found yourself lying down.

A pair of hands rested gently on your shoulders.

"Are you okay?"

Vash peered down at you. In that instant, a rush of flashbacks flared within your eyes, causing them to blaze intensely. Fucking hell! You had fallen into his arms. For the second time. "Well, at least you're awake," he sighed. "You had me worried."

You tried to control your trembling limbs. "Get your hands off of me."

Vash erupted into a boisterous, full-bodied laugh, shook his head, and smiled at you in the way you'd only ever seen once before, looking at you like you were the sweetest thing he'd ever decided to eat.

Those dimples.

He laughed and laughed and laughed, his eyes brilliant, gleaming even in this dim light. He laughed until it was just a hard breath until it became a gentle sigh and dissolved into an amused smile. And then he grinned at you until he was grinning to himself. His eyes shifted downward, drawn to your hand, which lay limp at your side. He hesitated a bit before his fingers delicately brushed the soft, thin skin covering your knuckles.

You didn't breathe. You didn't speak. You didn't even move. He was cautious, waiting to see if you'd pull away—an action you knew you should take. You knew you should, but you didn't. So he took your hand, studied it, and ran his fingers along the lines of your palm, the creases at your joints, the sensitive spot between your thumb and index finger. His touch was so tender, so delicate, and gentle, and it felt so good it hurt; it actually hurt. It was too much for your heart to handle right now.

You snatched back your hand in a jerky, awkward motion, face flushing, pulse tripping.

Vash remained unfazed, showing no signs of flinching. He didn't look up. He didn't even seem surprised. He only stared at his now empty hands.

"Leave me alone," you managed to utter. You were shaking and trying to push the tears back but shrinking into nothingness. Because you were thinking this must be it. This must be your ultimate retribution, a punishment you probably deserved. "I hate you—"

"So much passion." He looked so calm, so genuinely amused. He stared at you with eyes softer than you ever expected them to be. He took a shallow breath and leaned closer, his face shrouded in shadow. Uncertainty gripped you, leaving you at a loss for what to do. All you knew was that you didn't want to be alone with him. Not now, not ever again.

"I said leave me alone," you pleaded, your voice trembling. "I don't want you here. Please, just go!"

"I can't just abandon you in this state," he protested, his voice filled with genuine concern. "You look as though you've seen a ghost!"

Vash sat near you on the bed's edge, and you immediately crossed your legs to avoid touching him. "Here," he offered, extending his hand towards the plate on the nightstand. "I brought you some donuts."

As you attempted to seize the opportunity to sit up, your face unexpectedly drew close to his. Caught off guard, you inhaled sharply, causing a stifled cough to build up in your throat. His glassy blue eyes glinted and locked with yours.

He smiled.

"Are you not hungry?" His words dripped with sweetness. His gloved hand lightly grazed your wrist, evoking a visceral reaction that made you automatically recoil, almost spraining it in your haste to create distance between you.

"No, thank you." You were so hungry you could eat this room.

He licked his bottom lip into a broader smile. "Don't mistake foolishness for bravery, love. I know you haven't eaten anything in days."

Something in your patience snapped. "I'd rather die than eat any of the food in your house," you declared firmly.

"I'm happy that you're talking back again." He tilted his neck. Fucking maze of tattoos and veins. Why were you staring at them? "Are you thirsty?"

You didn't know if it was because you couldn't think straight or because you were genuinely confused, but you were struggling to reconcile the stark contrast in Vash's personality. It perplexed you that after all the crazy shits of the past weeks, he now sat before you, offering you a glass of water. What had caused this apparent change in him?

You raised your hands and examined your fingers intently as if they were foreign to you. "I don't understand."

He cocked his brows, observing you as though you might've sustained a significant head injury.

"I simply asked whether you were thirsty. It shouldn't be difficult to understand," he stated with a pause. "Drink this," he insisted.

Taking the glass into your hand, you stared at it, then shifted your attention toward him, carefully examining his face before your eyes wandered around the room, tracing the lines of the walls and the network of pipes. You must be insane.

Vash sighed. "I'm not sure, but I think you fainted. And I think you should probably eat something, though I'm not entirely sure about that, either." He paused. "You've probably starved yourself for too long. My mistake."

"What the hell do you want?"

He evaded the question, diverting his response. "I usually eat alone," Vash said, his voice cutting through the layers of your resistance like a sharp spear. "But I've come to the conclusion you and I should be more thoroughly acquainted, considering the significant amount of time we'll be spending together."

"I told you I am not hungry."

"This is not an option, love." You looked at him and realized he was very, very serious. "You're not permitted to starve yourself to death. You don't eat enough, and I need you to be healthy. You are forbidden from engaging in self-destructive behavior or causing harm to yourself. You're too valuable to me."

"I am not your slave to order around," you retorted. He abruptly set the plate down on the nightstand, and you were taken aback by the fact that it didn't shatter upon impact. Coming closer, he cleared his throat, a gesture that scared you.

"This process can be so much easier if you simply cooperate," he said, enunciating each word precisely. A hint of amusement played on his lips as he continued, "Out of all people on this planet, you're stuck with me." He allowed a momentary pause. "Everyone you've ever known has forsaken you. Where is your sister, I wonder? You would go to great lengths to protect her, yet she hasn't even filed a missing person's report for you. You know why? Because she doesn't even know you've been kidnapped. Not only your father hasn't filled her in, but she hasn't even suspected why the fuck your phone has remained off throughout this whole ordeal. I don't know. Maybe she knows about your situation, and your father is preventing her from taking any action. I cannot say for certain, but don't try to convince me that she was incapable of going to a police station for her beloved sister. At the same time, you chose to wiggle beneath me to safeguard her ass from any hypothetical harm. Wake up and face the truth, love: Your so-called friends have also abandoned you to rot here."

A hundred hands slapped your face. There was nothing left. You'd never expected anything from your friends based on their fear of your father, but now you realized that somewhere, deep within, you had been nurturing a small glimmer of hope that Amelia would somehow find a way to help you. Somewhere, deep down, you were still clinging to possibility.

And now that was gone, too.

"And yet—" He laughed openly now. "You persist in making me the bad guy." He met your eyes. "I'm trying to help you. I'm giving you an opportunity no one would ever offer you. I'm willing to give you the power to take your revenge. You and I can make your father suffer for what he did to you, to me. So, I ask you, why do you hesitate?"

He was wrong. He was so wrong. He was more wrong than an upside-down rainbow. But everything he said was right.

Drawing in slightly, he spoke, "Let's assume I really am a monster, but don't dare to hate me so quickly," he continued. "You might enjoy this situation much more than you anticipated. Fortunately for you, I am willing to be patient." He grinned, leaning back again, and added, "Although it certainly doesn't hurt that you have a pretty face."

You were dripping shame on the sheets. An unwelcome stain. He was a liar and a horrible, horrible, horrible human being, and you didn't know if you cared because he was right, or because it was so wrong, or because you were so desperate for semblance of something in this fucked up situation.

"You and I are not as different as you would like to believe," he proclaimed, his grin so cocky it stirred an urge within you to twist it with your fist.

"You and I are not as similar as you might wish," you spat, your nails piercing into the flesh of your palm.

"You're far more stubborn than I thought you'd be, love."

"I did whatever you asked me. I didn't kill myself!" you asserted, lifting your eyes to face his unwavering stare. You were suddenly startled by the immense power his gaze held.

"You didn't do that for me. You did it for that pathetic sister of yours," he said quietly. Bitterly.

You nearly laughed out loud as you looked away. "Why are you even here? You haven't answered me yet." Your tone was like a raining venom.

"I won't answer your question if you won't look at me when I speak to you."

You turned your head but still refused to face him directly. "You murdered people and made me watch their deaths. You tortured me. You humiliated me." Swallowing hard, you continued, "The very sight of you sickens me." Inhaling sharply, your nostrils flared as you struggled to contain your emotions.

Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry.

A slow, unsettling smile crept across his face. He touched his gloved fingers to your cheek and tilted your head up, catching your chin in his grip when you flinched away. "You're absolutely delicious when you're angry."

He bit his bottom lip, and you anchored your hands to prevent yourself from falling onto the bed. You knew if it happened, he would be on top of you again, and the thought left you breathless, unsure of your desires. "Too bad my taste is poisonous for your palate." You were vibrating in disgust from head to toe.

"Who says that?" he mimicked, feigning a pout. "I happen to think you taste like honey, and I just so happen to have a sweet tooth."

"You're sick, you're so sick—"

He laughed and released your chin only to take inventory of your throat. His eyes drew a lazy trail down the length of your face. He wasn't squeezing enough to choke you, but you wouldn't forgive yourself if you allowed him to force anything upon you again.

You curled your fist and swung it back into his face; without hesitation, you drove your elbow forcefully into his nose. His head jerked back just in time, your elbow striking true but hardly enough to be gifted with a bloody nose. He let go, granting you a renewed sense of liberation, and it felt like you could finally breathe.

He chuckled, deep and low, as he withdrew. The bastard didn't look the least bit ruffled, but you chose not to dwell on that.

"There you go. That was really good, love." He couldn't contain the emotion in his fucking face. Pride. Amusement and something more profound and far beautiful than the shade of his eyes.

"Finally!" Vash clasped his hands together as if to congratulate himself. "I was wondering when you gonna strike back again. I've been waiting for the fire I know must be eating away at you. Savage little mouse, you're buried in hatred, aren't you? Anger? Frustration? Itching to do something?"

"No."

"Of course you are," he affirmed, a knowing glint in his eyes. "You're just like me."

"I hate you more than you could ever comprehend," you declared, distancing yourself from him both physically and emotionally.

He brought himself close to you as if he was drawn to you like a magnet, only capable of maintaining a significant space between you. "We'll make an exceptional team."

"We're nothing. You are nothing to me!" With each harsh syllable, you spat out the words, anger dripping from your every utterance.

With a smile gracing his lips, slowly, deliberately, he peeled off his gloves, revealing each finger with a measured slowness. Despite the simplicity of the act, it stirred something within you. They were just hands, nothing more, and yet you sensed a profound meaning behind his gesture.

It was as if he intended to convey that he was willing to set aside the hatred that had once consumed him, symbolically shedding the layers of hatred.

Entranced by the unfolding scene, you watched as his hands tenderly cupped your cheeks, causing a wave of fear to ripple through you. However, to your astonishment, his touch inexplicably brought forth an unexpected sense of tranquility instead of intensifying your apprehension. A fleeting stillness settled over you as you realized this was the first time you had physically felt the warmth and touch of his hands upon your skin.

And they weren't soft as hands of a boy. He had the rough hands of a man. The gentle touch of an illicit affair. Gone was the man with guns and bullets. These hands treasuring you couldn't have held a weapon, couldn't have spilled any blood. They were perfect and kind, never touched by death.

Your gaze wandered, fixating on the stitch on his right thumb, an unspoken testament to a past injury. Questions swirled in your mind, wondering why someone had attempted to cut his finger in such a way. A glimpse of a black tattoo peeked out from beneath his sleeve's edge.

His lips hovered dangerously close to yours, causing you to gulp and grip his wrists, trying to stop him. Suddenly, he jerked, and your fingers inadvertently brushed against the remnants of old scars on his left wrist. Horizontal and straight scratches. Not one. Not two. Too many.

He had cut his wrist.

Confusion furrowed your brow as you wrestled with the heaviness of these newfound revelations. How many untold stories remained shrouded beneath the layers of fabric that cloaked his past? Who was he? Why… Questions you would never ask.

Your eyes willingly remained locked onto his, unable to look away. The pain had sculptured him into the person he had become, and his sharp edges had not only wounded others but gifted the deepest cuts upon himself.

What a divine disaster.

"Dear, sweet, beautiful girl," he murmured, a mixture of awe and curiosity. "How did you endure it all and retain more of your humanity than I did?" His scarred thumb brushed your jawline. "You really have become a crybaby, love. You're pitying me, aren't you? Don't you think that, do you?"

You checked your pockets for spare words and sentences, but you found none, not an adverb, not a preposition, or even a dangling participle because there didn't exist a single response to such an outlandish question.

As his left hand let go of your cheek, a chill replaced the warmth, prompting a desire to protest. You were surprised how you were getting used to his touch this quickly.

He picked up one of the donuts from the plate and held it under your nose. "You hardly have eaten anything in the last four days. That can't possibly be good."

You remained silent, not opening your mouth. He let out a sigh, his gaze studying your eyes with such intensity that it momentarily disarmed you. The words you wanted to say and scream seemed to have slipped away, leaving you bare before him. "You're going to eat, and then we'll talk," he stated firmly, his turquoise eyes never abandoning yours.

"Worried that I've poisoned the food?" he said, chuckling. It wasn't the reason you didn't eat, but you watched as he took a bite of the donut, swallowing it without even chewing. Then, with a contented glimmer forming in the corners of his eyes, he turned the donut towards you, right where he had taken a bite himself. "If it didn't kill me, it won't harm you either."

When you still resisted eating, his other hand shifted from your cheek to your nape, gripping it firmly. "We're not playing house, love," he stated with a hint of frustration, pulling your hair back slightly. "If you want answers, you'll have to eat." He held the donut close to your lips again while his thumb caressed your earlobe.

Stubbornness began to feel futile, a foolish endeavor. You knew you were never destined to win against him anyway. Swallowing your pride, you reluctantly took a small bite of the donut, and as you did, you noticed a smile forming on his lips.

"How is it?" he asked, his enthusiasm unwarranted. "Is it to your liking?"

You nodded, not deceiving him. The donut honestly tasted incredible; whether due to your hunger or not, it didn't matter. Ignoring any reservations, you reached up and took the donut from his hand, taking a larger bite this time.

He leaned back and watched you eat. The scrutiny made you uncomfortable, particularly when it came to eating, but he had made it his mission to challenge all of your boundaries. Protesting was pointless. He placed the plate with two more donuts in front of you. "I can bring more if you want. You just need to ask, but I think eating light foods is better for now. Your stomach might hurt."

As you glanced at him while picking up the second donut, a serene smile graced his face, but his blue eyes were still missing their sparkle. The baby blue color was lifeless; it was your first clue that something had broken within him, too, since your last encounter.

"Do you have any particular meal in mind?" he inquired, his eyes widening as you picked up the third donut, but then they turned wary and resigned as if this had reminded him of something he no longer had. Sorrow lined the edges of his lids, and the sight would forever haunt you.

You shook your head as a no. To be frank, you could devour an elephant at that very time.

He grabbed a napkin and gently wiped the corner of your mouth. It should have disturbed you, but if he was willing to clean up the mess he had made of you, you wanted to watch him try. It seemed like a win-win situation for both of you.

With his defenses now down, you resolved to take every chance. "Let me go," you said, the words running out of your mouth before you had a chance to choose them carefully.

"No." Except for the sadness in his tone, his voice didn't falter. He let out a weary sigh and lowered his head. "I'm afraid I can't do that. Ask me anything but not that."

Your lips filled with a touch of frustration, and you asked, "Why not?"

"Because I can't. I just..." he trailed off, clenching the napkin as he tugged at his fingers, clearly struggling to find the right words. He cleared his throat, briefly averting his gaze to the ceiling before meeting your eyes again. "Because I need you."

"You need me for your grand revenge!" you exclaimed, stopping eating.

"Don't you want it, too?" he asked, tilting his head.

"How dare you—"

He burst into laughter, the sound resonating loudly. "You're free to lie to yourself if it makes you feel better."

Your hands started shaking, and you gripped them tightly, trying to steady yourself. "You don't know anything about me."

"I have a ledger binder filled with your info. I know everything there is to know, love," he retorted. Smug asshole.

You clenched your jaw, not trusting yourself to speak. Instead, you slammed the half-eaten donut back onto the plate. Dropping your head into your hands, you tried to stay calm. Took a steadying breath.

"At the very least," you gasped, the words catching in your throat like a thorn. It was hard to believe what you were about to say. "Allow me to leave this room. I don't want to spend all my hours trapped here."

"If I let you out, what will you do for me?" His eyes were deceitful.

"Nothing."

He shook his head. Your response was not satisfactory to him. "That won't do. I may consider your proposition only if you agree to a condition."

You clutched the sheets tightly with your fist, bracing yourself for his reply. "What do you want?"

The smile grew more prominent than before. "That's a dangerous question," he said, a hint of intrigue and mischief in his tone.

"What's your condition?" you clarified, impatient. Motherfucker!

"Be my friend."

"WHAT?" Your gasp was so loud it caught in your throat before racing around the room.

"I want you to be my friend," he reiterated, his voice steady, his eyebrows taut, tense.

"I don't want to be your fuckbuddy!" You exploded. "I won't let you—"

"Screw sex," he spat. "I want you to be my friend—a genuine friendship—"

"No—" you protested, vigorously shaking your head; it left you feeling dizzy. "No. Never. You're crazy—I won't—" Your words stumbled and collided as you struggled to articulate your refusal.

"You will, actually."

"I will NOT—" you vehemently declared, but he glared at you. There was no other way to describe it. You could almost say he hated you right now. Hated you for denying yourself this opportunity.

"We have to … work … at one point or another," he stated, making an effort to moderate his voice. "Even if you were to reject my condition, I still have a reason to justify keeping you alive, love. Originally, you were kidnapped so I could end your life and deliver your deceased body to Gasback. But as you already know, a change in the plans has occurred. I require another purpose: for you to become my ally," he explained.

"You expect me not only to remain here but also to help you in your twisted schemes? Are you—"

"Yes," he replied, a smile spreading across his face. "Forgive me if I'm being direct, but you made it clear that you're a big girl and don't require me to sugarcoat stuff for you."

"You—you—" you sputtered.

"You have a debt to repay. After all, I played a part in rescuing you from that man you call a father and the other psycho I used to call my brother," he asserted and set his gaze at you. "Maybe I understand you, love. Maybe it's time for you to place your trust in me. Maybe you should come to terms with the fact that I am now your savior."

He looked at you, and for a moment, he seemed almost human. For a moment, you wanted to believe him. For a moment, you wanted to sit on the floor and cry out the ocean lodged in your throat.

"Love," he whispered, his hands tenderly grasping your shoulders. "You don't have to pretend to be nice anymore. You have the power to bring him down for all the pain he has caused to you, your mother, and—"

"I don't want to bring down anyone," you told him firmly. "I don't desire to hurt—"

"But he deserves it!" he exclaimed, pushing away from you with frustration evident in his actions. "How can you not want to retaliate? How can you not feel the urge to fight back—"

You moved aside, gradually rising to your feet, shaking with anger. You desperately hoped that your legs wouldn't collapse beneath you. You walked away from bed. From him. "You think because I am unwanted, neglected and —and discarded—" Your voice rose with each word, the raw emotions suddenly pouring out of you, unleashed from your lungs. "You think I don't have a heart? You think I don't feel? You think because I have a chance to deliver pain, that I should? You're no different than him. This suffering will never end—"

"Love—"

"No."

You didn't want this. You didn't want this life. You didn't want to be anything for anyone but yourself. You wanted to make your own choices and never wanted to choose violence. Your words were slow and steady when you spoke. "He's a despicable man, and I am sorry for what he's done to you and others. I really am, but I can't help you take his life."

He opened his mouth to speak before he stopped; he laughed out loud and shook his head. Then he smiled at you.

"What?" you asked before you could stop yourself.

"I'm not concerned about your moral dilemmas. You're just stalling for time because you're in denial due to your reluctance to face the truth," he asserted. "But rest assured, You'll get over it. I can wait a little longer."

"I'm not in denial—"

"Of course you are. You don't know it yet, love, but you are a very naughty girl," he said, clutching his heart. "Just my type of friend."

This conversation had become intolerable. Your blood pressure rose, and you struggled to suppress your growing anger. "How can you possibly expect me to be your friend after everything you have done? Are you nuts?"

The surprise on his face surprised you even more. His eyes were fighting his lips for the right to speak. "I didn't do anything against your free will—"

"YOU LEFT ME WITH NO CHOICE." You were about to grab and throw the water glass at his face.

Vash turned away from you, his profile now in view. His hands clasped together, he seemed to be deep in thought, tapping the tip of his fingers to his lips. "For that, I apologize," he uttered, tilting his head back just a little. "You must understand just how sincerely sorry I am that I—" He smiled a strange, unhappy smile. "That I treated you like that. I confess I had no idea you would shoot me for it."

"I didn't," you interrupted, your voice firm and resolute. "Just stop, I don't want your excuses—"

"I promise you," he said. "I would never have acted that way if I didn't believe you wanted me to. I am a lot of things, but not that."

And you were so shocked that, for a second, you forgot all about everything. You met his heavy gaze and managed to steady your voice. "I told you not to touch me!"

"Yes," he replied, nodding in acknowledgment. "Well. You'd be surprised how many people lie to me daily." His lips twitched. "And in response, you tried to kill me."

"That amuses you."

"Oh, yes," he said, his grin growing. "I find it fascinating." He allowed a brief pause to hang in the air before continuing. "Would you like to know why?" You stared at him. "Because all you ever said to me," he explained, "was that you didn't want to hurt anyone. You didn't want revenge."

"I don't."

"Except for me?" he questioned. He looked like a balloon that fell in love with a pushpin that got too close and ruined him forever.

There was glue all over your tongue, stuck to your teeth, your lips, the roof of your mouth. You couldn't speak, you couldn't move, you were pretty sure you just had a seizure or an aneurysm or heart failure or something equally as awful, but you couldn't explain any of this to him because you couldn't move your jaw even an inch.

"That decision was so easy for you to make," he said. "So simple. You had a gun, you wanted to escape, and you pulled the trigger—four times. That was all it took."

You shook your head.

But you were a liar. You were lying through your teeth, but you had to because he was right. Because despite repeatedly assuring yourself you had no interest in hurting people, you somehow found a way to justify it, to rationalize it when it served your desires.

Vash. Doctor Conrad. That man named Steve.

You wanted to kill every single one of them. And you would have executed them if the universe hadn't cooked your goose.

What was happening to you?

You shouldn't be alone with Vash. Not like this. Being alone with him was making your insides hurt in ways you didn't want to understand.

You leaned your back against the wall, slowly lowering yourself to the floor. With your knees drawn up to your chest, you wrapped your arms around them.

"You have every right to feel angry and frustrated about your situation. Even being angry with me for kidnapping you is valid. Life strips you of power often, but what you can control is pointing the blame in the right direction. So, you can either redirect all the effort you've been putting into acting like a brat and channel it towards something useful, or you can continue to be powerless in the situations life throws you in. The decision is yours to make, love. Because I will no longer force you into anything."

