#love them need to replay innocent sin again

[luvlyycy]

Priest!Belial x Follower!Reader . // Love me Dead.//

a/n : i literally love this fic so much, it really makes me feel what obsessive love should feel like. this is dark content because belial is vv manipulative. also belial is still a fallen angel in this. lolz

war ,,nings》 smut, reader is a female, sacrilegious themes, mentions of the right hand being god's and it being used it lewd acts, morbid love, obsessed love, yandere ish behavior ig, mentions of hearts and ribs and blood only in metaphoric use, belial is a love struck demon, reader calls belial father in a religious way a lot.

Words. . | 2.6k

Your whole body feels sticky, there’s mud stuck to your calf as you desperately run towards the area you feel most safe. You have sinned, the visions continuously replaying in your poor innocent cranium. You arrive at the heavy doors of the Church, hands shakily and desperately trying to push them open as heavy droplets of rain crash down onto your head.

As you push open the creaking doors seeing the one whom you had been yearning for in your dreams, the mere memories having you clench your sticky thighs together, but you push all of that away. Your legs move before you can even think, cold damp hands being pressed upon the one you call ‘Father’, tears beginning to stream down your face as you desperately cling onto the white cloth of his jacket, gold accessories tickling the back of your hand. His warm hands engulf your swollen cheeks with a soft hum, “Ahh? What’s troubling you so, my poor little lamb?”. It takes you a moment or two to settle down your heavy breathing, “F-Father.. That dream.. I had it again.” just the mere thought sends a shiver down your spine.. “Oh? Is it the exact same one or a bit different?” he tilts his head, eyes filled with worry as they meet your’s. “It was different!” you exclaim, gasping for air as you try to stop sobbing, he softly ‘tuts’ as he wipes the warm tears from your face with his right hand, the left lowering to your back- dangerously close to your round bum. “Tell me.” he whispers, the corners of his lips curling into what you assumed was a reassuring smile.

You take approximately five minutes before you can even begin, you shut your pretty eyes, giving them a break as you recall the dream you had..

“You, you entered my room. Wearing what you’re wearing right now, smiling- except! It-It wasn’t a nice smile, almost as if you had terrible intentions with me-” if your poor eyes were open you’d see he was doing the exact smile you had seen in your recent nightmare.. “Then, then you approached my bed, and embraced me-. You smelled like a rose.” you take a moment to swallow, “I did?” he asks, hands rubbing at your back in an attempt to relax you. “Yes.” you sigh, “then you kissed me, you kissed me the way only an improper man would, taking my tongue in your mouth as if you were a beast.” you miss the way he groans, his hands gripping you tighter. “Then what did I do?” he whispered once again, voice oozing with honey as his breath tickled your ear. “You put your hand in, in my. In my panties. We began to make love as if we have been doing it forever! You knew every spot-” your eyes fling open as you begin to get worked up again, tears welling up in your eyes, “touched me everywhere I needed, everywhere I wanted-""Did I pry you open?” he cuts you off, his right hand trailing over your supple breasts. “Y-Yes.” you stiffen up as you feel that familiar heat rising in your core, the ‘butterflies’ dancing in your stomach, just like they had when you woke up from that dream.

He steps away with a small huff, grabbing a thin blanket from the side and wrapping it effortlessly around your shivering shoulders, before raising his hand to caress your chin. “We’ll have to dig the urges out of you.” he sighs, “Wha- What does that mean, Father?”. He smiles down at you, head tilting to the right as he pats your head, “It merely means that I’ll have to clean you out. Free you from the shackles of your rotten sins. God has entrusted me with this, dear. So don’t you worry that pretty brain of yours, we’ll remove your horrific stains- One. By. One.”

After a bit of preparation he orders you to lay back first on the altar, your clothing from earlier folded neatly in one of the Church seats as he approaches you, smiling eerily the same way he did in your dream. “Hands together, you have to pray.” he lets out a noise as if he was holding in a laugh, you clasp your hands together, shutting your eyes as your ‘Father’ spreads open your legs-. His dark eyes lock onto your pulsing vagina, grinning as he looks at his left hand then the right- ‘god’s hand is the right one.’ he recalls before raising his right hand, using his thumb to rub small circles on your cute little bud. You let out a small whine, eyes fluttering open to catch a glimpse of your beloved Priest doing his best to free you from your damned sins. You watch as he inserts one finger into your heat, swirling it dangerously around inside as you award him with soft moans and sighs. He groans as he leans his face forward, eyes darkening as he wraps his mouth around your twitching clit- sucking at it whilst using one finger to pump your insides.

“Fath— Father ! It's fil, filthy down there—” you gasp as he inserts another finger, damn near scooping your juices out of you— “using your mouth— nnh, is improper!!” . You hear him laugh into your pussy, his dark bangs tickling your thighs as he begins to purr.

“Oh, is it now?” his voice is different from before, as if something had been holding him back— he laps at your juicy clit as he curls his fingers against that spongy spot you never knew was there. Your eyes roll into the back of your head, nails leaving crescent marks on your skin as you try your hardest to arrange your thoughts in order to pray. He mumbles something into your pussy that you can't quite hear due to the loud squelching of your pussy— he eases his fingers so you can just briefly hear his vulgar tongue spit words you've never dreamt of escaping a Priest's mouth.

“Gonna fuck this sinning pussy until she's crying for me.” he chuckles out, dark red eyes landing on yours as he grinned like a cheshire cat— “Wh, what?” you question, feeling your own pussy betraying you by squeezing against his thick fingers. He doesn't utter a simple word, not even a breath as he continues to smile, removing his fingers from you as he rises.

There's an aura around him that you can't quite place, almost as if you're encountering sin or lust itself, it sends a chill down your spine— “I want you to wrap your arms around me,” he sounds breathless as he unbuckles his jacket tossing it to the floor then going to remove his pants, “and embrace me as if I'm your very own husband, understand?” you nod quickly and unclasp your hands, arms outstretched waiting for him.

His face is flushed, the tip of his tongue lifted up to lick at his upper lip as he pumps his cock with his right hand, eyes glued to the sight of your fluttering pussy, he watches the clear bubbles seep out and slide deliciously down. He takes two steps forward, his left hand spreading your wetness around your pussy lips before spreading them. Your heart is almost beating out of your chest, you feel as if you were a mere sheep compared to the deafening gaze of a hungry wolf. Your eyes lower to see the part of a man you were never supposed to see until marriage, cock.

You gulp, “Will it fit?” he lets out a quick shaky laugh, “Of course. I'll fucking make it fit.” he groans, the last part of his words under his breath as he inserts the mushroom tip of his swollen cock— mixing his pre-cum with your sopping wet cunt. He's nearly growling as he pushes his cock in, leaning forward to grab onto the altar beneath you, white-knuckling it. “It-it hurts, Father..” you sniffle, feeling your hole spread in a way you've never felt before, and yet the line between pain and pleasure is becoming slightly blurry— “It's going to hurt. Don't worry, I'll make it all better.” he mumbles as you wrap your arms around him as you were instructed.

In a few moments, he bottoms out inside of your cunt, your grip on his shoulders surely leaving finger marks— his heavy balls caressing the curve of your ass. He pulls his hips backwards as he watches your expression, watching it turn from shock to something of sin. He wants you to eat him, crawl into his ribcage and tear out what belongs to you— for you are the bane of his existence and reason for the heat in his loins. You drive him mad as blood would to a vampire— he's unsure of what to call it, but he knows it's something animalistic, something too savage to speak out loud. Yet, here he finds himself driving his cock so deep and tastefully into your pussy that it causes you, the closest thing to an angel he knows, to cry out and be so exoticly lewd. If he could, he would paint this moment on all the walls, just so he can remember the first time you had succumbed to adultery, to sin— the moment he had entered you and tasted you seemingly the same way a wolf would taste a wounded deer. He sighs as he curls his right hand around your throat, your hazy eyes fluttering open and shut as he places kisses on your chest.

You lean your head back, feeling your pussy fluttering as you try your hardest to suck in your moans, arms slipping off of his back as he leaves open mouthed kisses on your collarbone, continuously driving his cock into you as slow as he can manage. He pushes his arm beneath the curve of your back, arching your back earning himself a long whine from you. He lets out a guttural groan, speeding his hips up as he latches his mouth on your right nipple, suckling it and swirling his tongue around the hardening bud. ‘

‘Cum, cum, cum, cum, cum, cum’ it’s like a fucking mantra in his head, he pops your nipple out of his mouth, only to see you look at him the sweetest smile on your lips as you sweat, skin sticking to his as he grins. “It feels weird Father.-” you suddenly say, eyes looking down to the area where you two meet, barely getting the words out as he lowers his right hand to your pussy, rubbing circles on your clit with the pad of his thumb.

“Let it go. Just re, fuck, relax.” he breathes as he leans back down to lick at your neck, “Say my name.” he groans against your neck before biting it. You let out a loud moan, back arching as you shake, legs tightening around his back…

“Be- Belial-” you begin, “Yes. Just like that, say it. Cry my name. Louder.” he interrupts, “Belial! More, more, please.” you whine, arms tightening around him once again. He presses his forehead to yours, sighing against your lips as he wraps both arms around you, pulling you impossibly close, “I’d do anything for you.” he breathes, and you feel his bumping heart beat, suddenly reminding you of your dream. Remembering the way he touched you, similar to now, and yet now felt more raw, more animalistic, and even though you knew you were sinning, damning yourself to hell- you just wanted more. “Embrace me.” you breathe out, earning a purr out of him as he places his mouth on yours, tongue dancing in the devil’s tango as you feel your cunt fluttering once again. He pulls away to look at your face, “I’ll be your husband. Your devoted lover, your everything. I will be your damned, your god, your angel, and your devil. We will become-” he grunts, “become, one.” he laughs as he kisses your face again, red eyes glimmering as the world seemed to still for a moment. Your hands entangling in his hair as you arch your back, molding into his hands, soft cries of ‘Belial’ exiting your gorgeous lips, the soft pattering of rain on the stained glass windows a mere background noise to your vulgar show.

He lets out a shaky breath as he stills his hips, pushing himself as deep as his very own cock could let him, lips just merely a hair away from embracing yours again. The world begins to move again, the rain heard again as he lowers his head, leaning against your chest. You feel heavy, sleepy you believe, hands slipping off of his back and laying limp by your side. He places a soft kiss to your chest, if he wanted he could say he loves you, he would say just how far he would go for you, knowing his obsession was unhealthy he feared he had already said to much, and yet, when he looks at your face; gaze locked upon your lopsided smile and lidded eyes, your soft hands cupping his cheeks, he wonders for a moment. Would you still embrace him like this if you knew just how much of a damned individual he is? He’s a fallen angel who’s fallen for an angel, he thinks. He watches how your eyes tear up, “Am I free of sin? Am I pure again?” you sound as breathless as when you entered this damned Church, and he looks at your chest, noticing the dark marks on your skin he left earlier. He contemplates what to say, “To be free of sin you’ll have to rely on me the way a wife relies on a husband.” he’s cursed, “I do?” you ask, still on the verge of sleep. If he had earned himself a demon tail, it’d be curling around you and pulling you close, never letting go, yet he finds his own hands doing that, left hand curling around the back of your cranium. “Will you allow me to be your husband?”

. . . . Four beats and then you answer, “Yes, Fat-” “Say my name. I’m your husband now, yes?” he finds himself smiling, and for once without a hint of debauchery, “Yes, Belial.”.

Is this what destined lovers feel like? Is this what it’s like to be a bear to fall in love with a deer? Maybe even a cunning fox falling in love with a lost and dazed bunny, yet he wants you to have a whole garden of flowers and maybe his name etched on your heart, he decrees himself a knight to your holy princess. The thought of having your innocence mixed with his treacherous mere being, it gets him dizzy and yet here he is, bathing you, taking you to his bed and lying down with you in the most mind bending ways, and it replays in his mind, the words he’s never wanted to say.

I love you. For I am yours, and you are mine. For we are each other and my right hand may be god’s but I’ll be damned if you can’t have my soul and body. I have sinned and I know I’ll sin again. Take my eyes, my lips, my ears, my ribs, my legs, my skull. All of it shall belong to you my dearest angel. Take my damned skin and engulf me in your purifying gaze and I’ll melt beneath you, mixing with you once more. I’m a parasitic psycho who has won your beautiful heart. Yet, you wish to be stuffed into my mouth and grind your bones against mine until we are dust. I love you. I wish to eat you. I love you.

© luvlyycy.tumblr please don’t steal, copy or translate my work onto other platforms.

[bubbledumbbinch]

Hi! I just found your blog and I want to say that I Love!your! writing! Can I request some headcanons for Yandere Malleus and Jamil (seperately) x fem reader with Somnophilia? Thank you(✿^‿^)

Hello!!! Aaaah, thank you so much, lovely!! I’m so glad you enjoy it! I will try to make this to your liking~ 😘💕

A/N: this piece of writing is strictly 18+. Minors Do Not Interact.