You had completely forgotten what it felt like to be chastised like a child. Your father did it often, but considering that was all he'd ever done, it felt less like being scolded and more like a normal conversation. But now? You felt nothing but small and bent out of shape like a piece of paper wadded up in Vash's boots. Pride bucked against that feeling, and you wanted nothing more than to snap something clever back and hold on to your dignity. But you would only prove him right. He'd look at you with superiority, and you'd only shrink further beneath him.

But to your surprise, he sat up and crouched down before you. Bringing himself to your level, not leaving you to roll in the deep all by yourself. Lowering his body, you noticed a bruise starting to form under his eye. Oddly enough, it just made him look sexier, and you wanted to punch him in the face for the tenth time all over again for it.

"What changed your attitude toward me?"

Seated on the floor, he positioned himself with his legs partially spread before you, resting his elbows on his knees. His head dipped, and his voice came out as a whisper, "Nick." You couldn't help but notice his hand reaching for his left wrist, where he clasped his scars with his palm. "He made me reconsider," he confessed, a fleeting smile briefly gracing his face before vanishing.

You froze. Faltered. Failed to breathe. "How—"

"So many questions," he mused, lifting his head and meeting your gaze. You found yourself searching for answers within his eyes. You didn't know what expression you must be wearing, but his smile grew bigger, and his eyes looked at you hard, too, like he might be savoring the moment, memorizing every second of it. There was a spark of instinct urging you to trust him because you wanted to make him happy. Because if he were happy, he would let you go. Because if he let you go, you would be able to be happy. Probably.

Vash shifted so the length of his leg was pressed against yours. You forced yourself to breathe as you focused on your fingers, the non-existent ants, and the wooden floor to stop yourself from blushing or flinching. The internal struggle made it difficult to discern which reaction was more prominent.

You found yourself grappling with his proposition. "If I become your friend, will you let me go once you've accomplished whatever you want?".

He leaned his hand to his temple and stared at your lips, studying you in an entirely new way. "My promises aren't worth much, love. Or have you forgotten?" he whispered. "I'm an exceptional liar."

Realization crashed into you like pounds of common sense. You shouldn't be doing this. You shouldn't be making deals with him. It was a grave mistake. The mere thought of contemplating torture sent shockwaves of alarm through your being. Dear Gods! You'd lost your mind. Your fists were balled at your sides, and you were shaking everywhere. You could hardly find the strength to speak.

In a quiet and timid voice, you mustered the courage to ask, "Will you ever release me?"

His response came with a heavy breath, and he spoke. "Yes," he affirmed. "I promise once your father dies, you will be set free. But till that day, you'll be my guest. No harm will ever come to you." There was no regret, no remorse, no sympathy in his voice. He could be talking about the weather.

"You could be lying," you stated, searching his morals.

"Yes, it's a possibility," he admitted, his demeanor shifting back to his mischievous self. "But that's not the case." As you watched, clearly taken aback, he shaped his hand into a firm fist, his fingers curling inward. Bringing his hand closer to his face, his lips grazed against his knuckles in a fleeting and unconventional act. With a playful manner, he extended his fist toward you, tapping the tip of his boot against your leg to capture your attention.

"What're you doing?" You raised an eyebrow.

"This is our friendship fist bump," he explained cheerfully, akin to when the beast had found the beauty to lock her in his dungeon. "I'm Vash Saverem, by the way," he added, introducing himself with a touch of charm.

"Excuse me?"

"My last name," he clarified. "Nice to meet you, Miss Mcfly."

Your gaze shifted from his face to the outstretched fist, but rather than reciprocating the fist bump ceremony, you clenched your own. This shit wasn't a child play. "Don't address me by my last name, or else the deal is null and void."

"Only if you stop calling me a monster, Miss Mcfly," he responded casually, relenting and lowering his fist. Unsure of what to do with his hand, he absentmindedly brushed off imaginary dust from his pants.

“Go to hell, Vash Saverem.”

His smile was sprinkled with dynamite. "I'm working on it, love."

Taglist: @julk4e - @lune010 - @beanibon - @emptybrain01 - @changingchances @awkwardchick87

P.S.: In this chapter, I included quotes from "Bungo Stray Dogs," "Jujutsu Kaisen," and some other books I've read.

[rosewaterandivy]

@myosotisa - maybe it goes a lil something like this? (v. rough first go, apologies)

You nearly drown screaming his name. Sea water and blood surging up your throat in violent fits of coughing, body so cold it feels as if you’re burning. Teeth chattering, you fight to grip the life preserver, wishing your body could get with the program and give up the ghost.

Eventually, the helicopter comes. Hands lift you from the brackish sea and strap you to a gurney. Lights flicker behind your eyelids, flashes of white like so many fireworks. A voice, gruff and familiar, Promise me. Hey, keep your eyes open f’me, c’mon. The sound reverberating through your chest, rumbling the cage of your ribs.

Lips moving against the crown of your skull, split and dripping blood into your hair. Y’gotta get back, for me, for Max. Promise me. An uncerimonious shove into the single rescue pod on board. A violent scream tearing from your lungs, fingers clawing against the glass.

Eyes. Blue. Sorrowful yet resigned. No tell-tale curl of his lips now, just the fond pull of them as he takes one last look. “Don’t do this,” You beg through snot and tears, banging your fist all the while. “Please don’t do this, I can’t–”

He releases the trigger and kicks the pod from the PONS bay just as the tail of a kaiju smashes through what remains of the jaeger. As you freefall, the rough crackle of his voice echoes through your mind, You promised.

_

He’s back in the PONS too soon; everyone realizes that, in retrospect.

And it’s not even his fucking rig because Jackal Romeo had been lost to the breach. Spilt right down the middle sending Steve toppling to the waves below.

He shakes it loose before he can chase the rabbit.

Owens loads him for a drop in a spare jaeger, Orion Echo, and he’s spitting fury the whole way because Robin has somehow been roped into this clusterfuck too.

“No.”

“Not a request Harrington,” Owens intones. “It’s an order.”

Robin, his best friend who shouldn’t be anywhere near a PONS bay, suiting up with a tentative smile reserved for Steve.

Neural handshake initiating.

He presses his mouth into a thin line and shakes his head.

“It’ll be fine Steve,” She says. “Just a training exercise, no big whoop.”

Neural pathways strong and holding.

The calibration is the easy part— right brain, left brain. Two pilots to handle the neural load, learned the long and hard way since that first kaiju attack all those years ago. It’s simply too much for one person to handle, bust blood vessels in eyes, crimson flowing from ears and nose in steady torrent.

Steve is a… unique case. His parents piloted a jaeger and became the de facto choice for the Shatterdome. He grew up in this rusted hunk of metal, scampering underfoot in the garage much to the head mechanic, Wayne’s, chagrin. And, when he came of age, it only made sense to put the golden boy in the academy to become a jaeger pilot.

The fact that he could drift with just about anyone was a welcome surprise.

And one they were putting to the test now.

Immediately, a spike of pain goes through his head, seeking out the familiarity of his former partner’s mind to find, instead, the chaotic fuzziness of Robin’s. The jaeger shudders, plates of metal screeching through his ears.

“Shut it down,” He grits out through clenched teeth. “Owens, shut it the fuck down.”

He ignores the falling of Robin’s face, feels her breaths evening out, but can’t bring himself to fold away the memories. Knows it would all come out in the drift regardless.

And he’s given so much already, hasn’t he? Doesn’t he deserve to keep some things for himself?

Orion Echo remains at a standstill, PONS bay thrumming with mechanical whirs. Robin helps him out of the suit, helmet cradled in her hands.

Steve stalks off without a word.

_

There were several rapid knocks on your door as the opening credits of a movie ran. Checking your phone briefly to confirm your UberEats order, you toss it to the side rising from the sofa.

Several clicks and turns later you open the door to reveal none other than Jim Hopper, known as Chief during his jaeger days, holding the food you’ve ordered he grouses, “You’ve gotten sloppy,” and barrels his way inside the apartment.

Incredulous as you shut the door and do up the locks, “You intercepted my UberEats order? Tyler was going to get mad tips, poor guy.”

He rolls his eyes and set the bag on the counter. “You couldn’t even pretend to check the peephole? What if I was some creep?” Realizing too late the window of opportunity he’d given you.

“First of all, you are some creep and secondly,” You make your way to the burger and fries in the greasy bag. “Tyler was supposed to leave it on the doorstep and knock - easy peasy.”

Peeling back the paper, you take a bite, “Ah, five stars Tyler, way to go bud!” And continue to eat while Hop stares you down. “So,” You say grabbing a napkin to dab at the corners of your mouth, “To what do I owe the pleasure, Chief?”

_

[cyberneticlagomorph]

You're fine

It's fine

IT'S FINE

It's not fine

Tears spill hot and heavy down your cheeks, redoubling their efforts every time you wipe them away. You're sobbing so hard you can't breathe, and even if you could there's a river of snot oozing from your nose and throat.

It hurts.

"You're disgusting."

It hurts.

"I mean look at you, you're 28 years old with snot running down your chin like a fucking toddler. How anybody can find you attractive is beyond me."

It hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts

Your chest wound throbs, it's horribly human teeth waggling like fingers as it speaks.

It's

Bad to See.

Pitch black meat moving in ways it shouldn't, the raw flesh around the hole has turned black and blue from trauma, the puckered edges where sutures should be are torn and bleeding ink all over the fucking place.

It's a mess, YOU'RE a mess. You're running out of clean sheets because this damn thing won't stay closed.

"Coward."

You shove your fingers into the wound, ignoring the teeth that sink into your skin, ignoring the blinding pain that fills your mouth with butterscotch. "Shut up."

Your flesh tears itself open along your throat, a fresh maw grins with ink stained teeth. "Coward."

"Shut UP!" You force your fingers into this mouth too, it hurts it hurts it hurts by god it hurts. You're bleeding badly, eyes blurred with tears and pain, teeth gritted but you don't care. You should have let Grell cut them out, you should have burned them closed, you should have could have would have.

"Coward."

You close your eyes and tremble.

"Coward."

More wounds, more mouths, more bleeding.

"Coward."

You feel sick, so sick, so dizzy.

"You don't really love them so what does it matter if they know all the dirty secrets that live in your hearts? They don't love you back, nobody does, nobody ever has." The mouths say in eerie chorus. There are teeth where your left eye should be, a mouth drooling from one ear. You don't have enough hands to smother them all and not enough energy left in you to make more. "You're more lost and alone than they are, isn't that funny?"

"Please..." You don't have any tears left, your head hurts, your stomach hurts.

You wish you were dead.

"Face it Jack, nobody wants you around, nobody ever has. You're a danger to yourself and others and the only reason why they've stuck around this long is the same reason people watch trainwrecks and car fires..."

A mouth opens on the back of your hand, just behind the teeth where there should be meat and Nothing is a single black and gray eye that Looks at you and Looks through you. "They want to see you BURN..."

[devflamme]

BRUTUS.

Summary: Simply, young Nicholas Scratch fucking around and finding out.” (that's literally what I wrote on the google doc.)

Warnings: Religious themes, child abuse, talks about parenting, Agatha being fucked up, literal murder and then resurrection, violence, the normal™

Word count: 1,6k+

Note: I wrote this purely based on a leak from the Agatha series that will release next year. This is not canon, never will be, if it ever is canon, I want credits for it /J. Also based on the song Brutus by The Buttress, as I am obsessed with this song for so many years now. By the way, I haven't started reading the comics yet, I only know Nicholas Scratch by what I've read on his wiki and Agatha's. Another thing: English is not my first language, if you see any typos, please tell me and I'll fix it!

On AO3: 🔮

The boy could feel his mother's eyes on him. Piercing through him, hurting his feelings, hurting his heart — his little boy, going through her things like a little rascal. Has she not educated him enough? She was gripping his ear scoldingly, her long and curly black hair swishing around his forehead while all the things the little boy could see and hear was her blue eyes, shining with that purple aura he always were afraid of, and her voice - booming through his ears and making him cry and whimper like a lost puppy.

"I'm sorry, mother! I'm sorry!" He would scream. He would wail. He would plead.

"You're not sorry. Nicholas, you're not sorry." She would grit through her teeth, her smile scary and making little Nicholas Scratch shiver in fear. His mother was strict, the strictest of them all, while mama was so loving. Mama was sweet. He was a mama's boy, as mother would call him. The biggest mama's boy — pathetic and weak, as Rio would just defend him for anything wrong he did when he looked at her with those big eyes and pathetic pout. He wasn't strong enough. He never will be strong enough in Agatha Harkness' eyes. "Why did you touch that damned book? What's wrong with your head?"

"I was curious, mother!" Nicholas wailed, tears going down his face in angry streaks. Agatha was carrying him through the wood cabin, towards Rio, who was at the basement mixing up potions. Another weakling. Too much interested in potions and nature to be strong and able; the Darkhold used to whisper to Agatha about how her wife was pathetic. About how her son was pathetic. "I was just curious. The book... The book was calling out to me... I h-heard my name..."

Agatha stops in her tracks, almost dropping the boy down to the hardwood floor. She looks at Nicholas, who was still crying profusely, his face red and face puffy, some snot in his nose. "What? What did you say?"

No. That shouldn't be possible. He wasn't- He couldn't. He was her son, obviously — But... How? How could he be worthy? At such a young age?

"I heard my name... I thought you or m-mama were calling me... So I searched for you." Nicholas answers, his voice small and broken, hiccuping through his sentences. Nicholas dries his tears with the back of his chubby hand, looking up at his mother and looking for some softness in her eyes. He didn't find any. "I went into the- The library. I thought- I thought you were there. But it was only that book you told me n-not to read... I only touched it once! I'm sorry, mother!"

"We can't have that. I told you to not touch it. I told you to not even look at it." Agatha rasps out, her eyes closed and her breath uneven, as if she was controlling herself to not do anything she would regret afterwards. She felt like God, when Adam and Eve ate the forbidden fruit from Heaven. "Why did you disobey me?"

"I'm sorry! Please, mother, forgive me." Nicholas whispers, gripping Agatha's dark robes and hugging Agatha, his tears staining Agatha's linen clothes. She looks down at Nicholas, her eyes shining with her purple magic, but she could also feel another thing. Darkness. The darkness from the Darkhold's magic — the thing holding her from committing one of the biggest mistakes in her life.

"Nicholas, can you come with me? I want to show a place to you."

Therefore the Lord God sent him forth from the garden of Eden, to till the ground from whence he was taken.

Agatha didn't want this.

She didn't want to be a mother - that was Rio's dream, not hers. Her dream was to get even more powerful, to find ways to decipher that one damned book, and to just conquer everything. She didn't have time for this. For a child.

The first time she saw Nicholas, she knew he wasn't going to be the best kid. The most intelligent. The most powerful. He was just a normal kid, with his eyes green and curious like Rio's, his curls rebellious like Agatha's, and his chubby hands that loved to play with the wet dirt in the forest next to the family's cabin. He was, most of all, curious and nosy. Nicholas loved to snoop on Agatha's things, to watch while Rio brewed her potions and made her rituals in the cabin's basement — he wanted to learn, but he wasn't going to learn anything. Agatha created a futile heir, so futile that she didn't want her surname, Harkness, powerful and almighty, to be related to that child. Nicholas Scratch it is — only a scratch of what Agatha wanted him to be.

As they went into the dark forest, hand in hand, Agatha was growing tired of hearing Nicholas' sobs, pained as Agatha squeezed his tiny hands in hers, her own boney and scarred and most of all, corrupted. Corrupted by the very thing that was convincing her to do that — to sacrifice her own... creation. Her own vessel. To get stronger. To finally achieve what she wanted.

Power.

"M-mother, where are we going?"

Agatha didn't answer. She threw Nicholas on the wet grass, next to a big boulder that was covered in mud and moss. She flicked her wrist, taking out the Darkhold of the pocket dimension she created to store it in. As Agatha pulled the Darkhold, in a cloud of dark purple and black magic, Nicholas started to cry louder, his weeping making the birds on the trees fly away to somewhere they knew they wouldn't be hurt by the monster in the woods.

O mihi potestatem. Propitius esto, et intende conatus meos ut hoc tibi do.

Agatha would whisper, her eyes closed and sparkling purple through her eyelids. She lifts her wrist, her whole body sparkling purple, the noise and Nicholas' pained screams echoing by the until now silent forest. She looks down at the body in front of her, now lifeless and cold, dry and dead — just like that one damned day in 1693, where she looked down at the dead bodies of her coven members and coven leader. She couldn't call Evanora her mother - a mother wouldn't do what she did with Agatha. Her own daughter. Her own blood.

No mother would.

Brutus betrayed him.

Brutus killed him.

Brutus sacrificed him.

As he got up and looked around, he saw a forest covered by snow and darkness. How much time passed, he couldn't say. He didn't know what date it was — and yet, he knew exactly where to go. With his body full of hatred, Nicholas Scratch got up, feet weak and unsure, as he got used to the bigger body he now had. He was now an adult — what his mother's magic did to him, he didn't know. Only thing he noticed was now he had an adult body and the mind of a troubled kid who wanted nothing but to avenge what was done to him many, many years ago.

His hair was long just like his mother's. Curly and unruly, getting past his lower back in a mess of black and some white strands — he was literally a portrait of the one who betrayed him. Nicholas had nothing in common with his mama, the one that really loved him for what he was; only the troubled green in his eyes that contrasted with the weak green from the leaves that were not covered by the thick snow. Nicholas couldn't even feel the cold, piercing through his body. He was blind. Blind by hatred, sadness and by the desire of revenge.

As he marched through the forest, his feet unsure, he pulled strands and strands of his hair, hissing through his teeth. He didn't want this. He wanted to rip every part of his body that reminded him of Agatha Harkness. He could cut his head off, then give it to some wild bear to eat, together with his own body and skin and meat and soul.

Do not be afraid of those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul. Rather, be afraid of the One who can destroy both soul and body in hell.

He ripped a tuft of hair from his head, looking at it being held by his trembling hand. Nicholas growls, throwing the tuft out in the woods and running — running in bare feet as he gets out of the woods. He could see an old cabin, full of moss and broken, the wood chopped and glass shattered. His family's old cabin.

Nicholas runs even faster, getting to the door and just throwing his body against it, the door falling on the other side of the cabin in a loud thud. He gets up from the floor, looking around in an exasperated manner, his eyes crazed and twitching. The state of the cabin was chaotic — things on the floor, dust in the air. He could still smell the darkness and electricity from Agatha's magic, contrasting with the familiar scent from Rio's magic, calming and misty. He knew that the magic that stayed in the cabin wasn't recent - if it was recent, there would be the magic aura mixing together, purple and green. There was nothing.

"Mama?" Nicholas rasps out, his voice gravelly and throaty. He walks through the cabin, going straight to the stairs that went to the bewitched basement below him. He jumps to the last step, his feet almost failing and throwing him to the ground as he holds himself on the wall. Nicholas enters the basement, the basement looking even messier than the rest of the cabin. Nicholas could see some dried blood stains on the walls - that made him almost puke, thinking about what Agatha did to Rio.

Mama can't be dead. She can't. She can't. She can't. She can't. Nicholas would chant, his hands holding his own head while he walked around the basement, looking for anything that could be proof that Rio was okay. Anything.

Nicholas screamed his mother's name, hatred dripping from his tongue, his voice echoing through the walls.

© devflamme.

[spice-chan]

Ethereal

Yan!Dragon King!Bakugou Katsuki x Water Nymph!f!reader

The water nymphs send an unusual peace offering this year...

Warnings: Reader sent as a peace offering so feelings of objectification are present. Yandere themes. Possessiveness. Yandere bakugou but only becomes outwardly yandere towards the end. Death (killing). Not too descriptive about wounds though, although they are mentioned (not inflicted on reader). Bakugou is a bit of a douchebag at the start.

wordcount: 4.5 k 

tags: @angie-1306 (your ask got deleted but thank god you werent on anon) @axther @reddriot​

A bundled-up body was dropped under his throne, the body writhing and trying to get muffled screams to be heard. 

“My king, the water nymphs made a peace offering. She was dropped off in front of the castle entrance.” 

Bakugou’s rich red eyes calculatedly glanced down, breath hitching for a second at the beauty of the roped female—a water nymph. An offering to him. His eyes made contact with yours, seeing the clear defiance and disdain in them, but he knows this look, behind made walls of resistance and will of steel is a petrified woman afraid of her fate. How unfortunate for you. Your eyes were wide and glassy, cute in their attempt at conveying anger, brows furrowed in a glare that merely made Bakugou smirk in amusement. Your mouth, even with the rope muffling every sound you made, clearly showcased a pair of sweet and kissable lips. 

The nymphs who sacrificed you did you no favour as well, for they left you scantily dressed, leaving you exposed to the hungry eyes of dragons around you, irking Bakugou slightly that others are looking at his prize. 

He left his throne, languidly walking up to you before crouching down to inspect you, to see what’s so special about you. The water nymphs never usually offered one of their own in their attempt at maintaining neutral peace. This ritual which they adopted since ancient times became nothing more than a nicety, they usually offered rare fish, nuts, never a full-fledged nymph, and an attractive one at that. Perhaps the fact that Bakugou, the most renowned dragon shifter finally claimed the throne made them feel unsettled. For his savage and bloodthirsty need to be the absolute best was second to none. 

His calloused palms took a hold of your face, ignoring your attempts at deflecting his hold as his massive palm dwarfed your face and made it plenty clear he can easily crush you. He inspected your face from different angles, seeing nothing extraordinary. He took this opportunity to feel up your soft skin which had been tempting him ever since he noticed you laying helplessly on the floor. He then confirmed the validity of the rumours that claimed water nymphs had skin supple and silky as water. It felt like he was running his finger across the surface of a ripple, a mere dip of his finger could breach the surface. 

Heh, you’re kinda pretty. So very different from draconian women, who had thick builds paired with excellent survival skills and shifting abilities, but you...he bets it was so easy to overpower you and wrap you up nicely for him to unpack his gift. 

He lifts you, his muscles bulging and tensing, proving that carrying you was not a struggle to him in the slightest. 

He ignores your useless thrashing, kicking and resisting like a wild bird held in a tyrant's hand. Its wings contained and nails not doing any damage, freedom seeming further and further away. He walks with you on his shoulders, his massive, hulking shoulders. 

Soon enough, the rowdy chatter of the men becomes scarce, and their figures even more so, making you double your efforts in trying to escape the tyrant lumping you on his shoulders like a sack of potatoes. 

“Tsk, keep bein’ a brat and I’ll have to tie your shitty hands.” He turned his head to look at you as he said this, cementing his statement with a fiery glare that only infuriated you further. 

He ignored any protest you made after that, walking with you and entering a wing that looked to be heaven-sent from the sheer luxury, gold highlights emphasized in every corner, treasures and artefacts littered around the corridor in a painfully tidy and organised to the very centimetre, clearly they got shined twice a day. However, the further he ventured, the more the previous shine lost its glory, it appeared clean, however, the stark contrast to the speckless shine from before was clear. 