WARNINGS: somnophilia , dubcon/noncon elements

Pairing: Yan! Malleus x fem!Reader, Yan! Jamil x fem!Reader

NSFW under the cut!

Yandere!Malleus Draconia x Fem! Reader

Malleus would probably be up late again on one of his nightly strolls, when he decided to pay his child of man a visit.

The fae would sit outside on a tree that would have a perfect view of your bedroom! And what more, his favorite human had left the window slightly ajar with the curtains open - perfect for him to be able to sneak a peek at your small form. It was like you wanted him to find you like this! Though, looking on from a distance isn’t enough for him.

Malleus slips into the window quietly to get a better view of your face. You were quite adorable, face resting peacefully, your steady breaths, the way your breasts moved up and down with your breathing - oh, he was starting to feel his pants tightening.

The fae prince was absolutely entranced by you - even while sleeping. However, he was distracted by another form in your bed. A small monster known as “Grim”, was starting to stir in his sleep due to Malleus’s powerful aura.

Malleus decided to take matters into his own hands and took your sleeping form from the bed and transported back to his dorm room, leaving the small monster behind.

When the horned fae returns, he sets your body on his bed and immediately begins to touch you. His long fingers work to remove your sleeping clothes, and he chuckles darkly when he sees you’re not wearing anything to cover your breasts. The lack of your shirt now letting the cool air make your nipples perk.

Taking this as an invitation for your body to be touched, Malleus licks a long stripe of saliva up your chest, the tip of his tongue focusing on one of your nipples. He then trails his fingers down to your clothed pussy, noting how his mere touch makes your sleeping form writhe and moan.

The moonlight illuminates your body which now glistened with the fae’s saliva which lingered on your chest, neck, and thighs.

Since you were not awake to see Malleus doing these perverse actions, he would let more draconic features be visible, like his tail, some scales, and his longer tongue.

When you finally stir awake, your eyes were a bit blurry when you notice striking green eyes and a horned prince lapping at your tight cunt.

“Ts-Tsunotarou..?” You said groggily. You weren’t in your room, but in a darker one, in a large bed with your fae friend between your legs. He was groping your breast while rolling a nipple between his thumb and pointer finger, and his tongue was teasing your clit. You gasped as he did this, troubled by confusion and pleasure.

“H-hey, Tsunotarou, no..! What are you do- hnnnh~!” You moaned when he suddenly inserted a finger on his free hand in your dripping pussy. Since when were you wet?! “Oya, my dear child of man… to think you would look so innocently sweet in your sleep… it seems like you wanted me to find you like that so I could whisk you away, no? Don’t worry…” Malleus licked his lips of your juices. “I’ll satisfy your needs the way you wanted me to… I won’t deny your body of what it wants..!” As Malleus brought another finger into your hole you couldn’t help but whimper in sinful bliss as he scissored a certain spot with his fingers as he used his thumb to rub your clit vigorously.

Yandere!Jamil Viper x Fem! Reader

Kalim had invited you over to Scarabia for a fun and lively feast! After many drinks, delicious food, and TONS of dancing, it was no lie to say you were tired out. The other dorm members had retired to their rooms already, including Kalim. Jamil was cleaning up the common room after the party had ended when he noticed you passed out in the common room, Grim nowhere in sight.

Jamil sighed and furrowed his brows. Were you not concerned where and when you fell asleep? He would definitely lecture you about it later. Right now, he would appreciate the way your steadily breathing body looked in the moonlight that shone in through the open area of the common room.

Jamil often wondered what your body would feel like in his touch. Were you sensitive? Did you like rough hands on you? Jamil always figured he would never find out - Kalim’s bright demeanor always took your attention away from his seemingly humble servant who always stood in the shadows. His train of thought was interrupted by a moan that escaped your lips as you shifted to your side.

Jamil would panic thinking he was caught but calm once he saw you still snoring. The suggestive sound replayed in his mind and soon he felt his blood rushing to his dick. Jamil wanted to hear more sounds from you.

Carefully, he would lay on his side in front of your sleeping form and unbutton your dress shirt. Slipping his fingers into your bra, Jamil felt how the cool Scarabia night air made your nipples harden. He brushed his fingers over them, making you shift your thighs together for friction.

Great Seven, Jamil loved your thighs. The idea of seeing them bare was overtaking his mind as he pulled your pants and underwear down. He lightly grazed calloused fingers over your naked bottom half. Jamil watched your face contort with pleasure as he touched you, surprised you still didn’t wake under his ministrations.

He slipped his fingers down to your clit and rubbed it steadily, feeling wetness starting to pool onto his fingers as your breathing started becoming louder.

He couldn’t take it anymore. Jamil needed to feel you, needed you on his cock. Silently, he undid his belt and pants, fishing out his precum covered cock and giving it a few pumps. Jamil maneuvered his member between your thighs and right underneath your wet pussy. This possibly wouldn’t hurt, right? He wasn’t going to go inside you, at least not tonight. He had to be careful, or else one wrong thrust could have his thick cock spear your cunt.

Jamil thrusted himself between your thighs, unable to hide his moans. As he grabbed your ass to control your body, you finally woke to find the raven haired man thrusting his cock between your legs, staring intently at you, cheeks dusted with pink as he moaned right into your face.

“Jamil! Aanh- What are you- MMPH~!” You were about to yell when he cut you off with his lips sloppily moving against your own. Every moan you planned on releasing were being taken into his mouth, tongue moving hard against yours winning dominance in your wet cavern. You felt violated yet, why did it feel so good?

You could feel your body building up a familiar heat as Jamil thrusted into your legs, simultaneously stroking your clit with each movement. As Jamil had a strong hold on your butt to keep you from pulling away, you had no choice but to throw your arms around his neck to keep yourself grounded. Noticing your compliance, Jamil pulled away from your mouth and his eyes fixated on yours. “Haaah~ Y/N… I’ve wanted you like this for so long, so don’t be afraid… let go of your hesitation and let’s cum together..!”

[celestialgaea]

hello, noticed ur requests r open! is it okay if I could ask for a fic of Ezio/F!Reader with the theme of jealousy coming from Ezio? thank you if you accept my request! your works are amazing!

I have been wanting to fulfill this request for such a long time but I went through quite a rough period and I always felt the guilt of letting you wait linger upon me. I am so sorry for letting you wait. I have not forgotten you, your request was always in the back of my mind and I'm grateful for finally being able to write again!

I hope you enjoy the fanfiction!

(Request) Ezio Auditore x F!Reader // Jealousy

Warnings: (slight) mature content

Pairings: Ezio Auditore x (Female) Reader

summary: You are Leonardo's apprentice and have gotten the assignment to draw the naked male body from different perspectives. But when Ezio is paying a visit to Leonardo he doesn't seem very delighted with his lover drawing another man's private part.

You had underestimated the assignment. When Leonardo first told you about drawing a naked man you hadn't perceived the false comfort of your own assurance, who convinced you into thinking that seeing a fully bare stranger is nothing but the nature of a human being, as an illusion. Until the horrific scene of the young male, probably in his early twenties, slowly discarding himself off his clothes manifested itself behind a wooden changing screen.

Your mind kept replaying the former scene of the young male talking in slight shock to your maestro about how the apprentice was a women. A women that would create an image of his private part underneath the blunt end of her charcoal stick. During the open conversation, as the man was not ashamed of his shock whose cause leant more towards the fear of visible arousal than the mysogenistic side, his face and neck began to change into a more reddish skintone.

'Y/N,' Leonardo whispered, pointing towards his chest. 'Cover a bit of your chest, Ragazza. The poor man is quite...weak. I don't want you to get horrified.' You scoffed as you pulled up the fabric of the nightgown underneath your dress. 'Forgive me, maestro, for showing fertility.' You mocked. Leonardo shook his head, as if he were trying to remove his excessive thoughts to make more room for your shameless remarks. 'Ragazza, you know that I have no problem with your breasts, and i'm sure you know why, But this kid is as mature as the mosquitos that flied above Cleopatra's head during a scorching summer night. Be prepared that his "pride" might show itself."

Your heart began beating faster at just the mere thought of it, and the rustles of the male's fabric rubbing against each other as they fell onto the ground, entangled into one big flood of linen and leather, made his presence very clear and thus brought tension in the air that encircled you. 'Giovanni, Dannazione, are you almost done, boy? You're taking too long!' 'Maestro, no!' You whispered as annoyance took a hold of your voice. 'Ragazza, time is precious. And in these times of uncertainty I cannot lose any more.' And with that he turned his back to you and walked towards his desk not far away from your seat. You noticed how Leonardo's slouch has grown heavier over the past months, and his neck was more bent, as if it was bowing to his brain; the holder of his talent and geniusness.

Even though your eyes kept flickering through the various parchments filled with unfinished sketches and scrabbles you were still able to see the faint and disorted sillhouette of Giovanni walking from behind the changing screen towards the small wooden stage in front of you. His feet seemed humid as they loosened themselves from the floor with a sound similar to wallpaper being pulled away from a tacky wall. The boy slowly uncovered his private part, exposing a dark bush of intertwined curls, but when a knock on the door disturbed him he quickly covered himself again as the door was getting pierced by his anxious eyes. You regretted looking at it.

'Maestro, who is visiting?' You heard the sighs of parchment before Leonardo scurried towards the door.

'Ah. It's good to see you my friend!'

'It's good to see you too, mio amico.' The sonorous voice whose melodious words and promiscues groans swiftly danced towards you to embrace you in its tenderness was only able to come from one person only; Ezio Auditore. And it seemed that the young man wasn't fond of Ezio's presence.

'Maestro, I thought no one was allowed to disturb?' Giovanni's voice was a batter of shame and growing annoyance as he stood there with only his hands to cover his private part. Ezio glared at you. He saw you, he observed you, viewed you with spurned astonisment and the displeased look in his eyes made you grasp onto the understandment of why he was as fearsome as he was charming.

'I am unsure wether to turn to leonardo or you for an explanation, mia cara.' Leonardo had his hands up, almost touching Ezio's chest. 'Ezio, I have given her the assignment to draw a naked man.' 'Then why didn't you ask to draw me in nudity? There would be more flesh to capture than what that boy beholds.' Ezio surrenered himself uncontrollably to his impulses and attacked the poor Giovanni with his spit-filled words . 'Ezio, leave the boy out of this! He hasn't done anything and secondly; do not begin with the "Then why didn't you ask me", Because you know how scheduled you are. This is merely for educational reasons.' It felt sinful to get enraged with Ezio, but he had never behaved this attacking towards an innocent man. Along with his birth came his short temperance and even during the scorching season of maturing the searings left by his short temperance refused to heal.

'Educational purposes?' Ezio pulled at the leather skin of his gloves on top of his index finger as if he was planning on slapping the vulnurable model with it. 'Since when did looking at a cazzo become an educational enlightment?' The gloves were put on the table -Thank the Lord- together with his defected hidden blade. Ezio walked, no, he stomped towards a wooden chair that stood desolated in a corner collecting the flying dust and bits of dried paint that fell of a "failed", as the old man is still a perfectionist, da Vinci painting that towered above the chair.

Ezio let the chair ballance on its two front legs and allowed his dissatisfaction to guide his hand as it smacked the pieces of paint and dust particles off of its sitting surface. And how surprisingly odd it may seemed, you felt the muscles around your lower stomach contract in an ebb and flow that left trails along the flesh of your womanhood. He was angry, and so were you, and yet you felt aroused by him just uttering his jealousy to a lonely and motionless chair. For a few seconds you visualized those same rough hands whispering against the surrface of your weeping arse before turning them into a lovely shade of red. Ezio carried the chair and let its feet hit the ground next to you.

'Ezio, what are you intending to do?'

'Accompanying you.'

Oh, how he liked blending himself within the schemes of colours so his robes of red and white were the most appealing to look at.

'I do not need company. I'm doing very well on my own.' Ezio's fingers ran along your clothed thigh and gripped it sturdily. The lack of shame was transparant on him, removing the presence of Leonardo and Giovanni out of his realm of reality, as the humid warmth of his breath hugged your ear lobe.

'Ragazza, stop being hard-headed. I'm surprised that the boy is able to remain his excitement in custody. When I was his age,' 'Your cazzo had impregnated almost half of Firenze's youth. Not everyone is as rebellious as you were.' To your surprise, Ezio had remained silent. It seemed as though the sudden flare up of the middle aged consciousness had possessed him again and the teasing hand was removed from your thigh to fill in his crossed arms. His boyish teases were vanished. The man in his mid forties had appeared again; the outer corner of his eyes were folded into deepened curtains, the corners of his mouth were surrounded by the crescent-shaped smile lines which vitalized the apples of his cheek and if you looked at it with a certain view, not through the eyes of a classical artist, but through the eyes of a daydreamer, a madman, or a child you could play with the lines and follow it until his cheek slowly transfomed into a smooth segment of a rock being caressed by the spirals and curls of waves or maybe strands of hairs or whatever can be curly and spirally. Ezio grunted, focusing on the model, especially his croth area.

'Come one,' Ezio leant in to whisper in your ear, again.

'My cazzo is way more appealing to look at than his.'

'Ezio!'

[world-of-fire-and-flight]

Find the Word Tag Game

I was tagged by the amazing @ambiguouspuzuma to find the words heat, borrow, hand, burn, held, and become and chose to fill this tag game using my Love Letters series. I’m sad to say that throughout all nine parts, the word “borrow” couldn’t be found anywhere😅 (Slight spoilers ahead for those of you haven’t read Love Letters part 9 yet or if you’re behind on the series 😊)

Heat:

The warm spice in the air beckoned them. Nearly dragging their exhausted body down the rest of the hallway, Hero stumbled out into a bright kitchen filled with that savory scent and an oppressive heat that billowed from a steamy pot on the stove.

“Hero?” Politician startled upon seeing them in the doorway. Immediately, the unmasked master criminal was at their side and guiding them into a hard kitchen chair. “What are you doing up? You should be resting!” Taking a step back, Politician ran a haphazard hand through their hair. “Clerk’s going to kill me, and so will Healer if they see you up.”

Borrow:

Hand:

They’ve left too much of a body count to be labeled as a “myth.”

And they’ve started to leave a calling card.

It was partly an admission to their hand in the crime, but mostly it was a message: either join them, stay out of their way, or get killed. It didn’t matter if you were a civilian, a criminal, or a hero.

Burn:

Hero tried to untangle themselves, to break their assailant’s hold on them. Jabbing blindly, their elbow connected with the person who’d tackled them. Their attacker grunted, pulling back. Hero managed to slip from their hold and crawled away, pushing the hair that had fallen loose from their updo out of their eyes as they did so. Glancing back, they delivered a blow to Supervillain’s chest. Leaving them doubled over and wheezing for air, Hero pushed themselves to their feet. Chest heaving, lungs burning, breathing ragged, Hero sprinted down the hall and around another corner. Their eyes locked on a doorway. They desperately prayed it would lead them to safety, to escape, to freedom.

Held:

“Hasn’t it though?” Hero tilted their head up, keeping their voice innocent and smooth.

Supervillain plucked up a plain knife. Hero almost sagged in relief, but couldn’t find it in themselves as they held the hard stare boring into their soul.

“What was it you said again?” Supervillain pondered, squatting in front of them as they dangled the knife absently between their fingers. “Oh yes, ‘I will ruin you. I will destroy whatever’s left of that twisted soul of yours until there’s nothing left for even the devil to recognize your sins by.’” Supervillain lightly trailed the knife along Hero’s cheek. Their eyes turned contemplative. “I doubt anyone will be able to identify your body.”

Become:

Like sand falling through an hourglass, their mind replayed a shuffled and disorientated slideshow of all that had happened this week. Through the bits and pieces of their scattered memory, Hero was able to put together what had happened and just where they might be as their body stumbled into full alertness.

Supervillain. And Superhero.

Somehow, the two had become partners. And now they needed to get Hero out of the way.

They’d stolen the artifacts. Somehow, Superhero was part of Supervillain’s plan, but Hero couldn’t wrap their mind around the idea of the two working together toward a common goal, much less a common goal that resulted in the need for Superhero to betray their friends and the Agency.

I’ll tag anyone who’s up for it, so no pressure! I’m also tagging a few people off of @sleepyowlwrites’s directory if y’all would like to participate: @akindofmagictoo, @enchanted-lightning-aes, and @thesorcerersapprentice Should you accept this challenge, your words are *shakes the dictionary around like I’m looking for loose change*: even, danger, happy, and why

[schrijverr]

Promises You Made to Me

Chapter 2 out 3

Aragorn falls for Boromir on their journey. When they realize they share their affection, they also know that the time is not now to act upon them. Both promise to share love once they see the quest done, a promise that long seems a broken oath. Still, the horn was heard in more lands and the Elves have not yet forsaken this world

A Boromir lives AU where they fall in love before Boromir falls at Amon Hen, but Aragorn only learns of his survival after the defeat of Sauron.

On AO3.

Ships: Aragorn x Boromir

Warnings: mourning and Aragorn's bad coping

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter 2: Can’t Promise You Kind Road Below

Aragorn did not want to think about the dying face of Boromir, how he had clutched to his clothes in desperate regret, nor how he had looked as if their doom was impending and there was no stopping it.

He hated how when he recalled the image of Boromir, he could only see that Boromir, chocking on his own blood, confessing his sins. He wanted to see Boromir in the flickering light of the fire, his eyes when he talked, but he could not.

Through Rohan, he ran himself ragged trying to find the little ones Boromir had died to protect and when even that task was his no longer, he worked to ensure that the world of men would not fail.

As they rode to Helm’s Deep, he was aware of Éowyn’s eyes on him, but he knew it was not love, for he knew what love looked like. She loved him for the things he could bring her, not for his tales of mischief or his tracking in the wild, just war and valor.

He would not engage with her meaningful looks hoping that they would go away, before he had to deal with them. His soul was smarting still and the affection in her eyes instead of his, hurt more than he could have thought.

When he went over the cliff edge, a small part of him hoped that he would see Boromir again, but instead he saw but an image of him, kissing his forehead as Aragorn had done on Amon Hen, before pulling him up, urging him to fulfill the oath he had made.

Brego trotted slow enough to not jostle him, but it would not have mattered for his mind was consumed by his empty arm and the shadow a smile long gone.

Arriving he heard Gimli through the crowd: “Where is he? Where is he? Get out of the way! I’m gonna kill him!” Then he saw him and hugged him close. “You are the luckiest, the canniest and the most reckless man I ever knew!”

Aragorn hugged back, but he did not have the time for this. His mind had been made up, he needed to save Rohan and then Gondor, for Boromir. It was a truth he had already known, but seeing Boromir in his mind’s eye, pleading with him again, made it a reality once more. He could not give up now. “Gimli, where is the King?”

Legolas also stopped him before he could reach Théoden King, however. “Le ab-dollen,” he frowned and scanned him over. “You look terrible.”

It was a relief, somehow, to have Legolas there, insulting him as of old. The Elf with his long life had more familiarity with grief than most and he tried his best to keep Aragorn on his two legs. A smile broke out on his face.

Then something leathery was pushed into his hands. Boromir’s bracer. It had been torn off during the fight with the Orc and he had felt its absence ever since, holding it in his hands once more made swallowing harder than it needed to be.

“Hannon le.” It was not enough to express all the thanks he had to his friend for saving and protecting this object while he could, even if he did not know whether Aragorn had made it and even if there was no one to return it to. Yet, he hoped his face showed all the gratitude his soul held.

After that he walked on to the King and so he stood and fought for Helm’s Deep, for mankind.

It was a pity that the Elves send to their aid were from the Western border of Lothlórien, instead of the Eastern, which had collected Boromir, since now neither knew that Boromir lived still.

Gandalf prevented him from marching directly through to the White City once the battle was over and the warning had to be brought, while Aragorn’s heartwas eager to march on.

Waiting was more agonizing than Aragorn had expected. When there were no longer marches that lasted days on which the silence was oppressively present or battles that went through the night, the emotions he had tried to hide from crept into his mind once more.

There was no description in any of the tongues he knew for the way his heart hurt. No words for the way it was hollow yet so heavy, nor for the way his mind replayed that day and all the things he could have done differently, if he had only seen.

He spend days sitting alone with his pipe.

Legolas understood. The Elf would sit next to him in silence, watching over the plains for someone, who would not appear on the horizon. Gimli, as well, would hold him company, on the long nights wherein sleep seemed the enemy more so than the darkness.

This night he was alone, however, gracing the halls of Edoras with his drunken mumbling filled with grief. His mind had called upon him to write a song for the loss and glory of Boromir, something he had been turning in his mind for many days.

There were reproaches to himself also for not giving him some sort of ritual send off that he had deemed as too time-consuming, if he was to fulfill his promises, and had regretted ever since. He should have bore Boromir to one of their boats and let the Anduin take him home, yet he had not.

Softly he swished the ale in his mug, looking into his reflection that looked more pitiful than a King should look. But he was no King here, just a broken man and quietly he murmured:

.

“Through Rohan over fen and field where the long grass grows The West Wind comes walking, and about the walls it goes "What news from the West, O wandering wind, do you bring to me tonight? Have you seen Boromir the Tall by moon or by starlight?" "I saw him ride over seven streams, over waters wide and grey I saw him walk in empty lands until he passed away Into the shadows of the North, I saw him then no more The North Wind may have heard the horn of the son of Denethor" "O Boromir! From the high walls westward I looked afar But you came not from the empty lands where no men are" . From the mouths of the Sea the South Wind flies, from the sandhills and the stones The wailing of the gulls it bears, and at the gate it moans "What news from the South, O sighing wind, do you bring to me at eve? Where now is Boromir the Fair? He tarries and I grieve" "Ask not of me where he doth dwell – so many bones there lie On the white shores, on the dark shores under the stormy sky So many have passed down Anduin to find the flowing Sea Ask of the North Wind news of them the North Wind sends to me" "O Boromir! Beyond the gate the seaward road runs south But you came not with the wailing gulls from the grey sea’s mouth" . From the Gate of Kings the North Wind rides, and past the roaring falls And clear and cold about the tower its loud horn calls "What news from the North, O mighty wind, do you bring to me today? What news of Boromir the Bold? For he is long away" "'Neath Amon Hen I heard his cry. There many foes he fought His cloven shield, his broken sword, they to the water brought His head so proud, his face so fair, his limbs they laid to rest And Rauros, golden Rauros-falls, bore him upon its breast" "O Boromir! The Tower of Guard shall ever northward gaze To Rauros, golden Rauros-falls, until the end of days"”

.

“That was beautiful, my Lord. I knew not that a lament had been written for the grievous loss of Lord Boromir.” His private sorrow was interrupted by Éowyn, who could not know how deep the grief ran in Aragorn’s heart.

“It is not,” said he. “I wrote it.”

“Did he go down the Anduin, my Lord?” she asked. “We heard fairly little of the demise of our trusted ally of many years, only that it had happened.”

Aragorn’s teeth clenched, a steady breath leaving his nose at her innocent question. “He did not. We had not the time and I have regretted it ever since I turned my back to the place where he fell. He deserved more honor.”

Éowyn fell silent, then gently sat beside him. He knew not whether to be grateful for her company or upset at the intrusion, which it could hardly be called inside the public halls of her home.

She laid her hand on his arm. “You cared for him,” she observed. “He was not just your brother in arms, I can feel the grief in your voice and I see the bracers of Gondor upon your arms. Though it might not be a comparison, Théodred is a soul dearly missed by me. He rode into battle with Éomer, but it was me he comforted in the night when the nightmares got too strong. He was my brother more than my cousin.”

He heard the pain in her voice and while it was not a lover she had lost, it had been a loved one. She had not looked at him before with the compassion born of something other than love and in that moment, he appreciated the understanding she brought him.

“I promised I’d protect him, that we both might live to see the end of our quest.” His gaze wandered to a far off place that was unseen to other eyes. “I found him too late and save him, I could not. For all the Elven healing I have learned, I was not enough. I failed him.”

“You have not failed him, for if Boromir was to be failed, he would be failed by no one but his own,” Éowyn spoke fiercely. “I knew Boromir for many winters passed and he was proud and bold. He knew his sword better than his body, leading the charge and ending every fight he fought. He was a great warrior and I will not have his name tarried by your claim that he needed your protection. If he fell, he fell with the honor of a Soldier and a noble man, fighting until he could do so no more to protect what he held dear.”

Aragorn fell silent.

While Legolas and Gimli had many times told him to not carry the weight of Boromir’s death on his shoulders, it was Éowyn that defended Boromir in removing his guilt.

Boromir valued his honor and he had told him that he had kept it. It would not do to take those words back in his mind, to carry the guilt of Boromir’s death that was more Saruman’s fault than his own. Still it was easier to speak the words than to take the message to heart, yet it eased his mind, for he had felt he could not grieve that which he had caused, allowing himself to only feel the pain when colored by blame.

“You are not responsible for Théodred either, my Lady. Saruman’s magic lies in his voice and his arm reached far, do not blame yourself for there is not blame to be laid,” he said, not knowing how else to respond to the kindness she had shown him.

There was the same shock of the confirmation that it was okay to rest that had been upon his face moments before. She swallowed, then stared ahead: “I still have to atone for not doing more, for taking one of our greatest Captains in times of war when he could have been saved.”

“You do not have to replace him, my Lady. Dying in honor is not worth it to repay a debt that isn’t owed. Why should you atone for Gríma’s and Saruman’s crimes? Who will be here to protect the home that Théodred died for? If we fail, who else will hold steady here?” He knew her urge to fight, but he hoped she would see that times of peace were more valuable and that everyone had their own part to play in getting there.