Bakugou stopped in front of the grandest door, he twisted the golden doorknob, finally appreciating your quietness. You couldn’t help it, you weren’t particularly rich back home, so to see this reincarnation of decadence really has your eyes glassing, bright in some semblance of joy, you forgot your situation for a second. 

You were rudely reminded when you were dumped down on a hard surface. 

“OUCH, YOU ASSHOLE.” 

When you looked down, however, every profanity disappeared from your tongue as it twisted in awe. You were thrown on a pile of fucking treasure. A huge, mountainous pile of glittering gold and brandished silver, rubies, and every single gem one could imagine. 

Bakugou narrowed his eyes, scowling at how much he liked the view of you on top of his hoard. He smirked, feeling prideful and accomplished until he noticed that the walls of fury and fire you built up ever since he saw broke in the worst way possible. Your face was scrunched, it felt like your cheeks were lit aflame in humiliation as tears streaked down your adorable face.

Bakugou felt like the biggest douchebag to walk the earth. 

You brought your knees closer and hid your face behind them, body shaking as you sobbed. Your tribe sent you as a peace offering, not caring for the slightest about your well being and fate, and now you're stuck here with a brute of a king who has no qualms with treating you like a glorified piece of jewellery. You didn’t want him to see this side of you this soon, you didn’t want him to see how petrified you are, how weak and defenceless you are compared to him. You wanted to rivers of anguish gushing from your eyes to stop, but they wouldn’t. 

“Hey…” he tried to console you. It was a poor attempt from an unpractised dragon. 

You tried to speak, navigate around that lump in your throat to shout at him, tell him to leave you alone, but your voice failed you just like everything tends to. 

You felt him clumsily try to lift your head in a gesture that fell between a forceful demand and a soothing touch. What is up with him now? 

You relented and showed him your puffy eyes, glistening eyes, looking at him with trembling lips.

“Tch, stop crying! You—you’ll get snot and tears all over my hoard.” 

It was the wrong thing to say, because a fresh batch of tears came, staining the apples of your cheeks. 

“Fuck—no. I didn’t mean that.”  Your sniffling was reduced to mere hiccups, break down halting at the sight of the most feared man on the earth, the legendary dragon king bakugou, most hardened warrior and skilled shifter, attempting to apologise. 

“Shit—I wouldn’t have to be so rough if I knew it bothered you this much.” He pouted, cheeks turning a shade of red that seems almost adorable, turning away from you to scowl at the floor. 

Fuck, his mother taught him better, yet the sight of you made him forget any semblance of manners, eager to get his hands on you and away from the prying eyes of people to who you didn’t belong. 

An innate sense of possessiveness engulfed him, one that can only be appeased with you sitting on the one place most intimate and guarded by him: his hoard. 

But, he’ll tone it down until he gets you more pliant and accepting. 

“Stay where you are.” He simply commanded before walking off. 

You stayed there, mind urging you to run away, a foolish choice your pride keeps urging you to make. Runaway, in a castle heavily guarded, without having the slightest clue how to get to the exit. 

Yeah, bad idea. You’re sure you aren’t welcome back ‘home’ anyway. The thought feels like a sharp dagger slicing your heart, taking its time carving the pain into you. 

Soon enough, Bakugou is back, trying to tone down his intimidating aura, but to no avail, for he noticed you shrinking at the sight of his hulking figure. It stung him a little, making his frown a little tighter. 

“Come with me,” he said curtly, then walked swiftly out, his cape swishing behind him,  making you scramble to follow him, struggling to keep up with his fast steps, frustration slowly rising like bile up your throat and making it harder to stay silent and compliant. 

He took you out of the castle, ignoring the curious looks to the best of his ability, but before he could step a foot outside the gate, he grits his teeth in anger and took off his cape. He bundled you in it and lifted you, once again, like a sack of potatoes. But you were too busy feeling like you were lit on fire as you realised that you were walking around in the outfit you were donned in or lack thereof. You buried your face in the fabric, unintentionally making a sound that’s caught between a groan and a whimper. 

He walked behind the castle, climbing places with you on his back until he got to where he needed to be

When you arrived, however, you are almost glad you didn’t voice your woos. The sight before you was breathtaking, so much so that your previous plights evaporated even if for a minute. 

The scenery was breathtaking, it was a cave, and in the corner, if it was a treasure pile, except merely saying it's a pile was an understatement as it was a mountain in its own right. The hoard you saw back at the castle was incomparable. But that’s not what truly captured you. As he led you further in, you realised the true purpose of this journey. 

There was a medium-sized pool, wide enough to fit comfortably in the cave without hogging up all the space, but deep enough that even Bakugou with his stature could enjoy a swim in it. It was clear too, so clear you felt like you could dip your leg in it and see through your very own flesh, that it would make your skin translucent. It was a shade of blue one could only dream of seeing, and after doing so would live their life content. 

Perhaps you were biased, seeing that it’s in your very nature as a water nymph to be needing close contact with water, and to be enamoured with it. 

All rationale left you though, needing for the water to cleanse you of all your stress and pain, and so bakugou’s cape slipped off your shoulders and hit the floor, your figure leaving it behind as you approached the water and slipped inside. You felt a rush of dopamine override all the negativity inside of you, feeling the water hug you, surround you, shield you. 

“So it's true, huh?” 

You almost forgot he was here, but Bakugou didn’t forget about you, not even for a second. He was watching you, fascination swirling in his pupils as your expression melted to one of near happiness, heart lurching with every cute expression you made, that *he* caused. 

“What is?” You replied, turning in the water to face him. 

“That water nymphs live such carefree lives because they spend them inside ponds and lakes.” 

You scrunch your nose at that, unable to fathom the exact meaning of his words but having an idea. “We don’t live carefree lives. Not all are given that luxury, at least not me.” You said, giving him a once over with a glare to signify that he’s the problem. He’s the root cause of your misery, Bakugou doesn’t know how to feel about that. It’s quite unfortunate really. 

He shrugs his shoulders and reverts to his default face, feigning nonchalance. 

“Well, it doesn’t seem like much goes on in your ditzy head.” 

You felt your face warm, could very well hear the aggressive thrumming of your blood as you gritted your teeth in anger. And you were about to unleash the full force of your fury until you heard wings flapping outside. 

You turned your head, trying to take a glance at the disturbance, but your view was shielded by Bakugou, who moved unnaturally fast for someone who made it clear how nothing phases him. And not fast enough for you to think it’s a real threat. 

He came back moments later with an attire you regretfully recognized. 

No, scratch that, he brought several. Pale, light flowy dresses that are often worn by your people. Light enough that they wouldn’t mind an occasional soak in water. 

Your anger dissipated, melting into confusion, then quickly becoming embarrassment as you realised you were comfortably standing in front of him in your underwear. 

You should feel happy, but bile rose up your throat, the taste of humiliation clear on your tongue as you realised with distaste that he was indeed right, you did live carefreely. You also realised you won’t be able to live like that ever again, and that very realisation brought tears to your eyes once again. 

“Tch, just take one and wear it. I don’t need you crying again.” 

Your face fell, and Bakugou felt his heart twinge a little when you responded with silence, looking at your sad face made him feel oddly protective. It’s probably because you were his treasure. Like his hoard right? He always needs his treasure to be kept in optimum conditions. 

Having justified that to himself, he didn’t feel as weird now regarding what he was about to do. 

While you changed into one of the outfits he got you, he dug through his hoard, knowing exactly what item he wanted to dig out. His fingers slithered through countless gold pieces, shining enough to cure a greedy man’s blindness. He finally found it, a delicate golden chain, but what demands attention is the ruby hanging from it. He brings a thumb to it, rubbing the rock appreciatively, liking the semblance of the colour to his eyes. 

You coughed, signaling you you were done, snapping away his wondrous gaze from the necklace. 

You looked really pretty in the dress, he’s got to thank Kiri for the speed run to the shops that he did. The light material hugs your skin, looking stretchy, yet form fitting that it hugged your body in a way that made Bakugou jealous. 

You looked in your element now, but somehow the awkwardness still lingered in the air as you avoided his gaze.  

Bakugo didn’t try to be subtle when checking you out, in his eyes, you were *his* whether or not that’s what he chose so he can at least check what he has right? 

Bakugou didn’t pay heed to the slow spiral of his morals, of the things he worked so hard to uphold. His justifications were slowly manifesting into delusions. 

He approached you, ignoring the way you tensed when he went behind you, turning around to question him, but he was quickly done. Your eyes caught the glistening red ruby hanging from your neck, the colour rich and deep like red wine. You didn’t hate it, but confusion swirled in your veins at his actions. 

“Looks good on you.” The colour looks like my eyes, it reminds me that you’re mine. 

Bakugo wasn’t sure why he held off on telling you what’s on his mind, he usually doesn’t hesitate once to tell the truth. 

Your wide, glittery eyes stared up at him, trying but failing to hide their awe. The anger and resentment took a backseat to intrigue, so did he pick this out for you because he thought it would look nice on you? How strange of him. 

He lifted a calloused finger up, face now cleared and relaxed that he looked pretty, not intimidating, not barbaric, but pretty. He caressed your cheek, smiling slightly when he felt how warm it was. It slipped off his face all too soon when he took the reins back. He squished your cheek, lips once again taking the shape of a sadistic smile. 

“You look dumb” 

Your features hardened, gaze narrowed in anger and hatred that it made Bakugou surprised. Surprised by how much he hated it, or by the sheer intensity? He didn’t have much time to dwell on his thoughts though, because a dainty hand flew his way and slapped his hand away. 

“You-“ you nearly growled in anger, tears once again coating your eyes because of him. “You rude, barbaric, selfish, egoistical “jerk!” You shouted at him. Why were you this angry? 

“Just when I think you might be a decent person.” You rub furiously at your eyes, shoulders slouched in disappointment as you disappeared deeper into the cave and out of his sight. You were always so naive and easy to fool. 

Bakugou felt the full weight of your words weighing down on him, but he tried to shrug it off. He walked out, silently brooding with his thoughts until a servant came and delivered dinner. 

He stood up, walking to you with tje food in his arms, hoping he could butter you up with it. He found you in the deepest part of the cave, face hidden behind your knees, unmoving. 

You were sleeping. 

He set the food down, bending down to try and confirm his observation, only for a remorse to hit him like a truckload after he saw the semi dried tear tracks. He didn’t have to be that mean to you. Maybe his dragon subjects can handle it because they have thicker skin, naturally, and they’re used to him. But you were just thrust into his life today and he’d been laying it thick on you. He’s coming to terms with his attraction to you and he doesn’t know how to deal with it. 

He nudged your shoulder, not wanting to test his voice right now, afraid it might be too gentle. 

You stirred awake, your face relaxed and serene as you blinked blearily. 

“Hm?” You rubbed your eyes, looking at your surroundings with confusion. Your eyes were red. 

He wondered how much you cried. 

He mumbled something unintelligible, you turned your gaze to him, the sleepiness now almost all gone. 

“What? I can’t hear you.” Your tone was sharp and cutting, and your gaze, now devoid of all confusion, was similarly icy. 

“‘didn’t mean to make ya’ cry.” You nearly believed him, nearly. 

“What’s this? Another act to make me lower my guard? Well you don’t need to, I’m at your mercy. You can skip the pleasantries and just laugh at how pathetic I am.” 

He stared at the floor, well, *glared*. 

“You’re not pathetic.” He simply said, glaring at you in a way that dared you to challenge him”-and I’m not going to laugh at you.” 

He could speculate about his feelings all day, drown in this euphoria of infatuation, hate you for making him weak but one thing he knows for sure is that he doesn’t want you to hate him. He wants your eyes to look at him in wonder again, to admire him and fill him with endless pride, to maybe smile at him, he hasn’t seen you smile yet but he bets it’ll be gorgeous. 

It’s only because he wants his treasure to be in optimum condition, nothing more, nothing less. 

“Then why do you go out of your way to demean me?” You questioned accusingly. 

“I don’t, that’s just how I am, you’re going to have to accept it because you’re not going anywhere.” Dread filled you, knowing your days would be filled with humiliation, mocking words echoing in your head like an endless loop. 

You stayed silent, accepting your fate because what else could you do? At least you got your greatest companion to keep away the loneliness; water. He once again waited for a response that never came, and he stood up with a sigh, stretching his limbs. 

“Just eat your food. I guarantee you’ll like it.”

He said, hanging his cape around him once again, reminding you just who he is, making it flutter behind him as he left you all alone. 

He was back early the next day, he found you asleep inside the pool, your head resting on your folded hands on the ledge. The sight had his worry spike so much that a vein was visible on his forehead. He woke you up and scolded you. 

And then he proceeds to lay food in front of you, climbing up to sit on top of his hoard to watch you while you eat, not minding the fact that his gaze was sealed on you for minutes, nor the fact that at some point you scolded him for making you uncomfortable. 

You didn’t like the glint in his eyes. 

In the afternoon he was back with blankets, pillows and other gifts, hoping to sooth the raging waves of your ire. Trying to convince you that he isn’t that bad. 

After a while, his daily visits, gifts…reluctant kindness was all you knew. You were starting to let the memories of your home slip, you were accepting the fact that the previous bonds you forged were inevitably breaking. You were accepting the fact that you’re now stuck in a cave as glorified treasure. 

And it showed, the sadness on your face would linger, numbness in your tone. Even the water was suffocating. 

“CAN YOU STOP ACTING SOULLESS?” And Bakugou eventually couldn’t take it anymore. 

You turned to him, no longer was there a fire raging in your eyes. He’s losing the girl he met in his throne room on a fateful day. He no longer cares whether he has to bare his raw feelings to you, the intimidate, gushy, soft, mushy feelings he feels every time he sees you. He wants to hold you everyday, not like you’re an exotic treasure, *but his* treasure. He wants you have his hatchlings with you, and he wants to see you smile at him. 

“Why should I?” You replied with dullness, not particularly moved. 

“Because…” he looked constipated, his lips clamped together while his cheeks were dusted a cherry red. 

“Because?” You didn’t get it. You’re just like a piece of jewelry right? Why does it matter if you become quiet and compliant? 

“Because I love you.” He said softly, too softly for someone who looks as rugged and rough as him. Now that broke your composure. Your eyes widened, surprise painting your features as the dragon king Bakugou Katsuki just confessed to you. The greatest soldier in the land, the most terrifying shifter. 

He cupped your cheeks, softly stroking the skin, appreciating the soft texture against his scarred hand. His face was so red, even his ears but he was smiling. He was smiling so hard that you wondered whether this was the same person. “I love you, I want you to be happy.” He said, now louder, prouder and more confident in his honeyed words. 

You slapped his hand away. 

“I don’t believe you.” You cruelly stomped on his confession, making his smile fall. 

“But why? Have I not treated you well? I’ve never cared about someone as much as you” 

“Prove you love me.” You challenged, staring him in the eye before adding. 

“I’m pretty sure you can’t though.” 

You turned around and walked away from him, but he decided that wasn’t the end of the conversation and he grabbed your wrist. 

“How?!” Frustration was evident in his voice, but so was desperation. He was genuine about wanting to prove his love to you, what would people think if they saw the great dragon king behaving like this over a woman? 

You ripped yourself from his hold and spat “figure it out.” 

He came back at the dead of night, grunting, laughing and calling your name. You stirred from slumber, eyes fluttering open and peaking out from the blanket you cocooned yourself in. Yoy felt a hand brushing the hair away from your face, lips pressing to your forehead before the fog cleared away to reveal a bloodied Bakugou. 

You screamed, scrambling to move away from him, but he held you back, keeping your supine form in place. With his arms on either side of you, not only holding your arms in place but also supporting his weight above you as he stared down at you like some sort of predator. 

He laughed heartily, and if he wasn’t drenched in blood you’d find it kind of cute. 

“What? Ya’ scared of a little blood? That’s cute.” You swallowed the lump in your throat, asking shakily whose blood it is. 

His eyebrows rose, humming at your question before a cocky smirk took over. 

“You’ll see. This will show you for sure that I love your bratty ass.” He got off you, walking towards the entrance of the cave, dragging a lifeless figure with him before discarding it carelessly in front of you. 

It was the chief of water nymphs. Her old and withered frame looked pale and lifeless, yet brutal gashes littered her body.

“She was the one who sent you here, right?”  

You wordlessly nodded, eyes glued to the corpse in front of you. 

“I couldn’t set you free, ‘cuz I loved you, I won’t stand to have you around. But she hurt you a lot didn’t she? If she didn’t send you here as simply a peace offering, I would have found my way to you eventually and fell in love with you anyway. I don’t keep you because you’re another treasure on my hoard.” Despite the flaw in his justifications, his manic ramblings and his lovesick eyes, you weren’t repulsed, you weren’t mourning the death of the monster who sent you as a peace offering for objecting to her new rules. 

No. Maybe you’re as fucked up as he is, but in a moment of pettiness, you turned to him and smiled. 

You weren’t sure whether the redness on his cheeks were blood or a blush. But his eyes were looking at you like you were a miracle, a shining star, it’s like he had heart for eyes but who can blame him? Who can blame the wild thumping of his heart, that’s hammering against his ribcage like a woodpecker does to a tree? He finally got to see you smile. 

“Do you believe me now?” He said, leaning closer to you, his eyes looking misty, glistening like the ruby on your neck. 

“I do, Katsuki.” You replied, letting your eyes hold his own as you also moved closer to him, cupping his cheek, hand tangling in his surprisingly soft hair. 

He was mesmerised, breath lost at your soft touch. The only physical contact he’s had before was when he was out in the field slaughtering enemies, hurting, grabbing. Not being caressed, because that’s soft and he’s never done soft until he met you. 

You pecked him softly, lovingly. But you soon moved towards his ear, whispering carelessly. 

“You know this could cause war with the forest creatures, right? You broke a centuries long treaty.” 

He growled, giving you a bloodied grin. “Whatever those shitty extras throw at me, I can handle it. They wouldn’t pick a fight with me if they are smart.” 

You squeezed his bicep, marvelling at how hard it was, he’s not infamous for nothing. 

Is that all it takes to win you over? 

You looked down at the chief, or ex-chief. You could still remember her cold, cruel grin as she saddled you up, to make an example out of you. No one questions her rule, no one has the right to, even if she endangers them, even if she takes the land that they always freely enjoyed. 

Yeah, maybe that’s enough, you believed him. Or maybe you’re picking your own poison. 

[littlemisspascal]

In Sickness and In Health

Pairing: Werewolf Pero Tovar x Female!Reader

Word Count: 750+

Summary:  There is nothing you hate more in this world than being sick.

Warnings: Reader has a cold so there’s coughing, snot, sneezing, etc. Protective Pero. Language. Fluff. Established relationship. Spanish in italics, time setting/historical anachronism  

Author Note: Just a short drabble in the world of Werewolf Pero and his mate Little Red. Set after Part 2 of Little Red’s Shadow but before the epilogue.

There is nothing you hate more in this world than being sick. Your throat is burning like hellfire, your head feels like someone’s trying to jam a screwdriver through your skull, and you can’t fucking breathe. What started as a little bit of a cough has evolved into the absolute certainty you’re in the process of dying. Your body has betrayed you, trying to suffocate you with an abundance of snot while also rapidly changing its temperature from feverishly hot to frigidly cold. 

You lie in bed, glaring through squinted eyes at the mountain of tissues overflowing the waste bin, and feeling absolutely miserable. Your father had left to buy some medicine from the nearby village’s doctor, promising to make you some soup when he returned, but time moves differently when you’re sick. Minutes ticking by at the torturously slow rate of a snail trying to navigate a maze. Good lord, you’re gonna die here all alone clutching a box of tissues.

As if sensing you're on the verge of diving headfirst into a pit of self-deprecation, your bedroom door bursts open, revealing a scowling Pero. If your brain wasn’t half a pile of mush at the moment, maybe you would have had the normal human reaction to being startled by screaming or jerking or whatever. But instead you sneeze a disgusting amount of snot into a tissue.

Oh God, please let the floor open up and swallow you whole.

“Idiota,” Pero says through gritted teeth, and, you didn’t think it was possible, but his scowl seems to intensify. His eyes flash as he stomps forward, brown blazing gold, like a lightning bolt disrupting a dark sky, and all you can think is Oh. 

You can’t help the gasp that tears out of your mouth when he suddenly crawls into the bed beside you, arms cocooning you in warmth, before burying his face against your throat. You helplessly melt against him, ignoring the muffled protest in the back of your mind declaring you’re a disgusting mess, get away from him because this is heaven right here. 

That is until he mutters, “Little red, you smell asqueroso.” 

You have no idea what asqueroso means, but you can hazard a guess from the way his nose scrunches up that you don’t smell like a bouquet of roses. Your nose is too stuffed up to notice anything, but nothing ever escapes Pero’s enhanced werewolf senses. He once told you if he focused hard enough, he could hear your heartbeat in the depot all the way from the forge. You haven’t decided yet if you found that romantic or a tad bit creepy.

 “I’m sick,” you groan, adding a pathetic sniffle as further proof.

“I can see that.” The narrow-eyed look he gives you makes you think he wants to call you an idiot again, but manages to restrain himself.  Quieter, he says, “You didn’t come to the forge for lunch. I was...concerned.”

“Aww, the big bad wolf was worried about little ole me,” you say, a burst of warmth blooming behind your ribcage. 

Pero lets out one of those low, grumbling growls he always does when you tease him, only for it to cut off when you sneeze again and it triggers a coughing fit. Your whole body jerks with each wheeze, fire spreading from your lungs up your throat and radiating pain throughout all your limbs. 

Seriously. You hate being sick. 

“I’m here, little red. Just let it out,” Pero murmurs, and he sounds so absolutely miserable it nearly breaks your heart. Of course he’s upset, you think as you try to catch your breath, his mate is hurting and he can’t make it stop. 

When your coughing fit ends and your lungs thankfully stay inside their assigned space inside your body, Pero cuddles you like his life depends on it, muffling a whine into your hair. With his larger body curled around yours, you feel warm and content and…

Safe. That’s the best description for this moment. No longer are you afraid of dying alone, not when you’ve got him holding you so possessively like he’d fight off Death himself if he even glanced your way. 

You’re not a betting woman, but if you were then your money would be on Pero. Every time.

“Pero,” you say around an unattractive snort. “I don’t like being sick.”

He holds you impossibly tighter, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “I don’t like it either, little red.”

You rest your forehead against his collarbone, exhaustion starting to pull at your eyelids.  “Hold me until I feel better?”

“There’s nowhere else in the world I’d rather be.”