She did not take kindly to his comfort, nor his advice. For all her wisdom to Aragorn, she had little for her own heart, little to soften the blows she dealt herself. Her lips pulled into a thin line and her hands clenched, before she swept out of the room, leaving Aragorn once more with a mug of ale as his only company.

Aragorn was still churning their words in his head the morning after. Both trying to find the right words for the ones that had been misplaced by her mind the day before as well as trying to come to terms with hers.

On the horizon a light flickered.

He rushed up many stairs and through the town he flew into the great hall of Edoras, where he panted:“The beacons of Minas Tirith! The beacons are lit! Gondor calls for aid!”

The hall fell silent in awaiting Théoden’s answer and while Aragorn had already decided that no matter the word of the King, he would ride, taking whoever was willing with him, he still longed to know the King’s answer.

“And Rohan shall answer,” the King decided. “Gather to Rohirrim.” The words loosened the weight inside Aragorn’s chest. An army would do more for Gondor than a lone man.

He would come to Gondor’s aid, he would not abandon Boromir nor his home. There was a little hope for Gondor now and Aragorn found himself eagerly awaiting the return to his Kingdom, even if there was a chance he would find it in ruins.

In the end his return alongside Rohan would not come to pass. Seeing Elrond was a respite he did not know he needed, but when the older man shed his hood, Aragorn’s knees nearly buckled as a sense of safety and home consumed him.

“Estel?” he questioned when he saw Aragorn. “You are not the man that left Rivendell. You have lost something, a part of yourself. Where is the Evenstar brooch?”

“I- I gave it away,” Aragorn confessed, voice less steady than a hut during an earth quake.

“To whom?” Elrond wore the face that he often did when the human character of Aragorn managed to baffle him, even after all the millennia he had walked this earth.

Aragorn knew not whether he wanted to confess to the man, who had been like his father, to whom he had given the star of his daughter, but it felt unfair to keep it from him and yet it was hard to speak the name. “Boromir.”

“The brooch was not all you gave to Boromir.” The statement was an inquiry, but it might as well have been a knife. There was no judgment in Elrond’s voice, just a quiet understanding that came with all the losses he’d had.

He nodded in reply, for there was no more he could say to Elrond, save: “I swore to him that I would not see Gondor fail, Ada. Yet, my heart tells me Rohan will not be enough.”

“Your heart speaks truth, you ride to war not victory. Sauron’s armies ride on Minas Tirith, this you know, but in secret he sends another force, which will attack from the river. A fleet of Corsair ships sails from the South. They will be in the city in two days. You’re outnumbered, Estel. You need more men.”

At Elrond’s words, Aragorn’s heart sank. He had known this was a futile attempt to stem the tide of the darkness, thatthey would need even more men, men that did not exist or could not be spared. The promise he made to Boromir, was an oath he could not keep. “There are none,” it was a desolate fate to realize there in the night.

“There are those, who dwell in the mountain,” Elrond’s suggestion was one they could not count on and he wondered when the counsel of the Elves had turned to hopeless last efforts that would not be fruitful.

“Murderers, traitors. You would call upon them to fight? They believe in nothing, they answer to no one.” Did Elrond not see that it would be his end?

“They will answer to the King of Gondor. I am here on behalf of someone that I love, Arwen begged me to bring this to you healed before she left to the Grey Havens,” said Elrond, revealing a sword that had been concealed in his coat. “Andúril, the Flame of the West, forged from the shards of Narsil.”

With near reverence Aragorn took the sword, by whose shards he had first seen Boromir so many nights ago. The rhyme that foretold his duty came to fruition as a tale from old.

It seemed poetic that it came to his hands now that he marched on the City he had sworn to protect in name of the man, he had met next to that very same sword. How it came to him healed, only after Boromir had named him King and he had proven himself in battle.

“The blade that was broken shall return to Minas Tirith.”

While he knew his duty, he could not easily do so without the entire encampment knowing. He made his goal clear, but all thought it a foolish quest that would rob them of a leader in the battle that was to come. “Why are you doing this? The war lies to the East. You cannot leave on the eve of battle, you cannot abandon the men.”

“Éowyn,” for that was who had spoken and Aragorn hoped that his tone would convey all that he tried to say to her, knowing that she was not susceptible to listening.

“We need you here.” Everyone seemed to need him, but he knew where he was needed and it was not here, it was with a deadly army marching on Minas Tirith from the South.

“Why have you come?” he asked instead of all he wanted to say to her. He knew her reasons, but he needed her to understand that what she wished could not come to pass, for he did not think he could ever fully heal from the grief of Boromir. He was not right for her.

“Do you not know?”

“It is but a shadow and a thought that you love. I cannot give you what you seek.” The glance she send to his bracers told him she understood, yet she did not want to believe and the blunt rejection still hurt her as she backed away.

Aragorn knew that he should have felt more guilt about hurting the maiden, but he could not find it in him, for he was hurting too, yet there was no one right for him either, except the dead. He would find company there.

He also found company in Legolas and Gimli, glad for his friends that had been a steadfast presence by his side.

There were no finer companions to march with, for they had been there through it all, not once leaving his side and trusting him with their life, even when his judgment had cost them one of the Fellowship’s. They had not blamed him and stood by his side with more understanding of his conviction than he could have hoped for.

A dark path later, he finally gazed upon the White City. It stood high and mighty still, yet the magic with which Boromir had described it fell flat as the lower levels burned and the streets were overrun by Orcs and Trolls.

Boromir’s words in Lothlórien echoed through his mind: ‘Still, my heart tells me that I will not see my home as it is now ever again and my fears would have me believe that the next time I see it, it will be in ruin.’

Had he known then the omen of which those words spoke, he would not have thought so lightly of them.

Yet those were demons for after the war was won, for the end was only staved off and the Houses of Healing were filled with people, who did have a chance to see their home restored, should they live through this.

Aragorn worked tirelessly, remembering Boromir telling him off the time he had ended up here with a broken arm after he had fallen of a horse as a youngster. Boromir had recalled how the nurses had more resembled a beehive and how the busy hands had distracted him from the pain.

It was strange how his memories came alive amidst the dying soldiers of his City. He tried to work through it and many citizens saw him there, working so tirelessly as to be the hive Boromir had told him off by himself.

His people spoke, rumors of his deeds in the Houses of Healing spread through the City. Yet, no one spoke of the King that had wept at the sick bed of Faramir, Son of Gondor, now herCaptain and Steward, who resembled his so brother closely.

For days he found himself beside Faramir, looking at the man with an aching guilt. He wondered if he knew his brother was dead, if Pippin had told him, if he knew that Boromir would never again hear the silver trumpets call him home.

He knew not how Boromir had carried so much upon his shoulders for the many years he dwelt here and he felt deeply how the burdens he had seen in the eyes of Boromir, were the burdens meant for him. So, he set to work again, trying not to think of it more.

And it was in the Houses of Healing that Legolas found him, gently washing Faramir’s wounds with athelas water. He laid a hand on Aragorn’s shoulder. “You need to stop, Aragorn. You will not save Boromir by saving his brother. He is in safe hands here, you can do no more but rest.”

Aragorn tried to ignore him and went back to what he was doing, but his hands were shaking and his eyes were drooping. He knew Legolas to be right, yet it was hard to tear himself away from caring for the family of the man that held his heart.

“We have a counsel about our next move come morning. You cannot protect Minas Tirith if you’re exhausted. Please, sleep.”

The fact that Legolas spoke truth made it all the more frustrating. Faramir looked so much like his brother that it was sometimes easy to pretend that he had been on time to save him. But he had not. Every time he glimpsed features that were not Boromir’s that revelation came to him again.

Still, he knew that Boromir had cared for his brother, with many tales of their adventures both as young lads and soldiers proved that. Aragorn would never forgive himself if Faramir died under his care. He would do anything to protect Minas Tirith.

Slowly he stood up, vision going black for a moment as Legolas steadied him. Gratefully, he leaned on the Elf and let himself be led to a bed. He could not remember falling asleep, but it was the first full sleep he had in weeks, through virtue of pure exhaustion.

The debate for their next move had gathered in the Citadel and Aragorn walked the halls where he was meant to rule and where Boromir had grown up. He should have been there as well, to decide the fate of his City and people, but he was not and Aragorn would try his best in his stead.

He deeply understood Gandalf’s fear and blame of himself, when he talked about Frodo and the heavy shadow in the East, as he stated: “I have send him to his death.”

“No.” Aragorn would not let Gandalf fall into his own mistakes, he would not let the Wizard give up when he had just hardened his resolve to do what he must. “There is still hope for Frodo. He needs time and safe passage across the plains of Gorgoroth. We can give him that.”

“How?” asked Gimli and Aragorn explained the plan that had been growing in his mind: “Draw out Sauron’s armies. Empty his lands. Then we gather our full strength and march on the Black Gate.”

“We cannot achieve victory through strength of arms,” Éomer rightfully critiqued, but he did not yet see the full picture. The real goal.

“Not for ourselves,” Aragorn agreed, “but we can give Frodo a chance if we keep Sauron’s eyes fixed upon us. Keep him blind to all else that moves.”

“A diversion.” It clicked for Legolas and he saw in the Elf’s eyes that he thought him mad and genius at once. He knew then that he would have Legolas by his side.

“Certainty of death, small chance of success,” Gimli summarized and Aragorn hoped the Dwarf would be on his side as well. The three of them had journeyed so far and it would hurt to see his friend abandon ship at the end. Yet, his heart knew that Gimli was more stouthearted and loyal than that, which was confirmed by the Dwarf himself: “What are we waiting for?”

“Sauron will suspect a trap. He will not take the bait,” Gandalf voiced what Arargorn had also realized, but he had an idea. He grinned and said: “Oh, I think he will,” before explaining what he meant to do.

Before he could do so however, Pippin stopped him. He looked at the Hobbit curiously, it was not the same Hobbit whom he had left Rivendell with. There was a weight on his shoulders and a wisdom in his eyes.

“Promise me I can come with you to the Black Gate,” he asked. “Boromir gave his life for me and Faramir has shown me great compassion despite my involvement in his brother’s death. I would be ashamed to not protect their home.”

“It is not up to me to decide who goes,” he said and he saw Pippin’s face fall, so he added, “It is up to the heart of every man. I will not force anyone to come with me, but every man is welcome. Still, you should not feel like a debt is owed, because you were the bringer of the news of Boromir’s death to his kin.”

He knew how Boromir cared for the Hobbits – Merry and Pippin especially, since they reminded him of the youth untouched by war and he had hoped to save them of the harsh, dark hands of violence. Another place where Aragorn had failed him. Boromir would not want them to unnecessarily endanger themselves.

“That is not why I want to fight, Aragorn. I want to help Frodo and Sam, I hope to see my friends again and I wish to fight for their good fortune,” Pippin said. “And it was not me, who brought the news.”

“It was not?” Aragorn frowned. He did not know how else the news could have come to the White City.

“No, it was his cloven horn that was found in the river, which told the people that Boromir would not return, I merely confirmed the loss already felt,” Pippin explained.

A cold hand gripped Aragorn’s heart. How had the horn ended up in the river when last he had seen, it had been next to it’s bearer far from the water of the Anduin, lying on the forest ground? Who had moved the horn from it’s resting place?

“Aragorn?” He had been quiet fortoo long and Pippin’s brows formed a concerned look. He failed to smile reassuringly as he said: “I’m sorry, Pippin. I was distracted. It is a noble cause to fight for your friends and your blade will be welcome.” Then he quickly left.

The fear and guilt in his heart was a familiar mix and he had not the time to examine the revelation too closely, for there was something he had to do. Though his mind kept straying.

Looking into the Palantír, he saw the dreadful eye that had haunted them through their journey across Middle Earth. It writhed and hissed in Black speech, things he could not understand. He unsheathed his sword and told Him: “Long have you hunted me. Long have I eluded you. No more! Behold, the Sword of Elendil!”

Immediate was the reaction of the Dark Lord, who showed him the body of Boromir, defiled and dismembered by a pack of Orcs. His fair face was no more, his horn tossed into the river with all that was left of him. The Evenstar trampled and left in the dirt.

Aragorn felt sick as he dropped the Palantír.

He knew not whether the stone spoke truth or if the Dark Lord had looked into his heart to confirm his deepest fears. Yet a part of his mind could not help but think that it had come to pass and that his actions had led to Boromir being desecrated like that after death.

When he had decided to leave Boromir there, it had been purely selfish. He wanted Boromir to be given the chance to be buried as the Kings of old as he had deserved. He had not wanted to dishonor Boromir as well as giving himselfthe chance to be buried alongside him. But the had not been the time to dig a grave with the trail of Merry and Pippin growing cold every second, he could not fail what Boromir had started.

So the body had been left and now he had a broken horn that should not have been in the river and an all seeing eye that confirmed what he had feared.

The bile rising in his throat felt almost as bitter as the taste of regret that coated his tongue. It seemed like he was only failing Boromir. His city lay in ruin, he would march her last soldiers to their death by the Black Gates and now the decisions about the death of Boromir felt foolish and was causing an anguish and doubt in his heart when Gondor needed it least.

He could not let this stop him, however. Boromir had turned his back on helping Frodo for a moment and it had led him onto a road of ruin and Aragorn had swore to do better by him. He could not abandon Frodo, not now. No matter if his heart wanted him to hide and cry.

Thus it came to pass that he marched steadily on the Black Gate with too small an army and a sun rising in the sky that he might never see setting again.

Aragorn spoke to his troops, to the brave men that had followed him in spite of knowing the foolish quest that it was. “Sons of Gondor, of Rohan, my brothers. I see it in your eyes, the same fear that would take the heart of me. A day may come when the courage of men fails, when we forsake our friends and all bonds of Fellowship.”

Even as he spoke the image of Boromir haunted his words. His attempt to take the Ring colored his mind, yet Boromir had the courage to turn back, to not forsake his friends and neither would the men in front of him. “But it is not this day! An hour of wolves and shattered shields when the age of men comes crashing down, but it is not this day! This day we fight!”

He saw encouragement in the eyes that looked up at him as he heard the voice of Boromir: ‘I have not yet seen you in a proper battle, nor with men under your command,’ and he hoped that if Boromir could see him, he would be proud. That he would have provenhimself worthy of the throne that lay waiting for him, should he return.

“By all that you hold dear on this good earth, I bid you stand! Men of the West!” Around him weapons were unsheathed as men readied themselves to fight with Aragorn joining them on his horse.

No one could stop him, he had to fight. Fight for Frodo, for Gondor, for Boromir and the promises he had made to him. He would fight for the memory of the Elves and the legacy of men in the new age. He might perish on the field of battle, but he would do so with honor. For if he fell, he wanted to join there were Boromir dwelt.

~~

A/N:

Shout out to me for using a bazillion (9k) words for FOTR only to breeze past the rest of the franchise in record speed (5k). Well, maybe not record speed, but pretty fast if u compare.

Also I adore the Lament for Boromir (and I cry every time, very hard and long, lets not talk about it, anyways), but that does not just come to you and I wanted to explore writing it for Aragorn, so it had to be included and is straight from the books. I am quite sad that Legolas didn’t get to sing his part though :/

In the movies more so than the books, I feel (which is up for interpretation), Aragorn’s journey is shadowed by the death of Boromir. It is Boromir that convinced him of the courage of men and how Gondor needs him, who accepts him as King first and shows Aragorn what his absence has caused. So, I really wanted to explore all the places where Aragorn would meet Boromir’s shadow when he thought him dead and was mourning.

[silentprincess17]

Sometimes Things Have To Get Worse Before They Get Better

This is essentially a darker, heavier alternate take on Memory #7 - Blades of the Yiga. I wanted to write a fic with a competent Yiga Clan. (Yes you read that right). It is very angsty in the beginning and then becomes fluffy (hence the title!)

Summary: Link and Zelda have returned from Vah Naboris with Urbosa and have spent the night in Kara Kara Bazaar Inn. Link wakes up and finds her missing.

Cue the angst.

This story is complete and I will post each chapter daily on here but you can read the whole thing on AO3

Rating: Mature (Graphic descriptions of violence) Pairing: Link/Zelda (Zelink) Characters: Link, Zelda, The Yiga Clan, Master Kohga

Chapter 1: Everything goes wrong when you don't have breakfast

Link was having a bad morning. He’d missed breakfast, a cardinal sin, and now he was anxiously darting around the Bazaar, weaving between the trees, in an attempt to see if he could spot a glimmer of blonde hair or a flash of a blue shirt.

She just had to run away. Again.

He sighed. It wasn’t that hard to understand why she constantly gave him the slip, even if he wished she didn’t. He knew it wasn’t fair of him to think such things, especially when he knew it wasn’t really him, she was running from, rather it the sword that was strapped to his back. It wasn’t him she was frustrated with, it was herself. And the sword symbolised how he was apparently fulfilling his destiny and his side of things, whilst she struggled endless with the stone-cold Hylia and had nothing to show for it. Essentially, the sword meant destiny and fate had already set out a predetermined plan for her, and she was currently set for failure. So yes, he could understand why she felt the need to escape what was surely a suffocating sight every day- the boy with the sword that has it all sorted, geared and ready to go, whilst she stumbled in the dark, Hylia’s Divine Blessing evading her.

If only she knew how much he struggled too. He didn’t just pull a sword out a rocky pedestal and boom morphed into Hyrule’s Saviour. He’d trained long and hard too. And frankly, he had felt compelled to draw the sword, it hadn’t been something that was in his control- if he had a choice, then he would also choose to just leave it be in the Lost Woods. It sounded naive and foolish now, but he hadn’t anticipated what the consequences would be when twelve-year-old Link had jumped up and wrapped his hands around that cursed mauve handle. Mostly, the thing he regretted the most about pulling the sword was that he’d effectively doomed them all. Did he want to be the one to basically foreshadow what was now surely coming? No. Another was that it had put a timer on the Princess to find her powers, and he didn’t want to cause her such anguish at being unable to unlock supposed birth-right sealing powers that she clearly didn’t have and didn’t know how to obtain. But… there had been a hidden consequence, one that he couldn’t for the life of him have predicted- when he released the sword from the pedestal, it didn’t just end with him now possessing the mythical legendary blade, oh no. He’d also obtained a whole wealth of memories, memories of past lives, past successes, past failures, and he’d lost whatever childish innocence he’d had then. And it crushed him, having this soul that apparently was doomed in this endless fight, and now he had to live up to them. He had to live up to these past Heroes and by Farore he had no idea if he’d be able to.

Every word that had come out of the Princess’s mouth at his blessing ceremony had cleaved him in two. All those past disastrous events that happened in Hyrule, and all the lengths his predecessors had gone to save the country… Adrift in time indeed. IN TIME. How was he supposed to do the same? And it made him fearful. And he was not easily frightened. He liked to think he was a little bit brave, he would run headfirst into any sort of challenge, be that eating rocks, defeating hordes of monsters, including Lynels, or even redirecting errant guardian laser beams but when he thought about what those Heroes had gone through… He certainty didn’t feel very brave when it came to imagining what exactly he’d have to do, what trials he would have to face, in line with theirs.

He finally finished strapping the sword properly to his back, he’d ran out as soon as he realised she was missing, and he tried to find any distinguishing patterns of her boots nearby. It was a useless venture, because sand shifted, constantly, and as a result any tracks were lost pretty much as soon as they formed. He sighed, deciding to do another very quick run through the Bazaar in case anyone else had spotted her, or she had come back from the baths maybe. He was clutching at straws, he knew it, and he felt that familiar churning feeling in his gut that something was wrong, but he decided to keep calm and check again just in case he’d missed something.

He sighed, even before Urbosa told him how the Princess’s behaviour was in fact coloured by the sword, he could have guessed. One of the biggest signs was that she always looked at it, instead of him. He only wished to tell her that he was just as lost as she was, because yeah sure, everyone Impa stated that he had the Sword that Seals The Darkness. Okay, but how did it do that? How does one go about killing darkness? Monsters he knew. Monsters he’d trained for. But darkness? And the thing that frightened him the most was that most of the past Heroes had fought a man. A power-obsessed, strong-willed and formidable opponent, but still, fundamentally, a man. None of them had fought this… Calamity equivalent that he seemed to be up against. Hence why he was uncertain, and fearful even, if the sword would be enough.

Not to mention how much it pained him that the arrogant idiot bird had managed to find his greatest insecurity, but that was neither here nor there.

But in truth, every time someone mentioned how he was their savour he wanted to cry. Perhaps she didn’t realise that whilst everyone had pinned her as a hopeless case and a lost cause, he’d been saddled with double the expectations to succeed. So much pressure, so many eyes, that he’d all but gone silent. Every word spoken could be misconstrued in some shape or form. Nothing he said was ever safe from scrutiny, so to continue to play the perfect, composed Hero that he was supposed to be, he decided to stop talking. What he wouldn’t give to explain to her that these praises that were lavished on him made him feel sick. Made him feel suffocated. Made him like a liar. Because really, he felt like a failure too- he had no plan other than maybe try and hit the darkness with the sword and hope that works. And the foreboding feeling he had that he hadn’t yet faced the supposedly impending huge trial that most of the other Heroes had, and they had all done said trial well before they obtained the Master Sword. He felt unworthy of it, somehow. All he’d done was train hard, fight and try to eradicate the plague of monsters in the land. He hadn’t travelled through time, he hadn’t transformed into a wolf, he hadn’t lost his sister, or his best friend. Hence why he was dreading meeting Ganon. There was a catch somewhere. He could feel it.

He exhaled heavily, sweat starting to build on his brow. This was why he wanted to tell Zelda that she wasn’t alone. That he knew what she was going through. They were a pair in destiny, fate… even souls after all. But she hated him, his very being, and probably wished he didn’t exist- no correction- she wished the sword didn’t exist, then he wouldn’t have pulled it and wouldn’t have become a direct comparator for her success. It all felt futile sometimes, and he wondered why exactly he was in such a melancholy mood this morning. Probably something to do with not eating.

She wasn’t in the Bazaar. He’d now checked over every stall twice. And Link felt rising trepidation. Of all the places for her to run away, she’d chosen the desert. She’d chosen where the main dissenters of the Royal Family lived. She chosen the one place where it was highly probable that there would be an assassination attempt on her. And he wasn’t there to protect her. Link could freely admit to himself he was scared. What if he didn’t find her in time, what if – No. He had to think positively. And then his eyes fell to his Champion’s tunic, embroidered, as it was, by her hand. Goddesses above, how would he present himself back the Castle if he’d actually lost her this time? And in such a worrisome place too. A stone settled in Link’s gut, as he desperately racked his brains, replaying last night’s events trying to remember if she’d dropped any hints as to where she was going.

He drew a big fat blank.

In the name of Din, where else could she have gone? She had been silent on the way back from Vah Naboris, probably reproachful that he’d managed to find her, yet again. And he had, admittedly, found it suspicious that she’d remained mum, accepted going to the Bazaar, and sleeping in the Inn, and leaving to head to Goron City the next day without a single word of dissent. He should have known that she was planning something.

And now, it was starting to get hot, as he quickly ran off towards the path, wondering if she’d gone back to Gerudo Town. But she’d already said her goodbyes to Urbosa last night... Link sighed, the heat already causing his tunic to stick to his back. It was a desert after all, one couldn’t expect it to get cold during the day, and he hadn’t had time to fill in their canteens, and oh for the love of Farore could he at least get a single sign as to where Her Highness had deigned to grace her presence at. He didn’t want to be beheaded for incompetence so soon.

He saw a small cloud of sand rise in the distance. At this point, it could be a mirage and he was seeing something that his mind had conjured in desperation at trying to find the missing Princess.

And then he saw a flash of red.

And his blood ran cold, despite the heat.

[calumrose]

Keep Coming Back || C.H

A//N: My initial intention was for this to be short and sweet, but... that did not happen. I got into a *mood* (let’s call it that) and uh... this happened. This is literal 85% bedroom antics with a little bit of feelings denial that I finished at 4:30am the other night. Let me know your thoughts if you have any, or any feedback, I’d greatly appreciate it!

Word Count: 7.3k

49. “Call me when you get home.”

The morning came by too quickly for your liking. With the fall of the sun, came the rise of the moon, and as quick as she made her debut, she made her departure. With the wave of a goodbye from the glimmering moon, you settled on the thought of the inevitable goodbye you would have to wish to the man who slept in the bed next to you. 

It was supposed to be a one-time thing. 

But you had lost track of how many times you answered his calls, or he had answered yours, and how you found yourselves tangled in the sheets once again before scampering around the following morning as you left the other’s apartment without as much as a goodbye. 

It was supposed to be fun, a harmless bit of fun. But with every time you laid within the warm confinements of his sheets, feeling his strong arm wrapped around your waist late at night, you found yourself hopelessly wishing for it to become something more than just a bit of harmless fun. 

You wanted more.

Calum had always been one to disregard the idea of romance, voicing his opinions of it being a scam or something he didn’t believe in. At first you had found yourself agreeing, laughing along with him in the bar on that first night, discussing your trials and tribulations that you had journeyed on in the course of love. But it was that conversation and one too many drinks that led you both stumbling through his apartment door, desperate kisses full of hunger and lust, limbs tripping, and laughter sounding as you fell into bed together. 

If only you knew what that was the start of. 

Every time you both woke up the next morning, you’d lie together, enjoying the final few minutes of warmth you shared within the sheets before you’d force yourself to get up. Leaving the following morning used to be so easy, but lately it was becoming ever more painful to have to leave, to not know when the next time you would see him would be. 

It was known that he was only at the other end of the phone, the silent agreement between the two of you being that it wouldn’t be too long before one of you gave in and called the other. No matter how many times you each said, “This can’t keep happening,”

For two people who wanted to avoid romance and feelings, falling into bed together was the worst idea. Yet, it was one you kept coming back to. 