Permanent Taglist: @promiscuoussatan @vintagesaph @over300books @chibi-yuki @theocatkov @oh-no-a-whovian @freeshavocadoooo @you-and-i-deserve-the-world @lin-djarin @happiestsparkleofall @randomness501 @gallowsjoker @absurdthirst @captain-jebi @leilei-draws @coaaster @pointy-sharp @stilllivindue2spite @melobee @artsymaddie @disgruntledspacedad @waywardmando @thisshipwillsail316 @mylifeofcalculatedchaos @grogusmum @asta-lily @sherala007 @mejswho @uncle-kenobi @tacticalsparkles @cannedsoupsucks @mandocrasis @mylovelycomandante​ @littlebopper96 @you-got-me-starry-eyed @kiss-evans @writeforfandoms @anaaaispunk @tobealostwanderer @recklessworry @pumpkin-stars @stevie75 @dumb-npc @roxypeanut @justnat15 @tintinn16 @princess76179 @grumpymuffinmama @heythere-mel @toxicfrankenstein @horton-hears-a-honk @jediknight122 @imtryingmybeskar @queridopascal​ @goddessofsprings​ @filthy-thots​ @castleamc​ @beskarprincessjenny @becauseismellgood​ @dark-twisted-and-mechanical-mind​ @mswarriorbabe80​ @pjkimrn​ @soltaasbruxas​ @what-iwish-you-knew​ @practicalghost​ @dreadwolfxoxo​ @jaime1110​ @thirdtimesthecharm​ @voteforpedro09​ @hauntedmama

Pero Taglist: @a-skov @pedrosbisch @iamskyereads @banga-sama @disasterhann @coreychick @girlofchaos @chatterbean @reader-without-a-story @quicksilvermad​ @chickadee-djarin

Werewolf Pero: @thou-creature-of-the-deep @justaconsequence @fictitious-little-stitious @fan-of-encouragement @redmitsuru5 @idreamofboobear @curiouskeyboard @miscellaneousfangirling @kesskirata @heartsofbeskar @johnsrevelation @clydesducktape @the-ginger-hedge-witch @fucktheforce @lellowberry @pintsizemama @kestrelmando @hopeamarsu @unhinged-summer-fun @manndo @yoursisanemptyhope @prostitute-robot-from-the-future @librariantothejedi @lady-of-glass-and-bone @marydjarin @deadhumourist @99sth @littlepadika @adriiibell @fandom-blackhole @xx-small-town-witch-xx @mrsbentallmadge @songsformonkeys @hriive @hello-mooi @vghz82 @iwantadecentblogname @quietpainter @breezythesimp @elegantduckturtle @jettia​ @kiwi-the-first​

[lxngbottom]

Could you maybe do a Neville x Fem reader where they are going at it in the boys dorms and Neville is being really dominant, like choking, spanking, degrading..etc and the other boys walk in mid way? Only if you're comfortable with it of course. Please and thank you have a lovely day^-^

Cockblock. | N.L.

in which the reader and neville are having rough sex, and, well... they get disrupted.

warnings: smut, nsfw, choking, spitting, degrading, spanking, hair pulling, just overall really rough sex, and swearing (lmk if i missed any!)

i literally day dream about dom!neville all the time he’s so fine PLS. oh & sorry for the lame title i just thought it was appropriate lmaoo

—

“please, nev, please...” you mumbled out, your thoughts seemingly null and void as your boyfriend teased you with the tip of his cock, gently rubbing it against your clit.

from your little outburst, his hand flew straight to your throat, and your breath hitched. “what the fuck did you just call me?”

you knew you had fucked up, but the teasing was becoming all too much. his nickname truthfully had just slipped out, but you knew that would never be a good enough answer for him,

“i-i’m sorry... please, daddy. i’m sorry...” you whined, your lip quivering, your eyes pleading for him just to ram into you. “i won’t do it again... i promise...”

on any other day, he would’ve punished you for the slip up. but right now, his cock was aching, and watching you whine and mewl only made it worse. he had to keep his dominant act up, so of course he would never tell you how much he needed you. he knew that you had broken a rule, and with that, he had no other option.

“yeah... i know you’re much smarter than that. isn’t that right, my little slut?” he asked, stroking your cheek. it didn’t matter how gentle his fingers were being on your face, you knew what was coming. you nodded your head quickly, just trying to oblige to whatever he says so you can have your sweet release.

but of course, as neville always does, he noticed.

“you know how i fucking feel about not using your words. so fucking say it. tell me what’s about to happen to you. i’m sick of this brat act you’ve had for the past week,” he said through gritted teeth, his hand now squeezing your cheeks to where your lips pursed out. “fucking say it, or i’ll make sure you don’t cum for the next month.”

you thought for a moment, still in the process of trying to collect your lost thoughts. “you—you’re gonna fuck me. hard. a-a-and i’m gonna be your good little girl. just like always...”

he chuckled quietly, his voice raspy and deep, “you’re right, petal. but, you’re not always a good girl, isn’t that right? that’s why you’re in this situation right now?”

you sighed, a single tear slipping down your face, “yes...”

“yes what?”

you quickly corrected yourself, not wanting to push him any further, “yes sir.”

he nodded his head, “good. now open that pretty mouth of yours. and fucking swallow when i tell you to.” he instructed, finally letting go of your face.

you did as you were told, opening your mouth wide for him. you waited as he stared down at you, taking in the small love marks he had left on your breasts just a few minutes before. he leaned down once more, and spit into your mouth.

“swallow.”

and, you did.

when he saw that you had obeyed, he didn’t even give you time to react before he was flipping you over onto your stomach, and rubbing his hands all over your ass.

you whimpered as he did so, the feeling of his hands on you in such a unmannerly way being so delectable.

“don’t make a fucking noise.”

you were relieved at the thought that he was about to fuck you into oblivion, but that all simmered away when you felt the palm of his hand to your ass cheek. if you hadn’t been through this same mantra before, you would’ve definitely made a noise. but you simply put your hand over your mouth, and attempted to hide your cries as he spanked you... over and over.

at one point, you thought it would never end. he was showing you absolutely no mercy. you had always assumed that’s why he loved it so much, though. he could be the dominant one over someone, and he could be the one telling someone what to do, how to do it, where, how, or even what not to do. he had never had that advantage until he met you, and he would be eternally grateful that you accepted him and all of his personal desires.

by the time he was done, you were a sobbing mess. tears, snot, makeup, sweat... all of it. it was all dripping down your face slowly, and you didn’t know how much more you could honestly take.

merlin, at this point, you would’ve taken a cock warming session over this torture.

as you let your face fall into the pillow on neville’s bed, it wasn’t long before your hair was being pulled, and the upper part of your body was being lifted up.

“my good little girl... didn’t even let out a single whimper...” he cooed in your ear, leaving teasing kisses along your shoulders. “you’re going to take me like this, do you understand?”

“yes, daddy...”

he chuckled once again in your ear, sending goosebumps down your spine. he let go of your hair for a moment, only to make sure you were completely comfortable with being on your knees, your back against his chest as he was sitting down.

his hand slithered it’s way back to the base of your throat, and before you could even comprehend it, the hand on your hip forced you down roughly onto his cock. you let a a exasperated gasp at the feeling, somehow not expecting for him to do it so suddenly. he let out a small groan in your ear, the feeling of you already beginning to take over him.

“you feel so fucking good, petal.”

the small compliment made you whimper, as his words could get you off on their very own.

“fucking bounce, you fucking slut.”

and so, you did. you bounced on his cock until loud screams were leaving your lips, and your thighs were going numb. the pain made your legs, and you thought quite a few times that your body was about to just give out on you. but, you didn’t let that happen.

“fuck...” neville mewled, finally bucking his hips up to meets yours.

with every movement, he was hitting every single spot inside of you. it was the most absolute euphoric sensation that you had ever felt. you began to feel that familiar knot in your stomach tightening, begging to come undone.

“tell me how it feels, princess. tell me how good daddy’s cock is making you feel, right now.”

you seemingly had to literally choke up the words, “so... so—so good! you’re making me feel so good, daddy... please don’t stop!”

and that’s all neville needed to grab your hips, and fully take control.

the only noises that could be heard were the sounds of skin meeting, and vile noises leaving the lips of your mouths.

“c-cum.... i’m gonna cum...”

that’s when neville started to go faster, his hand snaking down to expertly play with your clit.

“fuck, y/n... i—“

that’s when it happened. the door swung open, and you could hear the chatter of neville’s dorm mates.

“yeah, and i told ginny to—WHOA, WHAT THE FUCK?!”

you let out a yelp as neville quickly flipped you over, and threw the blanket on top of you two... or, at least you.

“WHAT THE FUCK YOU GUYS?! GET THE FUCK OUT!”

neville had his arms wrapped around you tightly, feeling as if the blanket wasn’t enough to cover your exposed body.

“okay, okay! sorry! merlin! sorry!” the four boys quickly panicked, rushing back out of the room.

dean was the last one to leave, but before he did, he stuck his head back into the room,

“i’m real sorry, y/n! we didn’t mean to—“

“piss off, thomas!” neville quickly cut his friend off, and dean made no attempt to even argue back. he just nodded and shut the door behind him.

you laid there, your eyes wide and hidden from neville’s. your face was turning red from embarrassment as you realized what had just happened. ron, harry, seamus, and dean had all just seen you, bare, bouncing, in the most vulnerable state they ever could’ve possibly seen.

“i’m going to fucking kill them! i told them we had the dorm today!” neville ranted, jumping up from the bed and slipping his boxers on.

“fucking, cockblocks...”

[whythinktoomuch]

ii. apocalypse now & again

(pt. i)

Kara woke up and realized that she was going to die.

Too many of the drones had survived the explosions and were still closing in on her. What little strength she had left after quite literally digging her own grave was presently and painstakingly strained just from her efforts to climb onto her knees. And on top of all that—of everything that possibly could have gone wrong for her in this moment—her helmet was cracked.

The abstract red numbers warning Kara of the kryptonite levels in the area seemed redundant now, what with that unmistakable chill already flooding her bloodstream.

“… Alex,” Kara gasped out, barely able to hear herself over the ringing in her ears. “Hey, Alex… Are you there?”

Her words were met with not one whisper or even a crackle of static, and for once, Kara was inconsolably disappointed to hear no one yelling back at her. With her teeth gritted, she shoved herself off the ground as hard as she could, drifting barely a foot into the air before the first drone crashed into the back of her head.

Kara toppled back onto the ground, knees skidding across the rubble in a shower of hot sparks. The impact had her head reeling, her mouth filling with a taste that she was now idly recognizing as blood. But there was no time to consider any of that as the drone doubled back. Kara scrambled out of the way, narrowly avoiding another collision, only to be struck by a second drone smashing right against her ear.

Out of breath but swearing, Kara whirled around and snagged the fast approaching drone into a bear hug, squeezing and squeezing until it crunched in her arms with a frantic whir. Then with a burst of heat vision, she shattered the other as it came straight for her face.

Kara used her heat vision to pick off several more drones from a distance, but of course, more and more just showed up to take their place, never wavering, never slowing… and eventually, Kara just had to laugh. Because her exhaustion was catching up to her. And Alex was hundreds of miles away. And to get out of here alive, Kara would have to somehow defeat the entire horde of drones, while all they had to do was wreck her suit a little more.

Though admittedly, it’d be overkill at this point, given the crack now spiderwebbing across the glass visor of Kara’s helmet.

Either way, it was over.

--

So, Kara laughed, grabbed at her chest in a reflexive gesture only to meet the unforgiving metal of her suit, then dropped to her knees. “Alex!” she shouted herself hoarse, because maybe if said loudly enough, the words would still be lingering in the air by the time her sister arrived. “Alex, I’m sorry, okay? You were right, and I’m sorry!”

Then she just waited—chest heaving, eyes narrowed but never blinking despite the heat pricking at the corners—because she definitely had to see this through to the bitter fucking end. That much, she owed everyone, including herself.

Except the end didn’t come.

Not this time anyway.

No, instead came a silver sphere, emerging seemingly out of thin air to hover right before Kara’s face. It flashed a blinding white just once, and everything fell absolutely silent and still. Kara’s suit powered down completely, the drones collectively dropped from the air like marionettes with cut strings, and all the lights in the immediate vicinity blinked out.

Laughter welling up all over again, Kara could only collapse onto her side in something akin to sheer relief.

The first person to occur to her, of course, was Alex, who had already saved her ass from similar scrapes on many occasions. But that couldn’t be it. Alex was too far away. It’s why Kara had to take on this mission on her own in the first place.

Then she considered maybe Winn or James, which made even less sense, given how the deceased hardly ever came back to do things like save people’s lives. Not even hers. Not even in the most dire of situations. That’s, unfortunately, just not how life worked these days.

Then she considered Alex again because the kryptonite was clearly bleeding into her brain now, and it was getting rather difficult to remember why it couldn’t have been Alex who’d just saved her. Maybe Kara did shout loud enough after all…

But then, a set of footfalls drew near, metal scraping against metal at a steady pace until a heavy boot struck Kara firmly in the chest, flipping her onto her back where she settled with a grunt.

“So glad I got to you first,” came a self-assured drawl, and Kara promptly found herself face to face with a handheld cannon of sorts. “Would be a pity to come all this way and not get to kill you myself.”

And… Kara’s jaw just dropped.

Not because of the words, nor the intentions behind them—though perhaps they both merited some attention as well—but that voice.

Kara gaped up at her supposed knight in shining, lead-lined armor because her voice—that low, husky tone paired with that very specific lilting cadence—was making her reconsider some very fundamental things about how the world might work.

Namely, that people wouldn’t come back from the dead just to save her life.

Mind still reeling away, Kara tried to sit up, only to be slammed back into the ground, hard.

“Down, girl,” Lena said, grinding her boot into Kara’s chest, the weight of her entire body behind the gesture. But that was fine.

It was fine because Kara could still draw some breath into her lungs, could still use some of that breath to talk, and she could certainly still say some things that she hadn’t uttered aloud in many a year. Like her late wife’s name, for instance.

The cannon in Kara’s face wavered, but didn’t lower. “Shut up,” Lena hissed down at her. “Don’t talk. Don’t even think.”

“So… it is you…” Kara said, and she gently wrapped her fingers around Lena’s ankle—the only part of her that she could still reach from her position—and just cried.

With a startled gasp, Lena stumbled away, wrenching herself out of Kara’s grip. “What the fuck…? What is wrong with you?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Kara sobbed out, trying not to choke on her own tears and snot and the slight taste of blood still lingering on her tongue. She suddenly, irrationally, wished that she could just take off her clunky suit. Just to eliminate some of that distance between her and Lena. Just so she could touch the chain hanging around her neck without any hindrance. “Just… just wanted to say, hi.”

Lena kept her distance, studying Kara in a stony silence, and Kara started to see things that she should probably would have noticed sooner if her body weren’t actively shutting down on her. Like the green glow of Lena’s weapon and the kryptonite cartridges strapped to her belt. Or that she was clearly wearing a lexo-suit. Or how the swirly edges of her own vision were starting to darken, and how the chill of kryptonite was currently all she could feel.

“Hey,” Kara called out, sniffling only slightly now. “Am I dreaming?”

“… No.”

Kara nodded thoughtfully to herself. “Okay, cool, cool… So, I think I might be dying then.”

“Yeah,” Lena said, after a brief pause. “Probably.”

“Cool.” Kara tried to flash a thumbs up, but no part of her body wanted to cooperate anymore. Her exhaustion had eaten up all her drive. “Hey, can you tell Alex something for me?”

Lena sighed, but she finally stepped closer, practically in reach. “Okay, sure.”

Kara fumbled for some words and the correct order that one might put them in, but then Lena took off her helmet, and nothing else mattered anymore. Because Kara was perfectly content to just watch that ripple of dark hair, streaked with a light gray that was just… nice to look at.

She never got to see her Lena’s hair do that.

//

Kara’s shoulder was being shaken so violently that she had no choice but to open her eyes and see Alex’s worry-creased face peering down at her.

“Dumbass…” Alex grumbled, releasing Kara’s shoulder with a dirty scowl. “That’s the last time I let you go anywhere without me.”

“Whatever you say, director.” Kara laughed, but it hurt. She then tried to do a salute, but her everything was still too weak to move apparently. But at least she was still alive.

… Wait.

Kara repeatedly tried to sit up on her bed, and Alex repeatedly shoved her right back down until she gave up. But still, she had to check, had to know that it wasn’t all just a dream.

“Where’s Lena?” she demanded, and the look that Alex gave her in response was so deeply pained that Kara almost felt pathetic for asking.

“… Kara.”

“No, I saw her, Alex,” Kara said, shaking her head, then immediately stopping when her entire body somehow got dizzy from it. “Shit. Ow, ow… But wait, no—But seriously, I saw her, okay?”

“I’m not surprised that you did. You almost died, Kara. Actually, I’m pretty sure that you were dead for a few minutes back there. Again, I say, you fucking dumbass.”

“But I didn’t die. Because she saved me,” Kara insisted. “No, seriously! She took out all the drones with some sort of EMP device, and, and… we talked! And she had gray hair, and I think maybe laugh lines? And yeah, I almost died because my helmet got cracked and stuff. But now, I’m here and I’m fine, so… everything’s fine, right?”

Alex frowned, then somehow settled on the least important part of Kara’s briefing, “You cracked your helmet?”

“Ugh, yeah. The glass visor part. When I fell,” Kara said, waving her hand dismissively. “So sorry about that, by the way.”

“Suit looked fine when we got to you,” Alex said with a shrug, before irritably exclaiming, “Jesus christ, Kara, enough! I’ll just have a guy get the helmet for you, okay? So, just stop trying to get up already.”

Huffing, Kara fell back onto her bed with her arms folded and waited. But when someone eventually showed up with her helmet in tow, she was surprised to see that it was somewhat worse for the wear but perfectly intact. Even up close, with the helmet out the tech’s hands and in her own, Kara couldn’t detect even the slightest blemish in the glass.

Pouting ever so slightly, Kara shoved the helmet back into the tech’s arms.

“… Satisfied?” Alex asked, rolling her eyes when Kara just shrugged one shoulder. “Great. Listen… You just need to get some rest, okay? Once you’re back to full strength, we can work through your… you know, memories together. And hopefully, it’ll make more sense by then. Sound good?”

Kara just nodded, suddenly all too willing to be left to her own devices in the relative quiet and darkness. She accepted a gentle shoulder squeeze and the promise of another session with the sun lamps within the hour, and just curled up under the sheets.

It’s not like she hadn’t conjured up images of Lena before. Kara had been close to death enough times that it was only inevitable that she’d fall back onto memories of her dead wife at some point or another. But this was different. Whenever her brain was just playing tricks on her, Lena appeared to her the way Kara remembered her: warm and loving, bright green eyes, long dark hair smelling of lavender, and alive and young.

Never before had Kara encountered an appropriately aged version of Lena, with creases gathered around her eyes and forehead, hair gloriously faded into the most lovely blend of light grays and white amongst all that black… The Lena that could have been if only she had lived out all these past years alongside Kara.

And she was never in a lexo-suit, of all things. Lena was always wearing one of her classic pencil skirts or Kara’s NCU sweatshirt, or something. Oh, and of course, her wedding band.

Instinctively, the same way she always did when it occurred to her, Kara reached for the chain around her neck, seeking out the familiar weight of the rings that hung from there… only to jolt upright with a gasp that dried up her entire throat.

She ripped the necklace off her head, almost snapping the chain, which in and of itself was telling. Because her chain had been forged out of an extraterrestrial metal amalgamation that not even the Girl of Steel would have been able to break. The one now clutched in her hand, however, was just plain white gold.

Heart pounding in her ears, Kara stared down at an engagement ring fitted with a modest cut of diamond, somehow occupying the very spot where two simple wedding bands—hers and her Lena’s—should have been. Then something drove her to check for an inscription, and sure enough, engraved on the inside of the ring was a series of kryptonian characters, denoting a term of endearment that Kara had never used, but apparently could have in another world altogether: my dearest heart.

[tamakissimp]

B.K/I.M- save the bunny

𝕤𝕦𝕞𝕞𝕒𝕣𝕪: What are you supposed to do when you’re dead friend is suddenly standing before you?  𝕨𝕒𝕣𝕟𝕚𝕟𝕘𝕤: cursing, someone getting hit, mention of murder? 𝕨𝕠𝕣𝕕𝕔𝕠𝕦𝕟𝕥: 2008 𝕒/𝕟: not my best work but o well....yeah also there’ll probably be part 2 to this

This wasn't how Bakugou wanted his Friday night to turn out. He was supposed to come how to a quiet place. Silence and tranquillity enveloping him as he let himself fall onto the plush cushions of his couch. Maybe there would be a warm meal waiting for him if he was lucky. He could finally let his worn-out muscles take a break from the constant stress they're under.

Something must have gone wrong somewhere. Or else he wouldn't be here, standing before a mocking bunny mask. Floppy fabric ears and blood-stained cheeks staring back at him. The sewn-on grin seems to scream 'punch me'.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" he snarls. He grits his teeth while trying to keep his explosions at bay.

The bunny simply tilts their head as they stay silent. Their long limbs seem to move spiderlike as their body turns. Bakugou's eyes following their movement.

No. Shit. Fuck. The bunny tilts his head towards the other side as they snag a photo frame from the coffee table. Pointy fingers glide over the glass, lingering on a specific person in the picture.

Bile starts to rise in Bakugou's throat. Its acidic bitterness only seems to light the fire to his aggression even more.

"Who the fuck are you?". It's useless, he knows. Like hell, a villain like 'The Bunny' will just give up their identity. The silence is killing Bakugou. His nerves on edge and his muscles rippling as he struggles to constrain himself.

He lifts his hands, an explosion already blooming out of his palm. He is ready to blast whoever this might be into bits.

"That's no way to treat your friends," a distorted voice says. Great, so this bastard can speak. Bakugou opens his mouth, about to yell their ears of but a simple word shuts him up.

"Kacchan.". His hand drops to his side his mouth hangs agape. He had dreamed of this moment. Fantasised about the moment he could apologize and hug his friend. He had planned out exactly what he would say. What he'd do, how he'd act. But this wasn't in the plan.

The bunny's pointy fingers come up to its face before ripping the mask off. A mop of green hair springs out from underneath. "Cat caught your tongue?" he asks mockingly before running those same fingers through his hair.

"How..". Bakugou's throat fails on him. His voice stops working. Is he crying? He wants to tell himself he's not but he's honestly not sure anymore. Knees buckling underneath him yet he still manages to keep himself standing up.

"How am I still alive?" Izuku finishes for him. He casts the mask aside, throwing it on the floor before letting his body fall onto the couch, the same couch Bakugou planned to rest on. He lazily drapes his arms over the top of it.