“Morning, sleepin’ beauty,” His voice whispered, lips gently brushing against the skin of your bare shoulder. You felt him place a gentle kiss there, something that he did almost every morning that you woke up together. You couldn’t remember when he started doing it, but it had become something you looked forward to; the innocent sign of affection being something so small that filled you so greatly.

“You mean to tell me we actually woke up before noon for once?” You grumbled against the pillow, eyes remaining closed as you pulled the duvet further across your body, trying to hold onto the little bit of sleep you had left before you would wake fully. 

“Who’s to say we actually slept at all after last night,” You could feel Calum’s smirk against your skin, “I don’t think I can lie comfortably after what you did to me,” 

“You’re the one who said, ‘don’t hold back’,” 

Calum’s laugh was a sound that you never tired of, you hated how much you loved it. It was ridiculous how comforting it was, how comforting it had become after the past few months since you started this little arrangement you had going. 

You and Calum were friends, you always had been, always would be - you hoped. That’s what made your little arrangement so easy, you could spend time together before crawling beneath the sheets and acting like nothing happened when you guys saw each other in your friend group. 

Things weren’t supposed to be that easy - were they?

Having feelings for your friend - your best friend - had never been something that crossed your mind. It was almost laughable when you thought about it, so you brushed it off, ignoring the thought and treating it like a piece of gum on the bottom of your shoe - disregarded. But the more nights went by that you spent together, the more of a reality that thought became. And you weren’t entirely mad about it… And you hated that.

The mornings carried on like they usually did when the two of you woke up together; quiet yet comfortable. Except this morning seemed different, it seemed a lot more relaxed. There was no rush, no urgency… Not that there usually was, but it just felt slower than usual, as if there was usually something else going on any other time you were there after a night of sinful bedroom antics. 

It was as you watched him go about his morning, the memories of every night you spent together seemed to flow through your mind. You tried to curse them, tried to stop them in their tracks but there was no stopping them as they replayed with vivid detail of how you felt, of how he made you feel. 

Everything about that man was a sin, you were sure of it. There was nothing he couldn’t do; play the bass, play piano, sing beautifully, bring you to your knees in the most euphoric way imaginable in a matter of seconds. Calum was gifted in more ways than one, but the way his tongue and his hands worked in unison against you was something you’d never forget. There were many a night where Calum left you speechless, hands gripping the sheets so hard that your knuckles turned white, your throat scratching as your body craved for you to take a breath, but nothing came close to how he made you feel last night. 

***

The party got out of hand pretty quickly, too many people and not enough space summed it up pretty good. And with the overwhelming number of bodies that seemed to never stop growing, the heat that continued to rise in the room, Calum quickly decided it was time to make a move and head somewhere else, and with the way he had been watching you the entire night, he knew he was going nowhere without you. 

You couldn’t remember much of how you came to leave the party. You recalled a warm hand against yours, the touch becoming one you knew all too well, before an set of lips brushed against the shell of you ear with a voice, just loud enough to hear over the music, spoke, “Let’s get outta here,”

The Uber back was a blur, the only thing that stuck out was the interesting music choice the driver had, the voice of some French singer you had never heard of playing quietly as he drove you back to Calum’s apartment. The city lights glowed ambiently as you travelled, the yellow glow cascading over the dark shadows that sat within the car, bringing out a beautiful side of Calum you were yet to see, a side that allowed you to see his true beauty for what felt like the first time. 

You had always thought he was a beautiful person, both inside and out, but there was something about seeing him in the dark, seeing the lights that came in through the window as they shown over his face, bringing out the deep cut of his jaw, the fullness of his lips, the shine of his eyes that made something tick inside of you. It was as if the Calum you were looking at was a different person, as if there were something new that you hadn’t seen before. 

The journey from the car up to Calum’s apartment was one that was forgotten, one that had zero importance compared to the memory of what happened the moment he closed the apartment door. With the slam of the wooden slab came the slam of your body against the wall, his weight lightly pressed against you as his hands found your waist, palms gliding down the curve of your hips as they slipped behind you and grabbed a handful of your ass, which he had been unable to tear his eyes from the entire night, brown eyes searching yours for the silent acknowledgement of why you were both there. 

No words were shared as you leaned in, lips slanting between his full ones, a kiss so desperate and impatient that it was mind numbing. Feet stumbled as they walked aimlessly through the house, legs having minds of their own as they travelled, guiding you both to Calum’s bedroom without breaking your kiss. 

Calum’s leather jacket was discarded somewhere in the living room, your hands making quick work of the zipper before you threw it blindly across the room, a teasing, “Won’t be needin’ that,” escaping your lips as he walked you backwards into the room you had grown all too familiar with. 

“And you don’t need this,” His words were breathless, fingers tugging playfully on the hem of your top, edging it up ever so slightly as a silent request to remove it. He knew he didn’t have to ask, he knew he could rip it off of you and you’d let him, but still he liked to play with you, liked to keep you on edge just a little bit. 

Your breathing was heavy, the warmth of his fingertips barely grazing the skin beneath your shirt, the touch almost feather-like, almost unnoticeable. You wondered if Calum could hear your heartbeat like you could, the thudding in your ears overwhelming as you looked up at him, the swirls in his brown eyes almost hypnotic as you lost yourself in the world that was him for the second time that week. 

“Just take it off,” Your quiet voice practically begged, the sentence breaking halfway due to the desperation you were riddled with, the desperate need to have him becoming too much in that moment. He had barely touched you and you were yearning; you knew he had you right where he wanted you. 

It didn’t take long for Calum to practically rip your shirt off, a soft chuckle escaping him as it got stuck momentarily on your head, a slightly embarrassed, tipsy giggle sounding from you once you were free, the soft fabric hitting the floor before his large hands slid across your waist. 

As nice as it was to be going at the pace you were, you both knew this was too slow. It wasn’t your usual pace, desperation still lingered in the air, and you both helplessly just wanted to feel one another. For a moment, it was almost as if you both wanted to take your time, but there was too much lust in the air for you to ignore your desire to have him against you like before. 

Your fingers nimbly unbuttoned his shirt, a playful smirk playing on the corner of your lips as you reminded him what you thought of his blue and white striped button down, a knowing look in his eyes when you appeared at his door ready for the party earlier that night only confirmed that he knew exactly how you felt about it. The blue contrast against his brown skin was gorgeous, the strong navy only bringing out the bulge of his biceps, his broad shoulders, and never mind the muscles in his back when you caught a glimpse of him from behind. Phew!

It was regarded in the same way his jacket had been when you stood in the hallway - thrown across the room to be forgotten about until the following morning. It wasn’t like he was going to need it anyway. But you were left with the sight of his bare chest, the toned dips and curves of his body practically screaming out to be touched and kissed. Your eyes drank him in, just as his own did with you, both sets of eyes unable to break their gaze with the bodies in front of them, such beauty overwhelming them that you weren’t entirely sure what to do next. You were unable to control the hunger you felt for him, one of your hands curving around the back of his neck as you pulled him down, capturing his lips in another hungry kiss, practically grinning against his lips, feeling his tongue lick the seam of your mouth as he requested access, tongue quickly slipping into your mouth and claiming dominance, which you happily succumbed to. 

His hands reached down and gripped the back of your thighs, his strong arms lifting you with ease as he carried you over to the bed, biceps bulging as he held you. You let out a slight squeal as the swiftness of his movement, your empty hand settling on the taunt muscle in his left arm, smirking at how easy he made it seem to hold you - something you hadn’t felt before - as if it was effortless. You felt him pull away from the kiss as he stopped walking, your lips chasing his before you opened your eyes, catching the sight of his brown ones hungrily watching you. He knew you wanted him just as bad as he wanted you. And he was going to use that tonight, he was going to abuse that, you knew he was. 

His lips grazed yours teasingly, hunger and game evident in his voice as he spoke, “You’re gonna be a good girl for me, right?”

You were lucky he was holding you; you swore you felt your knees buckle at his words, your body involuntarily shuddering at the thought of what was to come. Your teeth sunk into your bottom lip as his words echoed in your ears, you swore you should have drawn blood from the grip you had on the muscle, feeling the pit of your stomach tighten at the sheer thought of what he could do to you in a matter of minutes. 

It was as if something stirred within Calum, the sight of your lip caught between your teeth, eliciting a growl to escape him as he practically threw you onto the unmade bed. You couldn’t hold back the giggle that slipped when your back collided with the soft sheets, the sight of him standing at the bottom of the bed igniting a fire that almost cut your giggle short, the flames burning behind his eyes coursed through you, setting you alight in the best possible way. 

You felt the mattress dip, eyes glancing down from where your head lay against the pillows, your gaze following him as he crawled up the bed, lips lingering on any piece of skin he could find, his kisses leaving scorching sensations in their midst as he travelled his way up your body. You swore Calum had lips of a sinner, you had always known his lips could ignite feelings you couldn’t describe, and you only wondered how long it would be before it all became too much.

Everything became hazy very quickly, clothes were practically torn off each other’s bodies, fabrics thrown across the room in all directions, no ounce of attention being spared to where they landed. The feeling of his lips against yours dizzying, the feeling on his chest pressing against your bare one was something you never tired of and neither did he. He was warm, inviting, and goddamn beautiful. You wanted to savour every moment he was above you, allowing yourself to drink him in, allowing yourself to drink in the man who made you feel exactly how you wanted to feel; cherished, loved, and down right gorgeous. 

Your fingers tangled in his hair as he kissed you, each kiss better than the last, lips locking together as your tongues danced the most intricate tango, your grip on his blond curls keeping him in place, drunk on his kiss and the way he slanted between your legs almost perfectly, as if he were made to fit between them.

It was when he pulled away that a small whine escaped your lips, your kissed muscles chasing his for the second time that night, that Calum spoke up, a soft gruffness to his voice as he licked the corner of his mouth, a smirk curling at the corners of his lips, “Stay there, sweetheart,”

There were butterflies in your stomach at the endearing name; one of many that you had heard slip past his lips over the time you had known each other. You had your favourites, he knew you did, and he was going to use those to get what he wanted tonight. Calum was going to pull out whatever stops he could to make sure you both got what you wanted tonight - each other. 

His lips travelled down your body as he moved lower, soft kisses being scattered across your jaw, neck, and chest, plush lips burned your skin while his scruff grazed your skin in a way that couldn’t be described in any other way than delicious. Your head fell back against the pillows, eyes dropping to a close as you basked in the feeling that his lips gave you, your chest rising and falling with every shaky breath you took, your senses heightening at the sensation of Calum’s lips as they travelled down your body. 

His plump lips travelled down the valley on your breasts, a gentle almost-giggle escaped your chest as his stubble grazed the soft skin there, but the giggle was cut short when his lips moved and travelled to your left breast, a gasp escaping your lips as they fell open, your hand still tangled in his hair as he paid pleasurable attention the flesh before switching to the other, his tongue poking out to tease you, taunting you in the way he knew best, a gentle tug of his lips against the taunt muscle before he continued his path downwards. You could feel him inches closer and closer to where you wanted - needed - him to get to, your breathing picking up as his lips left searing kisses on the soft skin of your thighs, your soft, gentle gasps sounded in Calum’s ears, his shit-eating grin creasing his face as he knew the reaction he brought from you was one that only he could achieve. That may have seemed cocky but when it came to you - he was. 

The anticipation was eating at you as you lay there. You were waiting, waiting for the feeling that you were craving, your teeth nipped at your bottom lip, appreciative gasps and soft whimpers escaping your open mouth as Calum’s lips kissed around your thighs, moving back up to your hip bones before travelling down the opposite leg. He was teasing you; he knew it, he knew he was riling you up, getting you all worked up to the point where you would be begging for him to do something - anything. 

You swore Calum knew your body better than anyone could, and he knew that for fact he did, taking advantage of every opportunity to relish in a latest discovery of something new you liked; a specific angle, an adjustment of speed, a simple feather-like touch to a certain spot that had your toes curling. 

Calum couldn’t keep you waiting much longer, he knew he couldn’t keep himself away for longer than a few seconds, the arousal seeping from you practically calling out his name, begging for him to devour you. And by the sound you made when he flattened his tongue against your core, he knew you were as eager as he was, as hungry for the pleasure as he was. 

His strong tattooed arms wrapped around your thighs, hands spread on the top of your skin, as he kept the separation between your legs, keeping you open for him as he worked his tongue and lips against your body with expertise, as if it were something he had studied for years. His fingertips left small imprints to your soft skin, his grip tightening ever so slightly as he subtly fought against the natural twitch you had to close your thighs. 

“Keep those pretty legs open for me, baby,” His voice was like velvet and it only turned you on more.

The sounds you released only spurred him on, the little whimpers that sneaked past your soft lips, the moans that freely left your body vibrated within the room, allowing him to roister in the explicit sounds that came from his own lips as he lapped at you, basking in the way the hand in his hair tightened its grip when the calloused pad of his thumb circled against your clit, the motion quick and messy but nevertheless successful in getting what he wanted, and what he knew you wanted also. 