The casualness of his movements mocks Bakugou. As if he isn't Japan's most wanted criminal sitting on Japan's number one hero's couch.

"Everyone always asks that, you know?" he says he glances down at the picture frames he's still holding. "It's getting old.". He lazily runs his finger over the glass.

"You died. I buried you. Inko fucking mourned you, she still does," Bakugou says. His voice wavers and he hates himself for it. He's showing weakness.

"You'd be surprised how easy it is to fake a death," Izuku says.

Bakugou's red eyes bore into his green ones. A silence hangs between them. It feels almost surreal to Bakugou. His mind hasn't caught up to the fact that his friend, or rather ex-friend, is sitting before him and isn't six feet underground.

While Bakugou's movements are ragged and forced, Izuku almost seems comical. His body has seemed to adapt to his villainous life. A theatrical elegance laced into his movements.

"I don't see you as a friend anymore," he breaks out. Izuku's eyes grow for a second and so does his smile. He straightens his back as he silently urges Bakugou on to speak.

"I buried my friend," he says. "You're not him. You might think you're him but you're not. He isn't this pathetic." He grits his teeth before lifting his hands again, getting ready to swing at him. Izuku quickly jumps up from the couch.

His eyes glint in mischief as he takes in the sight before him. "Oh, looks like you still haven't dealt with your anger, Kacchan.".

The nickname sets him off. He storms towards the green-haired man, fists raised and palms crackling from explosions. That is until he hears a familiar sound.

Both of them look towards the front door. Bakugou's face slacks with shock while Izuku's lights up with excitement. This isn't supposed to happen. Why is this happening?

Izuku quickly moves the kick his mask underneath the couch before he places the picture frame back. Bakugou eyes linger on the picture for a second. It's one of the three of you. Bakugou squished in between you and Izuku, his fingers raised behind both of your head to give you bunny ears. Oh, if he could just turn back time.

"'Suki?" you call out. Bakugou fears for his life, or rather, yours. Who knows what the crazed psychopath standing before him will do. "I thought I'd swing by and-".

Your words stop as you walk into the living room. The bags in your hands drop. Soup spills out of the containers you so meticulous packed. Bright orange curry stains the spotless carpet beneath it. The hot liquid splashes up against your leg, most likely burning your skin though you don't care.

You try to speak, mouthing opening and closing like a fish. This must be a dream, one of those horrible nightmares Kirishima often gets. That is until a familiar wobbly voice reaches your ears.

"Hi, bunny," Izuku says. Within a second, he has closed the space between you. Your arms wrap around him instinctively. It's an awkward hold. You used to be able to rest your chin on his head. Now, his muscled body towers over yours.

"Y-You're...You're dead," you whisper against his chest while nuzzling your cheek into him. His body heat seems to bring you a type of peace you haven't known of in years.

"I know, I know," he says while running his hands over your back. Sobs break out of your chest as your emotions seem to flow over. Salty rivers running past your burning cheeks and dripping into Izuku's musky hoodie.

Your body shakes as you grab onto Izuku, painfully so. You're sure you're going to leave bruises on his sickly pale skin yet you can't bring yourself to care. The aching in your chest that you've suppressed for years finally seems to boil over.

Hot and heavy emotions spill into your mind. You aren't sure if the salty taste in your mouth is from biting your lip until blood gushes out of it or the tears streaming down uncontrollably. You're sure that you look like a mess. Tears and snot dripping down your chin.

Instead of trying to see through your tear-blurred vision, you burry your face further into your friend's chest.

He's dead or at least supposed to be. You buried him, cried at his funeral and went through grief for him.

Yet here he is, in the flesh. His voice still sounds the same. He still smells the same. But he is not the same boy you knew years ago. His smile isn't the same. And his scarred hands sure aren't the same. Everything about him is the same, yet slightly different, giving you a mental whiplash.

"You have some fucking explaining to do," Bakugou says. His voice breaks you out of your trance. You pull away from Izuku, your body immediately screaming in protest. You look up at him. It feels strange, you used to be at least a head taller than him

"How the fuck are you still alive?". Bakugou doesn't have time for nicknames or formality. Not when he knows that the man standing before him has the blood of at least a hundred on his hands.

Izuku steps away from you, unwinding his arms from your body. Bakugou quickly strides over and pulls you away from the offending man. He pushes you behind him while one hand still grips onto your arm. You want to ask him what the fuck he's doing but Izuku starts talking before you can.

"It's a long story," he says. "Can't tell you everything but, long story short, I had to fake my death. Some guys were after me but it's all fixed now!". The vagueness mixed with his eerie smile only makes him look more like a psychopath.

"All fixed? All-fucking-fixed?". Boiling anger rising to Bakugou's head, clouding his thinking. He taking quick steps up to his ex-friend. Izuku doesn't even flinch when Bakugou grabs onto his neck tightly. "You left. Fucking made us think you're dead and you think you can just come in and say that everything is fixed?".

Spit flies out of his mouth and lands on Izuku's cheek, a shiver of disgust running over his spine at the feeling. Yet the green-haired man can't stop the excitement from bubbling up at seeing his friend so rilled up.

"Bakugou, Jesus fuck, calm down," you say. This situation should probably feel more serious than it is. Yet the shock still evident in your body and the adrenaline clouding your mind makes you unable to properly process it all.

"Like hell, I'll calm down!". Bakugou finally lets go of Izuku's throat. A set of cough falls out of the green-haired man's throat. He smirks as he glances down at the aggressive blond.

"Come on, Kacchan, we shouldn't do this in front of our little bunny," Izuku says with a smirk. The gears finally seem to click in his mind. Suddenly, the bunny mask, the name, the costume, it all makes sense.

"You sick fuck!" Bakugou yells before landing a hit square on Izuku's jaw. He stumbles back a bit, taken aback at Bakugou's sudden outburst. The blond takes the opportunity to land another punch right on his nose.

A wet crunch sounds through the room. You cringe as you feel bile rise in your throat from the sound. "Izuku!" you yell out as you try to get to your friend or ex-friend, you're not sure.

Bakugou stops you thought, his arms wrapping around your body and spinning you away from the green-haired freak. You pound your hand on his arms pleading with him to let you go but your ministrations do nothing to the number one hero.

Izuku laughs as he wipes away the blood dripping from his nose, tainting the grimy grey of his hoodie with it. "You're gonna regret that, Kacchan," he says. Bakugou doesn't even give him the light of day as he makes his way out of his apartment with light speed

Your throat grows dry and painful as you plead Bakugou to let you. To let you go to him. "It's okay, he's gone," Bakugou says.

You shake your head violently as you claw at his back, trying to get his arms to loosen their hold. "I need to see him. I gotta-I gotta see him. Suki, please!". The hoarseness of your voice shoots painful stabs into Bakugou's heart.

But he doesn't let his mind linger too long, running down the stairs two steps at a time. All he can focus on is getting you away from that creep before he can touch you again.

"Please, I can't leave him again," you sob out. Bakugou simply lays on hand on the back of your head, pulling you even closer to him. Thankfully he doesn't see Izuku following behind him.

"Please, not again," you say before your voice bursts out in sobs again. Fuck, how much Bakugou wants to blast that fuckers skull in. He's sure his friends at the police force wouldn't mind turning a blind eye for him. But that'll have to wait until later. Now he needs to focus on keeping you safe, safe from him.

[taeescript]

I Promise (IX)

𝔰𝔶𝔫𝔬𝔭𝔰𝔦𝔰 >> Some people have the gifted ability of music; others of mathematics; some perhaps as persuasive argumentators. You have a “gift”, if one would like to call it that. It is the ability to know when somebody is telling a lie.

𝔭𝔞𝔦𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰 >> hoseok x f!reader; namjoon x f!reader

𝔤𝔢𝔫𝔯𝔢 >> mafia!au

𝔴/𝔠 >> 3.8k

𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰 >> language

𝔞/𝔫 >> i hope you guys have been enjoying all the parts thus far. don’t hesitate to leave a comment or to send me an ask! i love interacting with all of you and to hear some of your thoughts on what could happen! taglist is still open so do not hesitate to reach out if you are interested. happy reading! (: 

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It was now 1:30 am and Namjoon paced the empty living room himself. They had told him that they would be late but there was something that unnerved him. He could feel it in his gut that something had gone incredibly wrong. He checked the clock again and saw that it was now 1:32am.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. That was the only sound to accompany Namjoon’s thoughts and it was driving him crazy. He grabbed his jacket and was about to leave the house when its doors burst open and the six members of BTS stumbled in. They were all covered in blood and the white haired one, Yoongi, was unconscious in their arms. Jungkook, the youngest, was opening crying and held Yoongi’s hand until his knuckles were white. He kept repeating the unconscious man’s name over and over.

They pushed past Namjoon and carried Yoongi over the couch, staining the plastic cover red.

All of them were visibly exhausted but they were pulling through with adrenaline for their bleeding friend. Guns, knives and other weapons lay clattered at the door. “First aid is in my room! Hurry!” Seokjin commanded one of the members. Taehyung left momentarily and returned with medical tools of all kinds.

Yoongi had woken up momentarily when Seokjin placed a bottle of beer to his mouth. Seokjin spoke through gritted teeth, “We have to take the bullet out, Yoongi. I’m sorry, this is the strongest thing I could find.” The other man could only mumble weakly as the alcohol ran down the sides of his mouth and stained his shirt.

Things were finally kicking into motion within Namjoon’s head. He ran out of the room and came back with a bottle of vodka. He had gone out this afternoon and bought it with the intention of saving it for when everybody would return, hoping to open it for celebration. It was still being used at the end of the night, but just for a different reason.

There was a silent thank you exchanged between Namjoon and Seokjin.

Taehyung was holding the crying Jungkook and trying to soothe the younger through his own tears and snot. Jimin stood beside Seokjin, handing up the scalpel and tweezers wordlessly. They did not have any medical thread with them and had to make do with dental floss. Yoongi continued to moan in his semi-unconscious state as the needle pierced his skin after the bullet had been dug out. His blood covered the furniture and stained everything it touched with a sickly crimson.

Namjoon’s eyes darted around the room. The youngest had stopped crying but was still whimpering. Jimin stood with his hands to his mouth, folded in a silent prayer. Seokjin had a grim expression while trying to stop the blood from leaving his friend’s body.

“Fuck!” Hoseok yelled in anger. He had been standing to the side silently until now. He picked up a chair and flung it across the room. It crashed onto the floor and splintered upon impact, and a piece of wood flew, grazing Hoseok right under the eye. “FUCK!”

Namjoon did not know what to say. His heart skipped a beat when he realized they were one person short. “Where’s Y/N?” he asked.

“The fucking bastard was onto us, and we got played like puppets on a string!” Hoseok punched the wall.

Turning to Taehyung and Jungkook, Namjoon asked again, “Where’s Y/N?” Jungkook said between his tears, “I thought she came home already.”

Namjoon was starting to understand why he felt terrible. “No,” he told them, “She’s not home. You guys are the only ones who are back.”

Upon hearing this, Hoseok’s fist halted inches away from a second punch towards the wall. He stalked over to Namjoon. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“I said, Y/N is not home. She hasn’t come back,” Namjoon’s voice raised. He could feel the fear and anger that had been circulating the room begin to affect himself.

“Hyung, didn’t you tell Y/N to run?” Taehyung asked. Jungkook’s eyes looked watery once again.

“I did. And she looked like she understood me so I didn’t pay any more attention,” Hoseok said.

Namjoon pushed Hoseok. “What do you mean, you didn’t pay any more attention?! You said you’d protect her.”

Hoseok stumbled and could feel heat rise to his cheek. He walked up to Namjoon and shoved him back. “Well you see, I had three steroid-infused men, all of whom were likely professional assassins might I add, aiming guns and throwing knives at me and my team. I couldn’t exactly afford to keep my attention solely focused on one thing.”

“Couldn’t afford? Are you saying that she isn’t part of the team then?”

“What the hell? I said I couldn’t focus only on her.”

“Bullshit. Her purpose is a pawn to all of you. Always had been and now? Guess you don’t have to worry about that anymore huh?”

“Why don’t you shut the fuck up and walk away. The only person who’s not part of the team is you.”

“I wouldn’t of had to say anything if you just did your fucking job.”

The two men stared at each other, hands shaking furiously and daring the other to throw the first punch.

Jimin’s soft voice intercepted their tension. “She was running out the back door.”

At his words, Hoseok whirled and glared at him. “And you didn’t stop her? After seeing her run the wrong way?”

Jimin flinched from the anger, unable to speak. Hoseok knew he had scared him and turned his anger back on the one who did not belong. Namjoon was glaring right back at him.

“This is exactly why I kept telling her to stay away from you guys. She was perfectly fine, working at the diner and living her life safely. But you all sucked her into your games and now she’s out who knows where, with people who could murder her because of your actions tonight. You know what you all are? Acidic and poisonous good-for-nothing sons of bitches. You’re all low-lives who kill and steal because of your own greed, even if it means putting other innocent people in harm’s way,” Namjoon spat.

There was a whir of movement as Seokjin’s fist connected with Namjoon’s face. The taller man fell back and sat on the floor after the punch. Namjoon held a hand to his jaw as the numbness spread from the left to the right.

Seokjin was standing above him, hands still stained from the emergency suture on Yoongi’s body. The other man was now knocked out on the couch, but the bleeding had stopped. Seokjin’s voice was low and barely audible, but the threat was clear, “I will not have you talk about my members in that way. Yes, we steal and we have had to kill, but we would - we will - never hurt anybody that we care about. This house may be under your name, but you are free to leave if you are unhappy with the way we handle things.”

The punch had not only knocked Namjoon to the floor, but also some sense into him. He was angry, but he knew his anger was not directed at these men. They had only known each other for a short period of time, but deep inside, he knew they were loyal to each other and to you. He was angry at the man who had taken you away from him and he was angry at himself for letting another man do his job of protecting you. He was angry that he had not been there to save you himself.

Seokjin motioned for the two youngest members to carry Yoongi back to his room. Jimin also excused himself and that left the three of them alone.

“I know you’re angry, Namjoon. You have every right to be. We told you that we’d protect Y/N and it’s our fault that she’s gone right now. But you have no right to scream at the rest of them. We all risked our lives to get both Hoseok and Y/N out when the situation exploded. Yoongi had a bullet in him, for Christ’s sake,” Seokjin sighed. His hands were no longer shaking but all heat had been drained from them.

Namjoon only had his pride to hold on to and he would not apologize for his words.

“We’ll get her back. I’ll go out and contact some of my sources and see if anybody has seen her since the hotel. If they have, I’ll let you know immediately. I’ll get her back to us, I promise,” Seokjin said. He offered a hand to Namjoon who was still sitting on the floor. There was a moment of hesitance, but Namjoon grasped the outstretched hand. Seokjin pulled him up and observed that Namjoon winced at the movement. “Your jaw is dislocated. Go put some ice onto it and I’ll have Jimin check on it a little later. I need a shower.” With that, Seokjin left Hoseok and Namjoon alone.

The two stared at each other in silence. Hoseok stalked off to the patio and Namjoon went to the kitchen to grab a packet of ice.

His hands were shaking as they took out a cigarette. Hoseok tried to light it but there was no lighter fluid. He threw the empty plastic holder into the forest behind the house and watched it spiral in the air. He cursed mentally and slammed a hand against the wooden deck. He had seen you. He had seen you run after Hong Jung Yee but he had done nothing to stop you. He could have protected you. He could have kicked his opponent down and then rushed to you. But he didn’t.

You were alone out there by yourself possibly in Hong Jung Yee’s arms. He didn’t know what type of man Hong Jung Yee was and the image that crossed his mind of the other man touching you caused him to shake. If so much as a single hair was gone, he’d personally hunt Hong Jung Yee down and hang him by the nails.

“I forgive the others.” Namjoon came from behind. Hoseok turned and saw him hold a bag of ice cubes to his swollen face. “I forgive them all, but I will not forgive you.”

Hoseok glared. And then there was him: the one who had yelled and pushed him, when he, himself, hadn’t even been there in the situation. “I don’t need your forgiveness,” Hoseok seethed.

The pain was overwhelming but Namjoon stuck through it, determined to speak his thoughts. “You had promised that nothing would happen to her and you could not keep it. The second you had a chance, you tried to save your own ass.”

Hoseok charged at Namjoon with an arm outstretched. His palm struck the bricks of the doorway beside Namjoon’s head. The clay dug into his palm and blood trickled down the wall. “I’ll get her back,” he hissed.

Namjoon took a step closer to Hoseok and spoke through his teeth, “No, I’ll get her back.” He spun and walked back to their room.

..........

The blood dripped onto the floor behind the chair. Your hair was mangled and sticky with the substance. They had left you sitting unconscious on the chair. A sharp sting from a slap on your cheek woke you from your unconsciousness. You blinked a few times and found yourself in a small room with a table. Hong Jung Yee sat on it, watching you as you tried to make sense of your surroundings.

“Girl, are you awake?” he asked. You were mute. He reached towards you to shake you, and you lunged, sinking your teeth into his hand.

He yelled and pushed your head away with his other. You tasted blood in your mouth and spat onto the ground beside you. Your hands were behind your back, locked in a pair of handcuffs.

“That’s one way to answer my question,” Hong Jung Yee said, holding his hand to his side. “Who are you?”

You spat again and this time, it landed on his chest. You would not say anything.

“Answer me while I’m still asking kindly,” he said. He got down from the table and walked behind you. He pressed against you and asked one more time, “Who are you?”

“They’re going to find me,” you clenched your teeth and said, “And when they find me, they’ll have found you. Trust me when I say that you won’t like what they’ll be bringing with them.”

Hong Jung Yee did not say anything. His fingers grazed your neck and sent goosebumps. They tightened around the handcuffs and then with a click, they unlocked.

You sat, unmoving.

“They won’t find you,” he said, coming back to your front to talk to you again, “They won’t think of looking here.”

You studied him, trying to read his expression. You were scared. There was nothing to indicate that he was lying. How was he so sure that they’d never find him?

Hong Jung Yee sighed and sat back on the table. You noticed that there was something different about him. He was not talking in the flamboyant way as he usually did. He was not wearing a fancy suit nor did he have rings adorning his fingers. It was like he was another man.

“They will,” you whispered, reassuring yourself more than anything.

He looked at you. You had been a fighter. After the first hit behind the head, you had fallen but not before you tased the other man who had sneaked up from behind. It was only with his swift actions that he was able to hit you again at the base of the neck, momentarily paralyzing you. You did not understand exactly whom you had gone up against.

“I’m going to ask again, and you will answer me. Who are you? More specifically, who do you work for?” he yelled, grabbing your jaw with a single hand. You stared at him with a look that would have stopped anyone cold. He was not anyone however, and he had been in this business long enough to know when people were bluffing with all their strength. He knew you were utterly terrified.

“Goddammit!” he roared in frustration, “You’re going to tell me who you’re working for now, or I’ll return you to the men outside who would love nothing more than to get under your dress.” The threat entered your ears, and you believed every word he said.

His voice got quiet and he sneered, “You will tell me now because I am not going to risk this whole operation on a measly girl and bunch of unknown men. I have been working this job for nearly a decade and am so close to catching Ryukwan. Nobody – nobody – is going to get in my way of returning home to my wife and son.”

Initially, his words had confused you. You were still making sense of the situation you were currently in. But when the realization hit you, you could feel the new fear grip your heart.

The white walls. The single table. The lonely light ominously swinging from the ceiling.

You were in a fucking interrogation room and Hong Jung Yee was a fucking cop.

They had been caught. The one mission that brought you out of the country and out of Korean jurisdiction was the one that’d get you slammed behind bars. Your mind spun of what you could say. The only thing that surfaced was the truth.

You gave him your best glare but could barely lift your head. Fear paralyzed your body and all you could hear was the sound of your heartbeat.

He closed his eyes momentarily. He hadn’t meant to reveal who he actually was, but the frustration had caused him to lose control. In situations like these, there was only one thing that could calm him down: the image of his son. He pulled that into focus.

“I understand. You’re only trying to save your friends,” he said quietly, voice steady and under his control once again, “But that’s not benefiting anybody here.”

Silence.

“Look, the concern I have with your little gang is practically zero. I’m not planning to call nor turn anybody in tonight. All I want is information.”

“I have no information for you.”

“Oh, that’s where you’re mistaken. I think you do. Just tell me, who are you working for?”

Silence. Hong Jung Yee felt the irritation rise in his chest again. He whipped out his gun and pointed it at you.

“Who are you working for?” Each word was punctuated like bullets shot directly at you.

The sweat was beading your forehead and you could feel the tears threatening to burst out when you heard the cock of his gun.

“Give me an answer. Or your friends will find your dead body wrapped up at their doorstep tomorrow morning.”

All that could be heard in the room was their breathing; his calm collected inhale against your panicked shaking exhale.

“The Boss.”

Your words had been so quiet he had nearly missed it.

Hong Jung Yee squinted his eyes. “The Boss. Who’s your boss?”

“I don’t know his name. That’s all they call him. We were sent from Korea to monitor you and send information back to him.” You thought it was probably a good idea to omit the fact that The Boss would then make a judgment about whether or not to dispose of Hong Jung Yee.

“Ryukwan,” Hong Jung Yee exhaled. He suddenly slammed his hand on the table, scaring you. “Ryukwan,” he repeated the name, “Well fuck me.” He put the gun back in his pocket. A laugh bubbled from his throat and he let it out.

You watched as he doubled over, gasping for air as he continued in his laughter. He looked like a mad man when he finally looked back at you. “Who would have thought, that an opportunity like you would just roll by like this?”

As quick as his laughter had gone, the grim line of his mouth returned. He gave one look over you, and then he walked out of the room. You were left sitting, listening to your own shallow breathing. He returned moments later and stuck a needle into your neck. You yelped.

“What did you do to me?”

He stared at you, face close to yours again. “He has always been one step ahead of me, but he will not suspect this. You are all but pawns in this game of cat and mouse.” Looming over you, he was once again reminding you of the position you were in. “You will convince the other members to work as my bait and I will arrest Ryukwan for all he has done to this city.”

“They would never listen to you,” you said.

Reaching behind you, he deftly unbound the rope that had held your torso captured against the chair. “But they’d listen to you. I just injected a tracking chip into your body. I’m going to let you walk out of here. There is a man waiting outside who will drive you home on the condition that you will remain blindfolded through the duration of the ride. He will drop you a few blocks away and you will walk back. That tracker will be monitored by me. I will see exactly where you will be at all times, so don’t you try and escape the country because I will hunt all of you down.”

When the ropes finally released you, you rubbed your wrists and your arms. Your mind was still whirring at a chance of escape, but this seemed like your only option.