You couldn’t form a sentence never mind literate words with his mouth and hand working against your core, only incoherent sounds and whimpers passing your lips, the high-pitched squeaks and whines only enticing him to push further, pushing for you to reach the sense of euphoria he knew he could give you. 

“Fuck, Calum… Calum, Calum, Calum!” It was like a chant, something you had been conditioned to let roll off your tongue, and god, it felt so good. The familiar coil began to twist and burn in the pit of your stomach, your toes began to curl ever so slightly, head tilting further back into the pillow as your back arched as the beginning of your first orgasm teetered in the balance. 

Calum never got tired of the sound of his name falling from your lips, the sweet tone of your voice adding a something incomprehensible to the simple name, something that spurred him on further, something that made him want to work you harder, desperate to hear you say his name again, again, and again as you lost your capability to breathe when the pleasure became overwhelming. 

Your first release surged through you like a train, Calum only continuing to lick and suck against your core as he greedily drank in every drop he could get. Your body shuddered through the orgasm, the bliss slowly dissipating as it allowed you to feel almost numb, your chest rising and falling with your panting breaths, eyes opening slowly as you looked down to watch him from where he lay between your legs. Calum licked his lips, the grin he wore before still plastered across his face as he looked at you, watching as you lay there breathless, spent, and still wanting more. And, by god, who was he to deny you of that? 

The blond curls upon his head were a mess, your hand tugging at them through his endeavour without realising, your focus on nothing but the pleasure you were receiving, the way his tongue worked against you alongside the pad of his thumb causing your thoughts to come to a halt, your body simply becoming a vessel for pleasure, one that Calum controlled. 

Calum slid his way back up your body, grin never faltering on his kissable lips, as he made his way back up to you, lips brushing against your collarbones and jaw before they reconnected with your own, a hungry, yet slightly softer, kiss being placed against them. You moaned as you tasted yourself on him, his boyish chuckle sounding from between you as his hand cupped your face, thumb resting against the apple of your cheek as he kept you there, pulling you in for another kiss, and then another. 

It was throughout the distraction of kissing, you hoped Calum didn’t notice your hand wandering, silently hoping he was too lost in the moment to acknowledge how your hand slipped from his shoulder, fingertips dancing against the waistband of his boxers, itching to pry them open and free the growing erection from them. You both wanted it, you both were hungry for it, which is why it confused you when Calum grabbed onto your wrist, putting a halt to your movements and pulling your hand away, a quiet tut coming from the click of his tongue as he looked down at you. His eyes were on fire, the dark brown now warm as he stared into yours, a knowing smirk playing on his lips as he gently moved your hand so it lay next to your head, his fingers still wrapped around your wrist, holding it there even though he knew you wouldn’t try it again. 

“As much as I would love to feel those pretty little hands around my cock, I don’t think I’ll last if I let you touch me like that,” Calum spoke almost breathlessly, voice low as his lips remained simply inches from yours, the soft skin almost brushing, tempting you to reconnect your lips once again. “Maybe next time, doll,”

Next time… There was always a next time. 

Calum reached into the bedside table, fingers making a quick effort to find a condom before plucking the piece of foil packaging between his index and middle finger. He sat back on his knees, tearing the foil open and removing the piece of rubber from the packaging, eyes staring down at you as you lay there in front of him, legs spread, completely open and his for the taking. 

He moved to hover over you once again, holding himself up with his arms as he gazed down at you. You swore there was something different in his eyes again, something that swam within them that was different compared to the other times you found yourselves in this position. You just couldn’t pinpoint what it was. Calum leaned down, nose brushing against yours, as he pressed a soft kiss against your lips, a sensation that was completely different to the kisses you had shared in the build up to this, as he let out a low, “Ready, baby?”

You didn’t have to speak for him to know you were ready. You leaned in and kissed him again, fuelling the kiss with the surging fire and hunger you had for the moments like this that you shared with him, the moments between the sheets that no one else knew about, the moments between the sheets where it was just the two of you, where no feelings existed, where it was just sex.

Just sex. It was just sex. Right?

Calum returned the kiss, the knowing smirk once again making a comeback as he swallowed the moan that escaped you as he slid in, filling you completely, adding a quick, “Don’t hold back this time,” with a soft chuckle. Calum almost hissed at the way your nails dug into his back at the movement, the gentle sting against his skin turning him on a little bit more, adding to the burn that he felt in his stomach when he stared at you. 

Your heart was pounding in your chest, and you swore Calum would be able to hear it and feel it with how close he was, your skin was on fire as Calum’s hips moved at a pace that could only be described as mind boggling, a pace that made you gasp, a pace that made you feel the need to steady yourself, one hand clutching onto his back while the other grabbed onto the sheets, tugging on them sharply. You didn’t even register the rushed collection of words you made to him, although he wasn’t sure if it was a request or if you were telling him when you practically begged, “Fuck, Cal… Fas- Faster please,”

Calum’s hips picked up the pace without a second of hesitation, the sound of skin slapping against skin practically commanding the room as it echoed within the walls of his bedroom, the sound of your moans and Calum’s groans mixing into the echo in such a way that it would be considered a sin in itself. You could hear the bed creaking every so often with Calum’s thrusts, too distracted with the way he felt inside of you and the way he looked above you to care. You were too lost in one another, too lost in the feeling of each other, and how he moved and felt inside of you with a rhythm that had your mind tripping over itself.

The sharp scratch of your nails against his back urged him to keep going, his skin was on fire as he thrusted, his body relentless as it pushed and pushed to get you both where you so desperately wanted to be. You were astonished by how he felt, unable to comprehend how every time it still felt so good, how every time he slid in and out of you, it felt like nothing you had felt before. Every time he buried himself inside of you he felt like he was always meant to be there, as if you were made for him, a perfect piece of the puzzle he couldn’t find anywhere else. 

But he just couldn’t tell you that, couldn’t bring himself to make that confession. Not now.

Calum’s face fell to the crook of your neck, stubble scratching against the soft skin as your hands found their way once again to his hair, settling at the back of his head as you tangled your fingers amongst the curls and lost yourself in the sheer pleasure he was giving you. You were panting, breathing laboured and weak as you tried to catch it, the pleasure with every thrust that Calum delivered was becoming overwhelming, literally taking your breath away as he moved. Your head fell back against the pillow, eyes staring at the ceiling before they fell closed, losing yourself completely to the pleasure that was building, that was coursing through your entire body at the feeling of him. With every thrust, every jolt, every rhythmic connection that your skin made, it felt as though you were stampeding towards the edge, Calum’s body bringing you to the blissful end that you both had anticipated since the very beginning.

Your lip became caught between your teeth once more, your legs rising up as they wrapped around Calum’s hips, his hand finding the back of your thigh as he held your leg against him, whimpers stumbling from your lips which only transpired into audible moans as you both chased the high that you craved. You felt his lips against the skin of your neck, the plump flesh leaving sloppy open kisses against the side of your throat, teeth coming into play every few seconds, nipping at the soft skin, slowly working his way to marking you, knowing the slow process would only heighten your senses as you crumbled around him. 

“Shit, shit, shit!” You whined, throwing your head back harshly against the pillow as the knot in your stomach tightened, practically ready to burst at the sensation this man was providing. God, he felt so good, and you felt so full. 

It all just felt so good, you didn’t want it to stop, you didn’t want this moment to end, you wanted to have it forever, to be with him like this, practically numb to anything but the pleasure he provided, to feel his lips lazily kissing your skin as he moved inside of you. Every time you shared a moment like this, it was a bittersweet reminder of the fact that this was all you and him had. 

Sure, it was great. But it wasn’t enough.

It was just as you were hurtling towards the finish line, you felt him begin to slow his pace, his hips still moving but slowing to a more teasing rhythm, one that he knew would get you even more worked up that what you had been for the past however long you’d been stuck in his bed. 

Calum removed his head from the crook of your neck, a soft kiss being left in his wake as he sat up, a shaking arm supporting him from the side of your head as he looked down at you, full gaze set on your face, his breathing heavy as he swallowed at the sight of you.

“So pretty like this,” He quietly groaned, his other hand slowly sliding up and cupping your face once again, thumb tracing over your bottom lip before his palm slid down past your chin, large hand finding the column of your throat as he rested the smooth skin of his palm against it, fingers splayed on either side, as his eyes seemed to turn almost a shade darker, “But did you really think I wouldn’t make this a little fun for me?”

Your eyes wanted to roll to the back of your head in pure ecstasy at the feeling of his hand on your throat, a teasing yet soft hold he had on you was more than enough to have you seeing stars. He added a little pressure to where his hand was resting, smirking at the reaction it enticed from you, knowing that you loved the hold he had on you just as much as he enjoyed the reaction it gauged. 

“Good girls answer when spoken to,” Calum’s voice sounded almost authoritative, and fuck, it sounded so hot, “I thought you were my good girl, huh? Or was I wrong?” He was toying with you yet again, knowing the effect all of this had on you, knowing how this affected your body. You were already crumbling and this was setting you up to self-destruct, and you were more than willing to let it happen under his hands. 

When he didn’t get the response he craved, he squeezed once more, adjusting his hips as he moved forward, sheathing himself completely within you, watching as your body reacted to the invasion. He felt you clench around him, a soft groan sounding almost strangled as it snuck past his lips, a soft whimper sounding from the back of his throat at the sensation he came to crave in the quiet hours of the night when he didn’t have you. 

“I didn’t hear an answer,” 

“I’m…” You whimpered, swallowing the lump in your throat as your body practically shook from teetering on the edge of breaking point, your entire body desperate to release but you knew only Calum could get you there, you knew you wanted him to. “I’m yours… I’m your goo- good girl, Cal,”

“That’s right, pretty girl,” Calum leaned forward, hand still splayed across your throat, nose brushing against yours as he leaned in, swallowing your gasp as he moved within you again, picking up his previous pace as he kept close to you, lips overpowering yours with ease as he thrusted in and out of you. 

His pace continued as you both raced to the finish, bodies becoming spent and Calum’s hips were becoming tired but that didn’t let him slack. He continued his relentless pace, knowing fine well that he was going to make you release for a second time that night, maybe even a third if he felt lucky, but he knew he wasn’t stopping until you felt the high that you had been chasing since the start of the night. The real high. 

Your eyes fell closed as he moved, your breaths becoming shallow and short as your body prepared itself to succumb to the overwhelming pleasure that was seconds away from washing over you. 

“Nuh uh, baby girl, I don’t think so,” Calum’s voice spoke through shallow pants, a light sweat glistening his forehead as he looked down at you, his hand on your throat squeezing gently, almost causing you to become dizzy at the sensation that you craved, “Open your eyes for me, I wanna see how pretty you look when you cum,” His words were enough to make you orgasm right there and then, the soft rasp in his voice being something that worked wonders, his tongue a beautiful instrument with many talents, “Let me watch as you fall apart around me, yeah? You gonna cum for me?”

That was all it took. A simple opening of your eyes, finding his brown above you, and you were crumbling right there in front of him. Your breath caught in your throat, your legs shaking as your entire body practically convulsed at the overwhelming crash of pure pleasure and ecstasy that coursed through you. You swore you could see stars as he continued to thrust into you, allowing you to ride through your high as your body lost itself to the pure euphoric buzz your orgasm provided you with, your moans never lowering, whimpers sounding as Calum chased his own high, using your body as his way to get to the same breaking point you were basking in. 

It didn’t take long until he was there, hips stuttering against you as his arm shook, the limb giving out as he fought to not put his full weight onto you as he came into the condom. You made him feel just as good as he did to you, and although you knew you were the main receiver in the pleasure of the evening, you were comfortable in knowing he received just as much pleasure as you from giving. 

You panted softly as he lay on your chest, both of your eyes were closed as you engulfed yourselves in the post-sex bliss that clouded you. You weren’t sure how long you lay there together, tangled in Calum’s unmade sheets, a light sheen of sweat coating both of your bodies, but neither of you wanted to move. You wanted to stay there tangled with one another for as long as you could, basking in the sweet bliss that the activities of your night had provided you with. 

If only the morning didn’t have to come around. 

***

“You got everything?” His voice could be heard from where he stood in the bathroom, the rich sound slightly muffled due to the distance from where you stood at his bed. 

You were packing your bag; a classic sight after a night at Calum’s, but usually he wasn’t awake when you were doing it. You’d usually have it sorted before he would wake up, making yourself scarce as you slip back home without a word being said to spare the risk of any of your friends finding out about yours and Calum’s situation. 

“Considering I only had the clothes I came in and my phone, yeah I’ve got everything,” You chuckled, arms crossing over your chest once you had zipped up your purse, your boots clicking softly as you took a step back by the side of the bed. Your hand naturally reached over and stroked Duke’s soft fur as he padded over the bedsheets, Calum having lifted him up onto the bed before he disappeared into the bathroom so he could keep you company. 