“When you’ve convinced them all, you will call me with this phone,” he threw you the black burner, “And I will provide you with any further instructions.”

You did not budge from your spot. Your legs would not move. He read easily through your fear and opened the door for you. It had always been unlocked. Outside, Daniel stood by the door of the lit hallway. There were no scary men waiting outside to get you. There was nobody in sight except for Daniel and Hong Jung Yee. Daniel put the blindfold over your eyes and guided you forward. You were stopped as you heard Hong Jung Yee’s voice by your ear again.

“Remember, I am always watching you,” he whispered.

..........

Hoseok could not sleep. Namjoon had passed out soon after Jimin gave him painkillers when fixing his jaw. They had both returned to their room but had not spoken once.

As much as he hated the other man, he knew Namjoon’s words were right. He had let you down. He had vowed to protect you, but he couldn’t – he failed to do that. In the distance, he heard a car rumble and then come to a stop.

He wondered if you were still alive. Of course you were. You were strong. He had taught you simple self-defence maneuvers before and if you needed to fight, you would not hesitate to give a damn good bruiser.

His body tightened as he heard the door unlock. It creaked ever so slightly and then clicked shut. Hoseok slowly got out of his bed and grabbed the knife he kept in the top drawer. He tiptoed out of the house.

Hong Jung Yee had found them and he was back to finish them off.

There was not a sound in the house but Hosoek’s ears picked up the soft padding of a human in the kitchen. He waited around the corner, heart pounding in his ear. He spun to face the intruder and dropped the knife.

You groaned as you reached up towards the medicine cabinet. You knew there was a gash on the back of your head that needed immediate attention. The sound of clattering metal behind you caused you to jump. You were spun and pulled forward on your feet.

Hoseok drew you towards him into an embrace. He had not believed his eyes when he saw the familiar silhouette. The dress was tattered, but he recognized the perfume you wore – the same one that the two of you had picked out jokingly for “his wife” a couple days prior.

“Shit,” you wheezed, being crushed in his arms.

“Holy fuck,” he whispered, “You’re alive.”

You recognized the voice and tried to push him away. “Hoseok, you’re crushing me.”

He did not let go of you. He vowed to never let go.

..........

𝔱𝔞𝔤𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 (open):  @scuzmunkie , @blimpintime, @thisisn0tal0vest0ry​, @cuteipat​ 

[capsized-heart]

l’ incendie

Pairing: Hal x Reader

Summary: You grew up as witness to the atrocities committed under the British crown. Lord Grey is your father and newly pledged councilman of the royal court. Now, England has a new boy king, one who is set on keeping peace in Europe. You are determined to see England burn, even if it means corrupting the lionhearted boy of Eastcheap.

Word count: 10k+

Warnings: explicit smut, strong violence, sacrilegious imagery a blowjob in a chapel lmao

A/N: l’ incendie ; French translation for fire

..so..I watched The King back in November and have had this idea in my brain for the past 2 months now?? It literally consumed me. All throughout my last few weeks of classes and final papers, this is honestly all I could think about, like I’ve been bumping the soundtrack and rewatching the film to plan this, I looked at Lord Grey’s true lineage (he aint Scottish btw I made that up..but he really was related to King Edward lol).......I’ve just had to get this out of me for so. long. and I’m so happy that I finally have! It feels like this huge weight is gone, but I’ve enjoyed this creative process so much, like it’s so exciting when you hyper-fixate find a new piece of media that you enjoy so much that you dive completely and utterly into everything about it that you can get your hands on, and this is my piece for this!

And my boy Timmy?? Had no fucking clue who this guy was before I saw the film, now I’m writing fics about him a;sdkfjskj but you’re here reading this so. we’re both guilty.

I love story arcs like this where you see a character’s slow descent into corruption and having it revealed that someone was talking in their ear the whole time....i eat that shit right up. Reader’s character is heavily inspired by Lady Macbeth. Using wiles, using sex, etc. Ooh baby. I had fun with this. 

gif credit to @michonnegrimes​ 

Scotland was once your true home. Moors, lochs, rugged mountains, biting cold, all. You remember the endless mist and gloom, the wet winters of your childhood that made the creaking wood of your cottage whistle and moan. Summers were warm and mild and the highlands bursting with rich green and sunlight, running through fragrant fields of heathers, bluebells, myrtle with your skirts damp with dew, shrieking and choking on laughter as your older brother, Callum, chased you all throughout your little village of Kirkcaldy. Laughing himself, grabbing at you and wrestling you down into the mud, blossoms, and river water.

“Yield! Yield to the English crown or perish, wretched witch!” Callum would boom in mock play, tickling your sides until you’re gasping for air and tears stung your eyes.

“Aye! I yield!”

“What? You mad girl! Take it back! We are Scots!”

And then Callum would descend on you with all the wrath of England and you’d be howling with giggles and screams.

Returning home at nightfall smelling of wind and rain with vibrant wildflowers tangled in your hair and dirt streaking the skin of your cheeks, still plump with baby fat. Scarce food, but stomach full of adventure and blissful naivete. You were happy. 

Your father would scold you promptly before his voice would soften a touch, smoothing back your hair from your face. Round, curious eyes and missing teeth. A feral, untamed child. 

Daughter of Lord Thomas Grey. His precious girl. So much of your mother in you, the same fight, the same spark and love for life. Until you had ripped her body from the inside out and she had lost too much blood, the wet nurses unable to stop the bleeding and she had given her last breath cradling you lovingly against her naked chest.

You had killed your own mother. 

In your early years, Callum and your father gave you nothing but warmth and protection, the sole surviving daughter of Grey lineage. But a child can only be sheltered for so long. Your world is a man’s world. Your country is no stranger to bloodshed. 

The Anglo-Scottish Wars have endured for as long as you can remember, rebel leaders beaten down by English captains and more Christian blood staining the lush lowlands with every day. Robert the Bruce. Percy Hotspur. Blood all the same.   

You are bleak, wild, uncivilized in the eyes of the English. 

It’s all your people have ever known. Weary, resilient Scotland. 

You have no memory of your mother, your earliest memory being the image of William Wallace’s torso strung up in the village square and the ensuing riots that had truly put the fear of God in you, mounted soldiers and civilians clashing in a fury of slick, gory steel, longswords and blacksmith daggers, a fear so raw and primal it struck you frozen and you’d soiled yourself in the midst of chaos. Callum had grabbed you and raced the four miles home as you bellowed atop his back with great, ugly heaves, snot and tears dribbling down your chin. 

You didn’t need to understand the politics of rebellion or Wallace’s stake in it all to understand a massacre. 

You have no memory of your mother, only murder in the name of the English king. 

But you’ve learned to nurture that little glowing kernel of survival, of the fighting spirit and grit inside you that had evidently cost your mother her life. You’ve kindled it, watched it ignite with every passing year of war, your body flourishing into the figure of a young woman with embers in her soul. A stable simmering of flushed coals beneath your skin, glistening in the pools of your irises, ready to flare up and burn all you touch should you choose to. 

You feel it now as a jostling carriage takes you to Northumberland, England. You sit quietly, watching the hills of Scotland tremble by, eyes hungrily drinking up as much of its strong landscape as you can.

Your father and brother have already gone ahead to England to make arrangements for Callum’s recent engagement to Isabel, Countess of Essex and only daughter of the Earl of Cambridge. You are reuniting after a lonely week, perhaps your last, to ever see your homeland. 

Callum’s betrothal didn’t come as much of a surprise, rather, you’ve been counting down the days until your village lifestyle was doomed for inevitable change; for years, your father has been preparing the two of you for noble life outside of Scotland. Son and daughter subjected to the arts of chivalry, proper etiquette, gentility. The best that your little village could accommodate.

Your father and his maternal ancestry have interestingly long influenced the English courts, as his title of Lord would suggest. Through his grandmother’s side, you are distant descendants of Margaret, Duchess of Norfolk. 

King Edward himself. Now cold and buried in London’s Westminster Abbey. 

The coals jump, flames twisting at the idea of relatives long dead sitting idly on the opportunity and resources for a coup d'etat, instead choosing to line their own pockets and watch your country crumble from the comfort of their English estates. 

The carnage and murder of monarchy feel that much more personal to you. 

With your brother’s new marriage, Callum will acquire lordship and be gifted property in Essex. Your father will be secured a seat in the king’s council. You will be given rooms and hospitality in the castle as a noblewoman available for marriage. As Lady Grey. 

A lick of fire coils up your throat. 

God save the king. 

**

The switch cracks so hard against the skin of your knuckles that your lip draws blood when you bite back a scream. Pain diffuses up your arm in fractured, ringing jolts and your eyes flood with hot tears. You hazard a look at where an angry welt has already started to flush, red and pulsing on the back of your hand. 

“Again.” Says Miss Hunt.

Your gaze falls to the open manuscript in front of you, to the passage that you’ve rehearsed aloud for the past two hours. Your tongue works nervously in your mouth, swallowing. Sweat glistens your brow. You think you may even be trembling. 

You draw in a quick breath and begin again:

“Time and tide wait for no man.

The life so short, the crafts so long to learn.

People can die of mere imagination.

And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche-”

Another crack and this time you can’t restrain the cry that leaves you. You blink back the heat blurring your vision, set your jaw when Miss Hunt clasps her hands coldly behind her back and looks down at you over her hooked nose. 

“Your voiced consonants are absolutely horrid, girl. Don’t close up your mouth. If you are to perfect the King’s English, you are to completely forget that savage dialect before I cut out your tongue. Am I understood?”

Miss Hunt gives you a smart swat to your cheek.

You nod quickly. 

Another stinging swat.

“Am I understood?”

“Yes, Miss Hunt.”

Satisfied, she turns on her heel, granting you a few precious moments of quiet, of rest. Afternoon light filters into the chamber in dusty, silvered shafts, hueing the book’s pages in a drab of diluted grey. The inked words of Chaucer bleed back up at you as you settle your breathing. 

This English sits like gravel in your mouth, low and rough and choking up your throat. Sharply iambic, as if everyone is talking down to the other. 

England’s English sounds slow and stupid.

You wonder if Callum had this much trouble mastering the accent. You wonder if Callum, as a Lord, has ever been slashed with a switch.  

Since your arrival to England and for the better part of a year, Miss Hunt has dissected every syllable of your speech through bodily punishment and repetition, ripped out any trace of Gaelic, any remaining trace of Scotland on your tongue and sutured it back together with mouthfuls of Chaucer and pompous, exaggerated vowels. 

But pain, degradation, and humiliation are wonderful motivators. And to your horror, it has worked.

Your father recently introduced you to a few councilmen out of courtesy and as the sister of the soon to be Lord Grey of Essex. You politely discussed politics, entertained banter and jests of marriage proposals. None questioned your status as an English noblewoman. 

Masquerading with voice and poise. 

But that hasn’t stopped your secret, unseen resistance. 

Miss Hunt may have taken your language and cadence, but her practices have only shown you the true powers of speech, knowledge, shown you just how intimidated and afraid all of England is of the bold north, of any European empire threatening its legitimacy. 

A cowering dog with raised hackles and snapping teeth, but only so out of mad fear. 

The harder Miss Hunt pushes, the deeper you dig into your own studies. By day, you are her sole pupil. By night, by candlelight, you are the pupil of Cicero, studying rhetoric and the power of spoken influence. You’ve also begun to study French as a means to bolster your wiles and mental arsenal. 

You are already a so-called savage by blood. Learning the language of England’s arch rival will do nothing to hurt your reputation. 

You feel a bead of sweat slide down the base of your spine as the switch swishes impatiently in Miss Hunt’s clutches. Oral recitation and the simultaneous reduction of your accent demands every ounce of your concentration. You know already that if you are hit again, the skin will break and you’ll only be reprimanded harder. Miss Hunt is sadistic and cold with her beady eyes and that ugly high starched collar.

“Again.” Her voice clips evenly.

So, you inhale a strong, supportive breath and begin again, pushing down the smolder in your chest.

**

The day of the wedding is cloudless and full of sunshine, a rarity for England. Callum has been bustling about the chapel’s back rooms in nervous energy all morning, fixing his hair and dress shirt over and over. You send your father to go and calm him down as you tend to Isabel, shooing him away quickly so your father’s mirrored jitters won’t affect her before the start of the ceremony. She gives you a small smile of thanks.

Isabel looks beautiful sitting in front of the mirror as her maids finish arranging her hair. Back straight as a board, plump lips and cheeks the color of a rosy, coral pink. You help to pull the veil over her face and the thin fabric does nothing to mute her radiance.

You see the flickering range of emotions in her eyes as she sees her own reflection. The life that all women are fated to live. Her last moments of true freedom, uncertainty for the future, and that small, significant trickle of vanity at having a perfect day of her own. 

You see it all. After all, you are a woman. 

She relaxes a bit when you lay a comforting hand on her shoulder. Her gaze finds yours in the mirror. 

“You and I will soon be sisters,” she laughs softly. You give her a pleasant smile.

“I would want nothing more.” 

Her throat works as she swallows tears, gives you another radiant laugh. “Someday, you will be sitting here, too.”      

The truth of her words causes your smile to weaken, but you quickly hide it by busying yourself with her skirts and lace. Your world is a man’s world, even outside of war-torn Scotland. One man’s world, to be exact. 

King Henry IV.     

“And I expect you, my dear Isabel, to be at my side when that day comes.” You say to her. She nods kindly. 

Your brother and Isabel are married a few hours later beneath the rainbowed, iridescent wash of stained glass and chiming church bells. And as the newly wed couple beam at you and their close company of friends and family, as you see Callum hold his wife proudly on his arm, you think that the bride and groom may truly love each other despite their arranged marriage. The possibility of such a happiness makes you grin wide and the familiar coals to simmer down ever so slightly.     

The reception then moves to the chapel’s outdoor gardens. Ornately trimmed hedges, chirping birdsong, bubbling marble fountains, and the sweet fragrance of daisies and roses perfume the budding spring air. 

The sun is warm on your skin, the air brisk and comfortable. You keep your fur lined mantle draped around your shoulders, your embroidered sleeves catching hints of daylight, the jeweled metalwork glittering about your waist. And with your hair twisted with ribbon and pinned back with a light linen caul, even Isabel herself murmurs that you look as refreshing and incandescent as the flowers surrounding you. You smile back teasingly, whisper that no one could possibly compare to the blushing bride. 

As sister of the groom, you mingle politely, accepting congratulations and kind regards.  

You see familiar faces, lords and fellow council members alike, and some of those not yet well acquainted. You meet Cambridge, Isabel’s father and a bird of a man. Gangly limbs and a flittering that accompanies his quick movements, but cordial and gentle. He tells you the union of your families will be prosperous, benign. You agree.  

Then, Cambridge is pulled aside by a young man. Cambridge seems to recognize him instantly and clasps him into an embrace, chuckling heartily.

“Hal! You made it!” he exclaims. The two talk together briefly before the young man turns to you. 

He’s tall and lean, broad chested with sloping shoulders. The angular planes of his face are undeniably handsome, a strong nose, full dark lashes and brows that frame his bold complexion. Black, unkempt curls and soft, hooded green eyes that hold an undertone of vigor, like his very gaze has commanded attention his entire life. They flicker over you quickly, as if you’d imagined it yourself, a trick of the light. 

You don’t miss the way they linger at the exposed dip of your neckline, however.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me?” He then asks of Cambridge, his voice a soft murmur and his eyes never leave you. 

Cambridge looks quickly between the two of you, as if acknowledging your presence again for the first time since this young man’s interruption. He burns bright red, stammering, then gestures to the stranger beside him.

“Of course. My lady, may I present my cousin, Henry. Prince of Wales.”  

The suddenness and sheer absurdity of it all almost makes you burst out in laughter.

Cousin? King Henry IV’s eldest son is the cousin of your father-in-law? 

With this marriage, you realize your family is now tied to the most powerful family in all of Britain. Yet, no one in the wedding party seems to have even acknowledged the presence of the boy prince dressed simply in dark cloak and tunic.

And then you remember. Prince Hal is a drunk, a dangerous playboy from Eastcheap. His claim to the throne is as illegitimate as the probable dozens of children from his bedded girls. 

And asking for a formal introduction from his cousin? It’s utterly laughable, pathetic even.

Hal’s gaze is unwanted, skin prickling from where his eyes trace the curve of your chest in a way that makes you feel vile. 

So, you wet your lips, pretend to wordlessly accept his flirtations and give him a slow flutter of your lashes. The reaction he so craves from you as his chin tilts back in delight, hungry to see more. 

“Your reputation precedes you, my lord.” Your words drip with venom. Flowery girl with a serpent’s sharp tongue. 

The barb makes Hal’s features tick in surprise, shock before settling back into a cool demeanor. 

“Then you’ve heard of me.”

Your mask of amour stays firmly in place.  

“It is hard to be deaf against such defamatory gossip.”

Hal hums softly with a hint of a smile, breaking his gaze to look out over the reception, ego obviously bruised. Cambridge goes pale as a sheet.

Isabel suddenly swoops in with the apology of wanting to introduce her father to a newly arrived guest and excuses him, hauling him away by the arm. Cambridge looks relieved to go.

And then it’s just the two of you beneath the halo of rose-tinted light. 

“Beautiful ceremony.” He says simply. Hal is incredibly soft spoken for a prince and you find yourself unconsciously leaning in to hear him speak. Part of the intimate charm that makes him so alluring to women, you think. A whispered promise only for you.   

“I thank you, sire.” 

He takes a step forward. It startles you, enough for him to crowd you against the garden trellis wall. Ivy and lavender press into your back, dancing in the same breeze that peppers goosebumps down your spine. You shiver softly. Hal steps closer.

“I pray this is not the last of today’s festivities?” His words ghost over your throat, tickling the shell of your ear. 

“No, sire. There will be a dinner tonight,” you reply just as quietly. You understand the game perfectly because it is the same one you have been playing your whole life. You indulge him, fire sparkling behind your fluttering eyelashes. “Surely your cousin will be expecting your attendance.”

Hal leans over you, hair tickling your face, green eyes glimmering. Up close, you see that freckles and beauty marks dot his skin. “I’m sure he will.”  

You think you see him incline his head as though to kiss you. For a moment, you’re frozen, entranced. 

You turn your cheek and his lips brush your temple. He hesitates with a low chuckle, keeping his close proximity.

“Then, I will see you tonight, my lord.” You whisper. Your fingers graze his arms as you sidle out of his reach. You can feel his eyes on you as you go and rejoin the other guests. 

You leave him burning. 

**

The tavern teems with merriment and the sound of fiddle, fife, and drum. You feast on broiled meats, roasted potatoes, greens, sweet breads and cakes until your stomach is full to bursting. 

 The glow of candlelight is lush and sensual, throwing shadows over the faces that only hours before you had shared with in prayer and communion in the church of God. Now, every attendant indulges in debauchery.

You’re drunk, blood pounding with mulled wine and spiced ale and cider. Pleasantly warm and head swimming, watching Callum and Isabel and friends and family dance about the room as if possessed, twirling in swirls of colored fabric that make you laugh and clap along in breathless euphoria. 

You catch a glance of a figure standing in the doorway. You see the motion of a glass moving to lips, throat working to swallow drink. When the glass falls, you lock eyes with Hal.

You beckon him forth with a crooked finger. He grins wickedly and sets down his cup. 

Despite the obvious wine in him, his steps towards you are sure and true and his hands feel good against you when they caress your waist, pull you against him.

You play coy and twist out of his arms. He groans. 

He follows you like a dog until you’re in the midst of spinning bodies and then you turn to him. Giving him the permission to finally touch you.

His eyes ignite. He splays a hand on the middle of your back, perfect pressure, authoritative, the other gripping you tight and then you’re both cackling with drunken mischief as he guides the two of you across the creaking wooden floor. 

You let him support you, lean against his chest, enjoying the sensation of being held so close. The thrill of feeling wanted. 

Even if it is all a charade. 

The strings and beat of thumping drums careen to a crescendo that has the entire tavern whooping and hollering in delight. You break apart from Hal to join in as the music flows through your limbs, absolutely enchanted, throwing back your head like that feral child from girlhood.      

Hal looks just as wild, the rumored wayward prince. Long, dark locks falling in his eyes, tunic unbuttoned and disheveled. Light and shadow dancing across his face in a manner that makes him look devilish.  

He pushes a glittering goblet into your hands, eases his strong fingers around your own to help bring it to your lips. You see the unmistakable red slosh of wine and wordlessly drink. He watches you tip back the goblet, watches rubied jewels of crimson spill down the sides of your mouth and down the skin of your throat.   

“That’s it. That’s a good girl.” He cooes. 

The flames feel desperately hot, flushing your skin and cheeks, burning bright behind your lips. Or perhaps it's the alcohol? Or the prince’s wandering touch that now seems to be cupping your breast, tongue lapping at the trails of wine…

The heat is suddenly too much and you push away to a secluded corner filled with empty tables to catch your breath. Hal slumps beside you. His head lolls, dipping to press another whisper of a kiss to your jaw and his weight feels comfortable against your side.

You don’t know what comes over you. Perhaps you truly are possessed.

You turn into him and then your hand is reaching between his thighs. 

Hal exhales sharply in your ear. You harden your touch, feel him widen his stance to accommodate you. He braces an arm behind the small of your back, supporting himself on the space of the wooden bench as your fingers slip below the waistband of his trousers. 

He gives a strangled sigh when you grip him tight and begin to coil your hand. His head lolls once more, nuzzling into the crook of your neck, panting, bursts of hot breath fanning over your throat. You feel your own breath quicken, feel yourself getting excited.

You mesh your other hand into his curls and pull him closer, press your body flush against his. Hal moans, keening, his arm now around your waist. You shush him quietly, tightening the hold in his hair.   

To any patron, you look as though you’re only consoling a drunken boy, simply talking in the muted light. The shadows hide you both but the flames shine in your eyes.     

“Enjoying the festivities, my lord?” You sigh into his cheek. 

“Please don’t stop..” Hal whimpers. 

You chuckle through a half-lidded gaze and work him harder. It’s delicious, erotic. 

You hold all power, all of England in your delicate grip. 

You watch his mouth fall open, dark brows furrowing, feel him tense against you before the eldest son to the crown spills himself onto your fevered palm with a sharp gasp, chest heaving.  

“Good boy..” you murmur with a cheshire smile, running your fingers soothingly down the line of his jaw. Hal shudders with aftershocks, eyes closed, forehead glistening with sweat. 

Before he can attempt to try and reciprocate the favor, you wipe your hand on his cloak and stand to fetch another drink. 

**

You avoid Hal afterwards and don’t see him again for the remainder of the night. You think he must have gone home with another girl to satisfy himself and it makes you smile knowing you are responsible for laying that trap, for letting him taste pleasure, driving his desperation and taking it all away just as easily. 

Your brother and Isabel spend their honeymoon in London before returning to her home in Essex. They write to you, informing of their safe arrival at the new estate and that you will have to come visit in the very near future. It warms your heart. You already miss them terribly. 

Soon after, your father is awarded the scarlet, fur-trimmed peerage robes of the House of Lords and with your new rank, you experience the privilege of wealth for the first time. 

Rich foods, dresses and flowing silk skirts, cosmetics, more books and manuscripts than you can imagine. You glow with health, beauty, pride, and sharpened wit.

But you have not forgotten your burning flame. Aided by money and status, your little light only grows stronger.

**

King Henry IV dies of sickness on a warm March morning. It had only been a matter of time, the stubborn man had been calling your father and the other lords to his bedside for the past several months to continue to discuss the politics of his own wars. In his dying breath, Henry IV saw that his empire had fallen to civil strife. 

Court and kingdom are called to witness the coronation procession and as you stand with the lords and ladies of the crown inside Westminster Abbey, inside the church containing the tomb of your distant descendant King Edward and the generations of his forefathers, the same Gothic abbey where British monarchs have turned men into rulers and tyrants, you watch the archbishop anoint Prince Henry of Wales with holy oil. 

His curls have been trimmed clean, his bare skin and body presented to be blessed with the sign of the cross. All old ritual, old prayer and Latin incantations that have been performed for over a thousand years.

So what is a new boy to wear the crown?

Beneath the arched stone cloisters, baptized in the sunlit streams of stained glass, you watch that same ceremony unfold again with burning heart. And harmonized by the tolling of bells, Hal is dressed in royal robes, regalia, scepter and all, shedding the title of prince as you all pledge homage to your new King of England.

“All hail King Henry.” The archbishop calls out to clergy, God, and country.  

“King Henry!”

**

Neither you nor Hal feel the heat of embarrassment when the court is ushered into the dining chamber and you meet again in candle and firelight. The feast is an intimate setting, shared by the company of Hal’s new council, clergymen, and close family. Your father is seated alongside Cambridge, Chief Justice William Gascoigne, and the archbishop; even his sister, Queen Phillipa of Denmark, is in attendance.

Hal’s appearance and demeanor is surprising to you.  

He looks striking, handsome as ever in his new robes and you can sense that familiar aire of charisma and confidence you remember from the wedding as Lord Chamberlain presents gifts from the monarchs of the world. A jeweled vase from King Wenceslas of Bohemia, a trinket of a mechanical bird from the Doge of Venice. Hal is jovial, good humored and merry. 

The presence of his cousin and sister seems to comfort him greatly. And rightfully so, considering he now sits on the throne of his dead father. Dead as well is the alter ego of the delinquent prince.

Like a spoilt child opening wrapped packages at Christmas. The privilege of royal blood. 

When the final trunk is presented, a gift from the Dauphin, you quite nearly let out a low snicker. 

A ball for the boy king.   

You see Hal hesitate before picking it up and the silence throughout the chamber is long, uncomfortable. The entire court seems to be holding its breath. Yet, you know there is an aspect of truth to the Dauphin’s gesture. 

A boy indeed. You recall Hal’s touch and him gasping into your neck, his muffled begging, how quickly he had finished in your hand…

Then, the cool magnetism returns to his features. He locks eyes with you and you wonder if he is thinking of the same moment. You are both proud challengers, wielders of personal charm. 

You wonder how long it will take to break him completely.    

There’s a glimmer in his gaze you think to be from the blazing hearth as he tosses the ball once against the chamber’s stone wall, then catches it deftly with youthful poise. 

**

After the coronation dinner, the court is dismissed and you find yourself to be one of the last remaining patrons as guests trickle out into the adjacent hallways and disperse through the rest of the castle. You deliberately hang back, watching your father, Cambridge, Phillipa, and William slip through the doors, slowing your step so that Hal can catch sight of you.  

“Lady Grey,” you hear. His voice is galant, hushed with that same temptation of seductive promise. With your back still facing him, you can’t help but smirk. 

You feign surprise and turn.     

“Yes, my lord?”

Hal beckons to where he stands by the fireside. You gather your skirts and join him in the welcoming nimbus of light and warmth. When you bend to curtesy, his fingers find your chin, tilting your eyes to his own and forcing you to rise to your feet.

“None of that is necessary, my dear,” he whispers. He keeps your face cradled between thumb and forefinger, a delicate pressure, one that makes you feel precious as he holds you close. “Tell me, did you enjoy tonight?”

“Immensely.” You smile. Indeed, you have. The Dauphin might as well have spoken on your own behalf.  

Hal hums, pleased. His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, then eases in between the petals of your pink lips. You purse them ever so slightly and watch his self-control start to simmer. The candles burn low around the two of you, the only source of light emanating from the hearth itself. You are reminded of how the shadows flickered on the planes of his face the night of the wedding. Now, you see the same shadows again, but as king.  

“I want you to have something.” He says finally.

He looks reluctant to break his touch from you, but you see his hand disappear within the folds of his robes. He then produces a glittering pendant with a golden chain, a necklace that looks ablaze.

Amber, you realize. 

The surprise that crosses your features is genuine. Baltic amber set into teardrop sterling silver and gold, a gift from Rupert of the Palatinate and the kingdom of Germany. An extraordinary piece.

Hal’s hand finds your waist and you turn to offer him your bare neck, pulse pounding. You have no say, no power to even deny this token of affection. 

His caresses against your skin as he fastens the chain are soft and featherlike and you can feel his breath on the top of your spine. The pendant is heavy, rich with precious stone and gilded metal, settling between the valley of your breasts. It feels cold, but shines like an inferno. 

He lingers, tracing your shoulders when his mouth presses to your ear. 

“Turn. Let me look at you properly.”

When you do, the weight of Germany itself, of foreign and fallen kingdoms and countries, conquered and pillaged and burned, simultaneously settles between the tender skin of your sternum. 

Hal’s eyes cloud with dark delight when he sees the flaming amber. He takes your chin back in hand, angling your face every which way, studying how the firelight glints off the pendant with a sensual curiosity. 

“Beautiful.” He murmurs. 

Your body begins to react on its own accord, chest rising and falling with faster breaths, your cheeks blooming. 

“I thank you, my lord.” 

Still cradling your jaw, he brings himself closer with only a whisper between the two of you. His crimson robes seem to swallow you completely, like the gaping maw of Britain’s lion, a mantle of blood. He speaks into the gap between your mouths, yet you feel every word upon your lips.

“With this gift, I expect to see you more around my court, Lady Grey. Am I understood?” 

The tension he commands is unbearable. He watches you carefully, dark eyelashes fluttering. Trapped like a pinned butterfly. Then, you understand he’s waiting for a verbal response. 

“Yes, my lord.”

He releases you.

The pendant suddenly feels more like a collar. 

You’ve underestimated Hal. He is just as much the player as you.

**

You keep your promise. You see Hal daily in passing, often dressed in full regal attire as he comes from the council chambers, your father, William, and the rest of his train tailing close behind. The twinkle in his eye when he sees you is discreet, reserved only for you. The amber pendant remains fastened around your neck at all hours of the day, even while you sleep and bathe, like fire and ice between your breasts. A piece of Hal always with you. 

The two of you are a queer, twisted pair of sweethearts. You’ve yet to be fully intimate since that wedding night, but the pressure that ripples with every fleeting glance, every grazing touch of lips and skin is enough to prove your attraction for each other. Or rather, the attraction to the game. 

You keep Hal on his toes, never fully give in even when he invites you out for evening strolls in the palace gardens and the safety of darkness envelops you both. It is your nightly ritual to walk the grounds together amongst hushed breezes and chirping crickets, you as a means to unwind before bed, and a way for Hal to clear his mind of the day’s tolling demands. 

And tolling they are. Despite his bravado, he is easily irritable, tense. You listen when he speaks to you plainly about his frustrations for the court and archbishop, how they all expect from him the same swift retaliation of his father. 

You find Hal’s consciousness of this want to break tyranny quite curious. Sons are typical to idolize their fathers and see past faults. It is why you know how cruel kingship has endured in Britain for generations; learned behaviors become expected and change more difficult. You’ve even seen that same behavior in your own brother.

And Hal’s trust in disclosing even this to you is telling. The thread to unravel the boy king.

Tonight, you dare to pull at it, heighten your girlish wiles and offer him a lingering kiss and soft words. You tell him that Christendom is damned and tease that it’s his own fault his council is made up entirely of old, graying men, your father included, when he could have anyone else.   

Hal’s spirits seem to lift a little with a ghost of a smile, understanding you perfectly as his arm snakes around your waist. He pulls you into a secluded labyrinth and settles into the stone seat of a fountain, pulls you atop his lap. The kiss he returns is fierce. 

Without the burn of alcohol to subdue your senses, every touch is intensified tenfold. Hal feels it too, his breath coming ragged as he breaks the kiss to mouth down the skin of your neck, the dip of your collarbone, your chest. His hands wander beneath your skirts.

“It is only polite that I return the favor..” You hear him say.

Your mind is reeling. You knew this moment would eventually come, yet you feel ill-prepared when his fingers brush your core, his other hand gripping the back of your neck. You gasp, finding his lips in another tangled kiss, straddle him completely. 

It’s strange, exhilarating to be on the receiving end of your little game. 

If you are to truly break Hal, you are to first make him believe that he holds any sort of power over you, to reverse that dynamic you had set the night of your brother’s wedding. 

You are to let him touch you. 

And like the flaming sword of Raphael, Hal’s pendant, it is time to finally draw upon your fire. 

You hate how good Hal is at this. He knows just where to caress inside you, the right amount of pressure, the weak spots at your throat and just below your ear. Your competitiveness takes over and you push him back against the fountain, start to circle your hips, grind yourself down on his hand and grip at the rich fabric of his tunic to better anchor yourself. 

His eyes pool with lust with every sigh from your lips, watching you closely. He rolls his thumb, picks up the tempo of his fingers, relishing the sight of you slowly falling apart on top of him.  

But it isn’t enough. You lean in and wrap your arms around his neck. He responds in tandem, gathering you close as you rock against him, the friction of his thighs sending you closer and closer to that threshold of pleasure. 

“Please..I need t-to…” you whisper into his neck, into his mouth. 

Words of magic. Hal’s expression flares with masculine pride, the delight of pleasing a woman. 

The last of the day’s golden hour spills over you both in glowing, peached splendor and with the sound of the fountain’s rushing water as your only witness, you muffle your final moan with a desperate kiss, bliss pulsing behind your eyelids. Hal keeps his fingers where they are, coaxing the last waves of your orgasm out of you, cradling your chin with his other hand as his lips part yours, slipping tongue as you come floating back down to earth.

You’re dazed, flushed, lazily kissing when he removes his fingers. Slick when you suck them into your mouth and taste yourself. The velvet of your tongue makes him shiver.

“Now, what ever are we going to do about your council, my lord?” You murmur once you catch your breath. You gently kiss his fingertips.

Hal only smirks and pulls you to him.

**

Your plan begins to take motion. With each passing month, you worm your way deeper into Hal’s heart with honeyed words and empty promises. He confides in you more and more as he grows wary of his councilmen, trusting only the pretty face he sees in the privacy of his bedchamber each night. Graced against silk pillows. 

You sense the crushing pressure upon him, his own doubts and fears. You slowly leech away his magnetism, his charisma, and take it for yourself. His eyes dim, harden with resolve. Gone is the assurance for peace. Hal instead grows cold, timid, questioning his every move. 

You only burn brighter.  

**

There is talk that a French assassin has breached the castle.

You hear the conversation for yourself when your father and William are called down to the dungeons, hear Hal speaking directly to this assassin as you linger at the top of the stone staircase. 

“Qui êtes vous?”

“J'ai été envoyé par le roi de France pour vous assassiner.”

Hal’s voice is cool, calm as he pries for details. The assassin’s responses are noticeably vague. You infer it to be out of his own self interest. 

Then, nothing. Days go by with no direct action from Hal.

You grind your teeth. War with France would be the perfect fruition of your schemes, the final act in a tragedy deemed to be an epic of British monarchy. War with France would show Europe and the rest of the world the extortion and murder of the English crown; not that these neighboring countries needed such a reminder. But England and her king have been blind for too long.

Previous attempts at quelling war had caused Percy Hotspur to rebel, Prince Thomas of Lancaster to push on and die alone on foreign soil. 

Is Hal not trying to prove himself in this same way? Proving he is not like his father? Just as Thomas had wished for his peers to see him as a commander and better equipped to bear the crown despite being the youngest son, is Hal not guilty of this same charge of public approval? 

And having the privilege to sit idly atop a throne amidst all this makes your blood boil. Idleness is instability, you’ve learned this years ago. 

You will be the one to push Hal to war.

**

You are sewing one afternoon in an empty chamber when the strained voices of your father, Cambridge, and William reach your ears. Hushed and argumentative, it draws you to your feet, possesses you to lean against the frame of the door and just out of sight.

You hear the disgust in your father’s tone when he speaks of the king. The weakness in forgiving France, the lunacy of Hal’s ascension. It amazes you, grips you tight at hearing such passion and loathing; you’ve never heard your father speak this way about anyone, let alone the head of England’s monarchy. Slander and defamation carry swift punishment. 

You learn that he and Cambridge have been approached by French agents. The three men debate quietly as you stand against the door, nearly panting. A coup d'etat? The idea excites you more than it should. But you perish the thought quickly before you can get ahead of yourself.

Why only approach the two of them? Surely to turn England’s people against their ruler, a greater number of conspirators would prove to be more efficient? You know distrust is not uncommon among Hal’s council, so possible traitors would not be hard to find.  

This approach means your father and Cambridge have been judged weak in character by the French. Insecure, lacking, most likely to bend at the knee for candied prospects in exchange for loyalty.

And now as you eavesdrop on your own father, you know Lord Grey does not have faith behind his king and is too afraid to do anything with it. You know that if you had not gathered this knowledge for yourself, you would never have been told so, unseen as all women are expected to be.

These French agents and councilmen think they hold all power with their debates and their meetings in private, oblivious to the fact that it is women who move the world. Women like you, wielding their very sex to push these men as pawns. 

Are men not born into this world by women? Do men not seek a woman’s tender embrace for love and comfort and to carry on long, unbroken lineages of royal blood?

Your own father, as all his peers, are blind to the influence you bear over Hal. Even Hal himself. 

**

You find yourself in the king’s private quarters one cold night, sitting in front of the hearth and watching the crackling, shimmering flames that warm the room. The soft silence is comforting to you as you sit bathed in orange glow, wrapped in furs and waiting for Hal’s return. 

Your mind wanders. You think of the French assassin still held captive in the dungeons beneath your feet, how the man had been granted asylum in exchange for a confession. 

“Quel était le l'ordre?”

“Que je devrais tuer le roi d'Angleterre.”

And with the French approaching Cambridge and your father, it is certain, undeniable that tension is thick and stakes high for all of England. 

You are standing on the very brink of war, standing flush at the edge of a swallowing cliffside with dragging winds and dark, inky waters swirling beneath you down below. Waiting to embrace you, like the jagged shores of St Kilda, the northern shores of Scotland. Calling you home like a siren’s song. 

And Hal only needs one final pull before you both fall together. 

The chamber door opens and the king steps inside. His presence is stormy, like a cold wind blowing into the room. 

He’s dressed handsomely in a navy tunic and dress shirt, a mantle that drapes over his burdened shoulders. Yet, his hair is mussed and disheveled and you can see the tightness around his eyes. His once youthful glow now gone, but a sharpness to him that you think resembles a pike; diligent, wary, and still capable of hurting you if you’re not careful.

You pretend to quickly wipe away tears before you stand to greet him. Hal sees this and his brows draw together in concern, further contorting his expression into one of pain. He comes to the fireside.

“Good evening, my king,” you say as he takes your hands.

“What upsets you so?” he asks you directly. His voice is strained, sets your pulse aflutter more than it should. You give a small, breathless smile, a shake of your head.

“Nothing of your concern, just innocuous thoughts, my lord. Let us go to bed.” 

But you do not move in the direction of the luxurious canopied bed, one you have grown intimately familiar with. You stay exactly where you are and let Hal’s mind race.

His fingers grip your chin and when you meet his eyes, they’re bold and smoldering, the first touch of life in them you’ve seen for sometime. His grasp is strong and a muscle ticks in his jaw.

“Speak freely to me. Please,” he whispers. “Of all people. My dear, speak true.” The last word falls like a plea from his lips. You suppose it is one as he pulls you closer. A boy desperate for truth, constricted and poisoned by a council of vipers.

Unknowingly turning to the girl with the pretty mouth as she pours poison into his ear. 

At this, you bite your lips and summon tears that spill forth, pool your vision. You let the familiar sensations take over, the shortness of breath, the depleted posture, and pretty soon you’re trembling, weeping in Hal’s arms.  

“This assassin. It frightens me,” you say finally, broken. “If he had fulfilled his order and taken you from me, left me here all alone…oh, Hal. I’m so afraid.” 

His thumb circles your cheek, silent. You sense that dangerous cocktail of anger and darkness simmering just beneath his skin. Anger at the world, anger reserved for his dead father.

“France means to have you killed, Hal. Then what of us?”

Us? England?

Tears drip down your neck and onto your rising chest. Where you’ve left the first clasp of your blouse carefully unbuttoned. You press yourself to him ever so slightly, look up through tear-soaked eyelashes and embered iresis. 

“Then what of me?” you whisper.

Hal’s lips are crushing against yours. You feel every ounce of his anguish, every bit of tension wound tight in his frame, every doubt, every fear. You feel the restraint as he cradles the back of your neck, his other hand finding your waist as he pushes you flush against him. The dichotomy to feel love, to feel comfort and safety and to relieve and dispel just a hint of the pressure building inside him. The dichotomy to conquer, the urge to channel this animosity in a way he must be familiar, to ravish you completely. 

With your bosom rising and falling so sweetly, eyes glittering with tears, looking almost divine with firelight circling the shine of your hair in a golden halo, you watch Hal’s walls collapse. You let him succumb to that mirage of safety and warmth, to ease his conscience. You will both get what you want, eventually. 

You break apart to kiss the line of his throat, his pulsepoint, where you know he’s weakest. Hal gasps as you thread your fingers through his curls, bring your lips to his ear in a soft lull.

“May I have you tonight, my king? Completely?”

His response is immediate, yet wordless when he tilts back his head and feels your mouth against his jugular, the hand at your waist tightening. 

At last, you lead him to the bed with the intent of christening it. 

He pulls you atop him, helps you unthread the bodice of your nightgown. Despite the blazing fire behind you, the air chills your shoulders, your chest as you slowly expose more and more skin, finally letting the thin fabric pool around your waist. The feel of his bare hands cupping your body fuels you, act as your catalyst. Soft, firm. 

The amber necklace swings like a golden pendulum when you stoop to kiss him again, his fingers ghosting over the skin of your back. Hal’s desires are plainly stated as you feel him harden against your inner thigh.

There is no time for coy deception tonight. You make quick work of his tunic, leave his trousers and instead unfasten and pull him through, positioning where he wants you most. Hal is already nearly panting.

You arch as he settles inside you, a biting stretch that has both of you sighing when you bury yourself into the crook of his neck. Something long-awaited. You stomach the discomforting pressure and set a rhythm, one that has Hal cursing into your hair.

“You must protect the women of England, my lord,” you whisper. “Who will do so if you are gone?” You punctuate your point with a well-timed swivel of your hips and Hal moans low and guttural. “Your wives and children. Can you protect me?”

Hal’s arms wrap around you, nearly choking on pleasure. “I will. Anything for you. Please...” 

Unseen by him, you grin. You can practically hear the crashing ocean waves, to feel the quench of water at long last! You think you could make him do anything in this moment with how enthralled he is in bliss. 

You sit back and Hal’s hands glide over the smooth expanse of your stomach, watching his eyes grow dark, the amber pendant swinging between the two of you. The discomfort in your belly is gone and you start to mirror Hal’s pleasure, head falling back, sighs growing louder. 

And as the two of you finally fall from the cliffside and towards the waiting waters, Hal gives a soft cry, vision rolling and you feel his heat spill onto your inner thigh. You kiss him until the strength drains from his body, a true succubus as Hal at last descends into sleep, relaxed. 

You have the king’s word. 

**

You awaken the next morning to find the bed empty and cold. Surprised, you dress alone and return to your chambers to call for your breakfast. When you send for your father to share his company, the servant returns and tells you Lord Grey is currently engaged and his presence cannot be requested.

“A meeting, you mean?” You ask the servant rather crossly. Why must everyone speak to you in riddles? You obviously did not sleep much the night before and had trouble long after Hal had finished, like a slumbering babe beside you. Typical.

Your mood sours further in that you won’t be able to share this meal with your father. You despise spending mornings in solitude. It seems like it’s been ages since you’ve last seen each other in private, with no councilmen lurking about.

“No, my lady,” the servant stammers slightly, the words stumbling out of his mouth. “Lord Grey is condemned and is forbidden from taking meals before tomorrow morning.”

“What?” You growl at his vagueness. Your anger and irritation rise hot and fast and you’re tempted to hurl the glass cup of strawberries at this blubbering young fool. 

“Lord Grey and Cambridge await execution tomorrow morning for treason, by order of the king.” 

Your world stops. You send the servant away with a ghost of a whisper.

When the door snaps shut, you laugh mournfully. So the gossip had come to naught. Hal had indeed kept his word. Your stomach turns in nausea. Food is suddenly the last thing on your mind.

You rush to your writing desk, overturning bottles of ink, hands shaking when you retrieve quill and parchment, attempt to pen a desperate letter to Callum with a fevered hand. But before you can draft a single sentence, your blood turns cold.

You have not heard from your brother, from Isabelle in weeks. Have your worst fears already come true?

Glass and fruit explode against the far wall.

You tear out of the room like a bloodied banshee in search of Hal, fingers tinted crimson from cut glass and mashed berries. 

And if thy right hand offend thee, cut it off, and

cast it from thee: for it is profitable for thee

that one of thy members should perish, and not

that thy whole body should be cast into hell.

One of Miss Hunt’s chosen passages from the book of Matthew comes crashing into your mind. You are like Eve, you think. Bearing the burden of Original Sin with lust and curiosity. You have tasted the fruit and have seen the evils of mankind. Never in your wildest dreams could you have imagined your plan backfiring so horribly. 

Now, hellfire awaits your father, for you when you draw your final breath your last day on this earth. Suddenly seeming to loom that much closer. 

You approach Hal like Samuel’s ghost did to King Saul on the eve of war, the Philistines instead of the French. Interchangeable, cycles of warfare that have dawned for milenia and will continue until the end of time.  

He looks terrifying, colder and more severe than you’ve ever seen, outfitted in those horrible blood red robes that one coronation dinner long ago you had once thought he looked becoming. 

You know with one wrong word you could be joining the two men to die at first light. Your mind races. 

“My lord, to think my own father had been plotting against you sickens me,” you speak slowly. The sentence stings like venom in your mouth, damning your father. Hellfire burns brighter. But it is the only way you can protect yourself. Your grisly appearance, your quick breaths, it is all to sell your story. “May I accompany you tomorrow morning as witness?”

Hal’s lips twist into a hint of a smile, the shadow of his former self. “Of course, my dear. Lord Grey may have failed his fatherly duties as protector, but I will not.” 

**

And so, with your hands wrapped in fresh bandages and stitchings, you stand in a courtyard with wind whipping around you, the only Christian woman among councilmen and knights as you watch your father lay his head upon the chopping block. His hair has been shaved off to ensure the killing blow will be swift and true. Shivering, pale, and damp with sweat, he looks like a ghost. Soon, he will be one. You want him to see you in these final moments, for him to know that you will utterly destroy this king, but you cannot risk the danger. 

Like the coronation, Latin prayers are recited, only this time they are prayers for your father and father-in-law to find peace in the afterlife. The last time you, Hal, Cambridge, and your father had shared company like this had been at the wedding. You know now that Callum and Isabel are truly dead. In the blink of an eye, Hal has slaughtered your entire family.

Weary, resilient Scotland.

You do not cry. You must show your loyalty.

“Requiescat in pace.”

Weak, fragile as Lord Grey starts to whimper aloud. No daughter should see their father, their protector through girlhood, like this. 

The axe glimmers in the sunlight and is brought down with deadly precision. Your father’s head rolls grotesquely off of his shoulders in a wet gurgle. His body is shoved aside and Cambridge is pushed onto the block next, now slick with fresh blood. 

Neither you nor Hal flinch.

**

You are now fatherless, Hal, kinless when you enter the neighboring chapel alone. You sit in the first pew respectfully, head bowed as Hal crosses himself and kneels before the altar. With his back to you, you study the firm line of his spine, his clasped hands with the beaded rosary held firmly between. Unmoving, statuesque. He prays for a long time.

Thou shalt not kill. 

You wonder if God is so forgiving.

The images of angels, of Mary and Joseph and flawless purity are what drive you to march up to Hal and kiss him hard. He hums in surprise, brows furrowed, the pressure behind his mouth mirroring yours when you grip the back of his head.

You want to kill him the same way he had murdered your father. But you settle with digging your fingers into the back of his neck and relishing in the way he hisses against your lips. You fumble blindly with the fastening of his trousers.

“What are you doing?” he growls.

“Shut up.” You bite back.

You’ve never been afraid of Hal before today, you’ve had no reason to be. You’ve been so careful to build the reputation and the facade he sees, using words and sex to push him like the chesspiece you had thought him to be. And he’d pushed right back.

You want to hurt him in the only way you can.

He cries out when you suck him into your mouth with teeth and harsh pressure. You’re anything but gentle, taking him as far as you can so that you’re choking and Hal is grunting and pulling at your hair and the lewd sounds of your lips and tongue echo to the tops of the vaulted ceiling. 

You’ve both lost family today. You are both selfish and full of quiet rage. The consequence of Hal’s choice is evident in how hard and wet you mold your mouth around him, how his hand tightens and pushes you farther down, wordlessly ordering you to finish him off in this holy church.

Like Christ Himself with bandaged hands, you twist and work at whatever you cannot fit between your lips. His hips snap forward, tears collecting at the corners of your eyes with burning throat, your scalp stinging from where he yanks back your hair, your linen caul disheveled. Saliva dribbles out of your mouth.

When his moans grow high and desperate, you take him out of your mouth and Hal’s release splatters white on the skin of your cheek, mouth still agape. He slumps forward on his knees, panting, as if still in prayer. The rosary dangles between his fingers. 

Thou shalt not commit adultery. 

The cross looms before you, silhouetted by candlelight. It is too much and you turn away.

**

If the change in Hal’s nature had not already been felt by all, it is seen in his dress. No longer does he donn the regalia of red cape and sceptre, but dark tunics and jackets that fit snug over the expanse of his chest. No more are the billowing robes, now replaced with tight military clothing and jackboots. A captain preparing for battle.

Hal recruits John Falstaff and countless other marshals for his campaign. It’s truly happening, you think. France will soon feel the wrath of England as your homeland and countless other countries have. 

The amber necklace sparkles.

Tomorrow, Hal sets sail across the English Channel. Another crusade to add to the Hundred Years’ War. You wonder if French women are just as lustrous as the rumors suggest. 

This is the last night you will be together like this for some time. The thought of Hal with another woman makes you quicken the hand you have around him and he gasps into your chest, spilling onto your thigh like that wedding night centuries ago. You’ve already made love countless times tonight, your bodies fitting together because it is only natural for two corrupt souls to find solace in the other. 

Masquerading with voice and poise. A boy from Eastcheap and a Scottish girl. 

As Hal shudders against you, kissing your throat and twining his fingers into your hair, he tells you he loves you.

You think you may love him too, in that twisted way of how fire craves oxygen. You need each other to fuel chaos. 

You understand better than anyone the burden of a child forced to grow up, the weight of decisions and the toll it takes. Only the strong can endure such hardship, only the strong can triumph and come out on top. It has been so forever, a law as old as the world. 

 The speed at which Hal is already hard again makes you chuckle darkly. He pins you to the bed, hovering, eyes bearing into you before he enters you just the same.

“You were made to be beneath me,” he rasps, gripping your face with a single hand. His eyes glitter in the low light. The double entendre of his words make you rake your fingernails down his back in angry lines of red. He sucks a bite into the skin of your collarbone. 

 You know that when Hal returns from France, he will no longer be yours. He will be changed, most likely to marry a foreign princess to ensure peace. You think of Isabel and how she had evidently been the one to put you in this position of status, how a marriage is a man’s means to gain power. A law as old as the world. 

Do you want him to be yours? The same way the English crown has raped and pillaged for the thrill of conquering the barbaric? A trophy? A prized kill? Still, the thought makes you bitter.

You say you love him back when he finds the spot below your ear, pushes your legs apart to drive into you that much harder.

There’s a bit of you that prays he will be victorious, that he will return to England and be yours again. But even if your paths do not cross in the future, you know you will see him again where the flames grow hot. Be that in his chambers or down below. 

[cyberneticlagomorph]

In all your life, very few people have ever seen you angry. 

They've seen you hurt, scared, annoyed and upset but never ever angry.

Until now. 

Standing hurts, breathing hurts, but that's fine.

You can handle hurt, you've handled it all your fucking life and today won't be any different.

"What do you think you're doing?" Says the hole where your hearts should be.

You stumble to the bathroom, leaning on your IV pole for support as you do. Null is there in an instant, holding you steady.

"That pole isn't going to do much for you, my dear. Let me help."

You smile at them, your wound shrieks.

"Get. Away. From. Me." Your open chest hisses dangerously, each word punctuated by a spray of ink.

"Shut up." Your tone is... alien to say the least, devoid of love or light. Even Null stiffens, eyes flickering between curiosity and discomfort.

But it seems like your smile is enough to assure them the harsh words are directed at the mouth, "Pay it no mind, old friend. I think it's afraid of me! Ha! What a silly thing to be. I'm perfectly harmless."

You practically throw yourself at the bathroom sink, gripping the porcelain hard enough to leave deep scratches in it. Your reflection in the bathroom mirror stares back at you with eyes full of a deep cold rage that seeps into your own bones and makes you grit your teeth.

You look disgusting.

Eyes bruised and blackened, face crusted with tear-salt and dried snot. Your hair is a mess, your lips are dry and cracked, ink has settled beneath your fingernails and made them filthy.

Your chest looks worse though.

A vertical slit full of pulsating meat, ringed with human teeth that wiggle and squirm with all the dexterity of fingers. Beyond the initial stab wound is Nothing, a warm wet void right above your hearts.

It looks like a nightmare rendition of a vag, and under normal circumstances that might be funny but after all the hell this thing has put you through you just want it GONE.

You retch, bringing up a pile of soggy paper balls that scuttle helplessly in the slippery sink. The wound laughs and laughs and laughs.

You grab one ragged edge and dig your nails into it.

It hurts.

And that's OK.

The wound screams, trying to bite you but you grab the other side and force it open. Ink and blood and worse forces its way up your throat and out of the hole. You cling to your own meat and struggle to stay upright.

"What do you think you're doing Jack? You're just hurting yourself, you're just making everyone worry. But you like that, don't you you little attention whore?" The mouth's words sound distorted and desperate as it struggles to speak around your probing fingers.

Don't acknowledge it, don't give it anymore ammunition.

"Even if you shut me up, I'll always be apart of you, some dark and slimy part of your missing soul that you hate."

You shove your hands in, both of them at once. "There's a lot about me that I hate so please get in line."

The mouth snaps shut around your wrists, teeth sinking through flesh until they meet metal. You bite your tongue to keep from crying out, tears rolling fresh down your cheeks.

Be angry, be sad, be upset, it's ok but don't just sit there and let that THING speak for you.

Not now not ever.

Crunch!

Teeth meet metal.

Crack!

Metal meet teeth.

Teeth break, blood floods the maw your hands are trapped in. Thick and slick, you pull your hands free.

Mangled, trailing broken bits and wires.

But free.

The hole hisses in rage, spitting bloody broken teeth like bullets and curses.

"You HURT me! You hurt YOURSELF you FREAK!!"

"Yeah, I do that a lot." You chuckle, slightly manic. The voice sounds... quieter now?

Weaker?

It starts to say something else but you grab a dangling tooth and pull it out.

The wound screams and screams but softer than before.

You drop the tooth in the sink, the expression on your face is wrong and strange but that's OK.

"You break everything you touch like some kind of badly behaved CHILD... that's all you are aren't you? Just some overgrown fucking child running from one replacement mommy to another like the next one is going to fix you." The hole is writhing less now, the squirming movements of its teeth seem labored almost like they hurt to do. "Nothing can fix you."

"Well... you're right about one thing." You meet eyes with Null, your Nothing, as deep and endless and beautiful as the crushing void of space. The horrible creature that smells like Home in the Worst Way. "Nothing CAN fix me."

[makbarnes]

Chapter 4: You'll always be safe with me

Chapter Summary: After a rough night Lee treats you with sweetness on this Saturday.

Word Count: 2.5K (near)

PREVIOUS CHAPTER

Your eyes darted all around as you searched for Lee. With every minute that passed your heartbeat picked up and you clutched your blanket tighter. Your hand shook as you tempted yourself to open the door but decided against it. Tears pricked your eyes as you waited in the seat and tried to calm yourself. You wiped away the tears that clouded your vision and sniffled up the snot that began dripping from your nose.

“Please be okay, Please be okay.” Your mouth was buried in the fur of the kitten stuffy and you hid your face in the white fur. Your fingers played with the ribbon around its neck and tucked your knees into your chest. You kept your eyes trained on a spot in the treeline, as your nerves got the best of you and you picked at your exposed skin at your wrist. You whimpered with every pick from your nails and you tried to keep yourself calm and not continue it. It felt like hours as you waited for Lee to come back and hoped you wouldn’t be out there all alone. After your tears were dry and your wrist had blood rising to the skin you felt a rush of relief come over you as Lee came back and leaned against the car. You quickly unlocked your door and jumped into his arms. Lee hugged you tightly as he caught his breath against the car, Lee wiped the streaks of tears away and kissed your forehead roughly. You tucked your face against him as he picked you up and put you in the car. He kept you snuggled up against him as he rubbed your back slightly as he waited for his deputies to come back to their cars. He knew they were all okay and he also knew that you must have heard the shot from Carl’s gun after one of the idiots dropped it. He wrote down his information he had on the case and rushed back to the car as fast as he could. He felt guilt rile his gut as he saw a glimpse of red on your wrist, picking it up he sighed heavily and you avoided his eyes.

“Oh Kitten...what’d you do?”

“Nofhing.”

“Are ya lyin’ to me? I’m not mad Kitten, Just tell me what happened.”

“I was scared and worried and I didn’t mean to. I just started and couldn’t stop. I’m sorry.” Your tears stained his shirt as he ran his thumb over your worn skin and just held you.

“Kitten I’m so sorry. My dumbass deputy picked up his gun and dropped it. The damn thing went off and I had to write everythin’ down so I could file a report when I got back. I was hoping you had gone to sleep.” Lee adjusted you to cuddle into his side before he started the car and sped to the station. Your whimpers had subsided and you had easily fallen asleep from the lack of adrenaline. Lee smiled and kicked open his door as he lifted you into his arms, your arms lazily held your kitten. He walked into the office and settled you on the couch before ripping his notepad from his pocket and quickly dialing his sister’s number. He sighed as he watched your sleeping figure on his couch and cleared his throat when he heard the line click.

“Do you know what time it is?”

“Sandy, It’s Lee. Carl’s been found dead. I need to talk to you.”

“Fuck off Lee.”

“Sandy! Now listen to me. Carl’s dead with his own gun and you know somethin’. Meet me at the station tomorrow or I’ll have a warrant on your ass.”

“Whatever big brother. I gotta trip to Virginia planned out” Sandy slammed the phone down and Lee rolled his eyes as he sat down in his chair and filled out a report. He left Sandy’s name off as next of kin to hopefully give her enough time to get her story straight. Lee felt in his gut that something wasn’t adding up.Glancing at his bottom drawer and watching your steady breathing before leaning down and sliding open the cabinet. He picked up the glass bottle and set it gently on his desk. He glared at the bottle and back at you, sucking his bottom lip in between his teeth he set the bottle back down in the cabinet and walked over to you. Lee gently picked up your head from the couch and moved to sit under your head. He ran his fingers through your hair as you snuggled in his lap.

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

You rubbed your eyes softly as they fluttered open to see Lee’s feet resting on his small coffee table, his relaxed hand was laying over your waist and he was asleep as he leaned on his hand that was propped up on the arm of the couch. You sat up and yawned into your hand before nudging Lee’s shoulder.

“Lee? Lee?” You shook his shoulder lightly as he jolted awake to see you sitting up next to him and the sun just starting to rise out of his window.

“Hey Kitten. Awake already?”

“I just missed you too much.” You scooted closer to him and he instantly pulled you onto his lap. Lee checked his watch and his eyes shined up at you and a smile grew over his lips.

“I have an idea. You get changed ‘M gonna pack up your things.” Lee kissed your cheek as you happily moved off of him and he grabbed the file he had left on his desk and laid it out on his assistant desk for Monday. Carl can wait, nobody gave a shit about him anyway. You changed in the station’s bathroom while Lee packed up your things and he hung up his uniform in his small closet. He pulled a yellow flannel over his white tank top he kept on under his uniform. He slipped on his extra pair of brown slacks before turning his head to see you walk in wearing an ice pink babydoll dress. Your hair was tied up behind you with a matching ribbon and you kept your eyes from Lee. He tucked his arm around you and guided you out to his patrol car, opening the door for you. He slid in next to you behind the white wheel and smiled as he took off down the street. You watched him take a few turns before pulling into a gravel covered area and guiding you out. Lee opened his trunk and wrapped a blanket around his arm as his fingers laced with your own.

“Where are we?”

“Watching the sunrise Darlin’. It’s Saturday. Thought we could do this and then take you home, breakfast, spend the day together.” Lee smiled as he stopped you and laid the blanket out in the grass. You settled down against the blanket and pulled Lee down next to you, He gave you a chaste kiss before slipping your pacifier into your mouth. Your eyes grew wide at the sight of the pinkish clouds and bright orange sun coming over the edge of the world. Lee fiddled with the bottom of your dress and a blush came over your features as his fingers traced over your skin. You adjusted yourself closer against him and shivered a bit as you felt the heat coming off of him. “Cold baby?” You nodded your head without an answer and he moved to hover over you. “Bet I can warm you up.” Lee winked as he pressed his fingers against your hot core and smirked up at you. “Bad girl, no panties?” Lee reached up and slowly slipped the paci out of your mouth.

“You didn’t pack any.”

“Caught me.” He trailed his nose over your legs as he pressed sweet and soft kisses to your skin. You took the opportunity to move onto his lap and press yourself against him. You linked your fingers together behind his neck and moved just enough for him to slip his pants down a bit. You chewed under his ear as his hand came around to hold your balance.

“D-daddy!”

“I got ya, Doll.” Lee easily moved you to lay back against the blanket again. He hiked up your skirt in his hand and pulled it to the side. You wrapped one leg around his waist, giving him a better angle. “Shit. You’re so perfect.” You flooded your ears with compliments and teases as he slowed the pace down to have you begging under him. You whined as he smacked our hand away from your clit, for going too fast. Lee pulled himself out of you far enough to earn a whine and have you pull him back against you. “I think we can let me play this time.” You nodded your head and arched up to him as his hot breath fanned over your nipples. Grinding against his hips as he teased them with his mouth you tilted your head back a bit just enough to see the orange fading and it becoming morning. You laughed when Lee moved you onto your stomach and hiked your ass into the air. You made no effort to muffle your moans as he surprised you with a bone jarring pace. He had a hold on your hips and his other arm wrapped around toying with your needy clit. You tensed as you held back your impending orgasm, Lee ran a hand up your spine before holding your neck and pulling you up to rest on your knees. As you leaned your head back against his shoulder he dropped his hand to cup your breast.

“P-please.”

“Go ahead Kitten.” Lee bit into your neck as you let yourself fall from your climax and almost lose balance. Lee lowered you back to rest on your hands as he pounded into you through your finish. “Such a good girl.” You heard him grit through his teeth as he spent himself inside of you. Lee gave your ass a playful bite before kissing up your spine and helping you relax against him. You hummed happily as the sun had the sky resting at a natural blue with yellow glowing through the small amount of clouds. Lee rested his head on your chest before hearing your stomach growl lightly. He let you sit until you started kissing him again and he pulled you to the car to leave.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Later that day Lee had gotten you home and the breakfast had grown cold after you lured him to the shower. You laid against him, resting on the sofa, your eyes closed softly as Lee pet down your back.

"Hearing a knock at your door he adjusted for you to relax against the couch and peeked out of the chain he locked.

"Who are you?"

"I could ask you the same. Where is she?"

"I can say, I don't know who you are talkin about but you better brush off the attitude." Lee puffed his chest a bit before opening your door slightly to show his badge.

"I see her on the couch."

"You don't see anything. Leave."

"Why don’t you make me Sheriff?" The man laughed a bit before he heard the door slamming and he was pinned against the brick wall behind him. Lee spat towards his feet before bringing himself inches from the other mans face.

"Leave or I’ll have you smilin on the side of a milk carton."

"L-lee?" You rubbed your eyes as the door opened and your eyes locked with your ex boyfriends. "Why are you here Dalton?"

"Your Brother told me where to find you. Come back home. Don't be with this dick."

"No. Lee come back inside."

"Close the door Sweets. I'll be back inside in a few."

"He's not worth the trouble Sheriff." You leaned against your doorway with a glare hooked onto your target. Lee’s shoulders attempted to soften as you spoke but he fought the urge.

"Don't let there be a next time." Lee pushed him against the brick before moving you back inside and watching him leave through the peephole.

"Sorry, Ill handle my brother."

"Not much of a brother if he gave that ass your location."

"Siblings." You shrugged your shoulders as you wrapped your arms around his front.

"Tell me about it." He sighed heavily and rubbed the back of his neck.

“You have a sibling?”

“She’s not good for much but she’s family.” Lee rubbed your arm as you snuggled into his side.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Later on as you ate in Lee’s lap with a smile you felt a weird tinge of pain in your stomach and quickly moved off of Lee’s lap.

“What’s wrong Sugar?”

"Nothing, I just uhm, have to go to the bathroom." You stated blankly before walking to your bathroom. You sucked in a deep breath as you pushed your hair back. Splashing some cold water on your face you felt panicked and you couldn’t breathe. You wanted to ride this out without Lee finding out. It made no sense, your body would always try to shut down hours after you saw your ex. Call it a late fight or flight response. You held your head down to your knees. "You are safe. You are safe. Safe. I am safe." You raked your nails down your arms and paused when you heard a small knock.

"You okay Kitten?" You cleared your throat before stuttering out a yes. You heard a sigh and footsteps clicking away from the door. Biting hard on your bottom lip you steadily opened the door and headed back to the kitchen. You grabbed a small throw blanket to wrap over your arms before sitting down next to Lee.

"Baby, Look at me." He guided your chin to face him and pouted at your tear stained eyes. "Why're cryin?"

"It’s nothing Lee."

"Hey, don't shut me out."

"I don't want to talk about it. Please." Your voice was lower and he could easily tell your switch. He kept his eyes down a bit as you sat in silence for a few moments. You glanced at him a few times before feeling guilty and tears flooded your eyes again. You sniffled against the blanket you had tucked in your hand while you pushed your plate away from yourself. "Lee?"

"Yeah Kitten?"

"Are you mad at me?"

"Why would I be mad at you Sweets?"

"Cause I didn't wanna talk about my problem." Lee turned to cup your cheek and bring your forehead to rest against his own.

"You'll talk when you're ready. Don't ever let anyone force you into talking to them."

"I had a mini anxiety attack in the bathroom due to the visit from Dalton."

"Princess, you shouldn't worry about him."

"I know. I wish I could just rewrite over the memories."

"I have a few ideas of how I can do that."

"Lee, I don’t think that’s possible.”

“Wanna at least try?” Lee stood up and offered you his hands before leading you to stand by your window. “C’mere.” Lee led you out to your small fire escape and hand you stand facing out as he kept your body still against him. “Take a deep breath...I’ll do it with you.” You smiled when you felt him suck in a large breath and you followed. You closed your eyes and hummed as he kissed your neck. “On three, let it go.” You nodded your head. As Lee began to count. 1. Unknowingly to yourself Lee had a different idea and he was determined to distract you from the problem. 2. Lee held your sides gently as he brought himself closer to your ear. 3. You pushed back against him as he started tickling your sides and you both tumbled inside of the small window.

“Lee!”

“Got ya to laugh. That’s all I needed.” He helped you up to your feet and twirled you once in the room. “Now about this brother… Need me to arrest him?”

“I don’t think you could arrest the new town treasure.”

“Plant some over shore accounts?”

“I will handle it.”

“Such a big girl.” He pinched your cheek playfully as you led him to the kitchen to clean up from dinner. “Clean Law man.”

“Yes Ma’am.” You kissed his cheek as you walked into your room to call home.

NEXT CHAPTER

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