“You’d be surprised how easy it is to forget something, amazin’ things happen everyday, doll,”

You just rolled your eyes at his remark, unable to hide the turnup at the corners of your lips at another one of his nicknames. He had plenty, and he threw them around openly wherever you were. No one suspected anything, it had been a simple term of endearment since you became friends. It was natural. It was right.

Calum eventually joined you back in the bedroom, eyes watching as you slid your jacket on, slipping your phone into your back pocket, before you picked up your purse and threw it over your shoulder. He followed you through the house, knowing this was your departure, unable to deny the slight twang that struck his chest at the sight of you going. He never liked seeing you leave, even before this little agreement, when you used to come over and hang out with him like the good old days, and you’d leave at the end of the night, he didn’t like it then, but he hated it even more so now. 

“This is where we say goodbye huh?” You chuckled, hand resting on the door handle, slightly turning to your side so you could look at him with ease. He looked tired, you noticed, his blond curls were growing out and the dark brown was peeking through, the bags under his eyes were still there from having woken up, and his lips were still slightly swollen from the night before. They still looked kissable, and you had to fight your want to kiss them again, being able to vividly recall how soft they felt against your own over the course of the previous night. 

You knew you had to go otherwise you’d find yourself back in between the sheets, unable to force yourself to decline another night like the last. It would happen again, you both couldn’t deny it, no matter how many times you had both discussed ending things, claiming you were getting ‘too old for games’, you still found yourselves coming back to each other within the span of a few days. 

“Call me when you get home, okay?” Calum sent a friendly wink in your direction, smiling that same stupid smile he always did. 

It had become a little thing he requested every time you saw each other, every time you departed when you would spend time together. Even at the very beginning, helpless laughter exchanged as you walked the late-night streets together when you first met, Calum always asked for you to let him know that you got home safe.

And what kind of friend would you be not to appreciate such a sweet request from a man who literally radiated such a kind nature.

“I’m a big girl, Calum, ‘M pretty sure I can get myself home safely,”

“Just wanna make sure,” Calum chuckled, his smile slowly dropping back into his smirk from last night as he added, “Gotta take care of my good girl, right?”

“See you later, Cal,” You shook your head, scoffing with a laugh as you opened up Calum’s front door, and escorted yourself out. 

It wasn’t until you closed the door behind you and found yourself sitting in your car that you let the sigh that was sitting heavy in your chest finally escape. 

You did it again. You didn’t tell him. How many times were you going to torture yourself and not say anything? You were just hurting yourself time and time again the longer you kept this game going, the longer you continued to run back to him to feel something that you weren’t even sure you understood. 

It confused you to an unknown extent, but what you didn’t know was that the same matter confused him too. 

He was sitting right behind the front door you had just left through, questioning the exact same things you were. He hadn’t told you either, unable to voice his confusion of what he couldn’t understand. Calum didn’t understand what it was about you that he liked so much, what it was about you that made him tick, what gave him that stupid toothy smile that he was unable to hide whenever you were around. 

There was something special about you, and he couldn’t pinpoint what it was. It made him feel something he hadn’t felt in a long time, there was a sense of comfort he felt whenever he was with you. Having you around felt right, it felt like you belonged. But how could that be possible? 

For a man who believed love was nothing but a scam that led to emotional turmoil, how was he supposed to try and understand his feelings for a girl who he couldn’t imagine not having in his life? Would Calum be willing to overlook his detest for romance, for that bond that two people can share, in the hopes of finding it with someone like you? 

What was he saying? He thought he sounded crazy; thinking all of these thoughts about you when he was sure you wanted nothing of the sort. This agreement you had worked for the both of you, you got your fix of a physical connection, you got hang out, and that was it. That’s all it was, right? 

Or was it destined to be something more?

---

Again, any thoughts or feelings about this kind of piece would be greatly appreciated! I’ve only written and posted one other piece of smut in my life so any feedback on this would mean a lot. I might do more, depending on how this is received. Thank you for reading if you made it to the end of this!

From this prompt list

Tag List: @steviemae​​ @elsysoza​​ @treatallwithkindness​ @oopsiedoopsie23​ @loveroflrh​ @another-lonely-heart​ @zhangyixingxing1​

[wyrd-weaver]

"𝔏𝔢𝔱 𝔐𝔢 𝔖𝔥𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔜𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔅𝔲𝔯𝔡𝔢𝔫."

Trigger Warnings: Suicidal Ideation, Mention of Self-Harm, Mention of Rape (That Resulted in Pregnancy), Mention of Binge Eating, Mention of Weight (By a Disgusting Man), Depression, Anxiety.

⤷ Remember: Every body type is beautiful, and you're legally allowed to maim those who say otherwise! The brief few sentences in this story are not accurate of any decent, sane individual.

Word Count: 1887

～～～～～～～～～～

Depression had you caged, shackled to the memories...the all-consuming sensations of horror and disgust. The very same that were forced upon you, that iced all your muscles twelve hellish months ago. Twelve! And yet, the nightmares refused to cease. Every evening, you battled demons most powerful and foul, acquiring scar after scar after scar. If you stumbled, if you lay down your weapon or lost...could you really be faulted? If this was Heaven's retribution, a cleansing of your contaminated, sinful body, then...was it not misguided? Surely a void replaced the evidence against you?

Blame should never have befallen you! This child, despite his mask of innocence, attested to humanity's ugliest side. Your heart was unravelling - you needed him, as an extension of yourself, as someone to cherish, but...you didn't want him. He wasn't the product of consent. He was loathsome...and a burden. He was so young, so dependent.

Casting him to the mercy of the streets would be more than a mere violation of morality. You already felt criminal - convicted on thoughts and false claims, serving a life sentence in the bowels of Hell. There was an escape, of course. Although...it wasn't accompanied by a light, or the gentle touch of a loved one. No...this escape was advertised as selfish, shameful...weak. And maybe so. Maybe life's greatest demand was the forgoing of happiness. But...to such an extent seemed excessive, and deliberately cruel. You shouldn't have been so dirty, so broken...an embarrassing stain on your family's name.

A single mother. A victim. A failure.

Plagued with flashbacks that favoured spontaneity above calculation, you carved miserable little lines on to your arms. Nobody knew - not your son, nor the Avengers...nor even Loki. They all harboured some form of trauma, however deep-rooted, and so...they had no need for your sob story. Who would care for someone so violated? Someone so...afraid? Your mind, weakened by fatigue and chronic worry, was simply too weak to resist those thoughts, and all hope had been drained from your heart. Why should you be tethered to life, if only for your child? Should you instead seek liberation, peace...joy? Decency discouraged it, but pain stood its ground.

With your dignity in shambles, your disowning, your binging...nothing felt right anymore! Nothing felt...clean. Loki had noticed, observant as he was. Here, sequestered within the walls of the Avengers' Compound, he was the closest to a friend...maybe even more.

No, no, no! I can't think like that! He's a man! A man! I shouldn't even be going near him anymore! Why, oh god...why is he the only one I'm not afraid of? The only one who can comfort me when I break? I can't...! I haven't even told him about...about...Well, I haven't told anyone! They all just think I slept with someone recklessly! And now...now I'm tainted, unlovable! This is...it's all my fault...I should have defended myself. I should have done something! Anything! Why...why did I freeze...? Why? Why?! Why?!!

Loki understood mental anguish and the torture of dissimilarity, as his birth-rights. Perhaps that was reason enough for your breathing to even, in his embrace. It had taken moths to allow such a privilege, and Loki's persistence, how his voice quivered as he begged to help you in any form...

You, whom he held so very dear...

You might have assumed his affections romantic, once upon a time. Yet...no longer. An ailment had struck you - one that rendered both eyes and ears ignorant to his double meanings, his implications...his love. You couldn't process them over the fear and paranoia. Didn't all relationships entail force, and...activities of a sexual nature? You never wanted to experience that again. Never! So, while sleep washed over the Compound, you crept to the kitchen, intent on expanding your waistline evermore. That your size may, to some, be cause for revulsion, had never previously occurred. It was only when the words danced on the tongue of that godforsaken man...

Eat, eat more! Who cares if you're sick? Keep eating! He said...he said that excess was unattractive. So - so maybe he won't...maybe I won't be...again...?

It had been dominance play, a show of superiority.

Loki would never steal something so sacred, unless you willed it.

He was a gentle soul, manipulated into committing an atrocity, and scorned - by the Avengers, especially. He wouldn't find any resonance in your tale (and you hoped he never would), but as a companion, a patient listener...surely there would be no judgement in his heart? He wouldn't be so quick to abandon you...right? Still, a single utterance of that day, of that most fright-inducing event...required courage far surpassing your own. Maybe...just a word? A sign? Something...?

Lonely was the path you wandered, in spite of Loki's presence. Alone, he failed to drown your demons. He held them under the waves, but they always returned.

You appreciated the effort. Plasters may cover your scars, but they could never heal your heart. Could Loki?...In time? If distorted thoughts of him were enough to ground you in the midst of panic...could he aid your recovery?

He also wondered that. Your deception wasn't half as masterful as you had hoped. Or perhaps you were simply the target of Loki's observations, and therefore came under frequent scrutiny. He had, of course, picked up on the subtle changes in your demeanour - particularly post-pregnancy. He idled at your side, throwing neither intrusive question nor accusation. This was at the behest of his conscience, although he longed desperately to ignore it. He wanted to know...what exactly happened last year, when your transformation began?

Your lips were sealed, but his very essence ached - sorrow, curiosity, love, sympathy and compassion all melding together within him. They ran amuck, refusing any whisper of sleep. His concentration had flown alongside it, rendering him unable to enjoy the book that rested in his palm. It had maintained a decent level of interest until now, but duty called. He would pry open your chamber door, glimpse your ethereal, sleeping form...and finally feel content. If you were strolling through dreamland, then his concern could dissipate. At least for a while. If not...he would discover why.

Loki hesitated outside your door, for if you were truly non-the-wiser, asleep...vulnerable, then a mere survey of yourself and the room would leave, on his tongue, a terrible aftertaste.

But, lo and behold, only your young son slept soundly, in his crib.

Loki was grappled now with a sense of alarm - where in Odin's name were you? And, pray tell...why was your child on his lonesome, cleansing himself of the prior day, in such a frigid room? He was wrought with grief upon recalling your distaste for the babe, and again when he realised there was no option to remove him, bring him to a warmer space, rock him and sing soft melodies...

Loki's primary goal was to find you, and perhaps...coerce you into confessing everything. From a true account of the day that always replayed in your mind, to your innermost feelings and thoughts...he needed to know, and to understand.

He had scoured half the building before laying eyes upon you. However...relief proved elusive. There were an endless number of questions, but none dared to grace the air. Why was your beautiful face stained with tears? Why were you eating, despite looking so sickly? What had troubled you so? And...could he kill it? He was unsure of the proper manner in which to approach you. He had always tread lightly, but complete silence and delicacy were more fortes of his mother. He swallowed down the nerves.

"(Y/n), darling...why aren't you sleeping?"

You startled, eyes bloodshot and a biscuit lodged between your lips. "U-Uh..."

He walked forward. "Is there something weighing on your mind?"

"...No?" This was mumbled, as though credence escaped you.

"My dear, you aren't a skilled liar. Talk to me, please." The heartache nearly tore him apart.

You wouldn't meet his gaze. "I...I can't."

"Please?" Both of your voices cracked, in unison.

Oh god, alright. Okay. This if fine...right? It's fine. I'm fine...Am I? What if I'm not?! I can't tell him just yet! But he looks so upset...I did this! I caused this! Oh god...just stay - stay calm! Calm down...calm down...

A tear trickled down your cheek, then another. "I-I've never...I don't want to - to relive it."

He brought you into a protective embrace. "Then you won't. I swear, by all the beings in the Nine Realms, that I will keep you safe. Please, let me share your burden."

Three sentences. Who was so weak-willed, that a mere three sentences shattered all their defences? You cursed his silver tongue. "(S-S/n)...! He - he's...I didn't...I-I don't want him! J-Just because I didn't fight back...I didn't try to run, he...t-that man, he did...things. To me. And now...now I'm so dirty! I'm disgusting...unclean, weak. B-But...sometimes - sometimes I think it's all in my head. But it isn't! I-It happened, and (S/n)! He's...he's the proof! He reminds me...o-of that..."

Loki froze. "What...?"

"But I-I couldn't - I couldn't tell anyone! They wouldn't...believe me, o-or care! People like me, they don't - this...this doesn't happen! Why...why did this happen?? A-And now...there's (S/n). And every...every minute is Hell! I can't take it anymore...I don't w-want to be here. I don't want to be...to be alive anymore..."

Loki could almost see the threads of rationality thinning. Who would...defile you, hurt you? You were so important, so genuine and...lovely. "I will find this man, and personally deliver his comeuppance. He never deserved your voice, let alone your touch."

"No!" You stiffened in his arms. "Then he'll...he'll come back..."

"If he does, I shall slay him." Yet, Loki made no attempt to leave. Instead, he slipped into a mask of composure, enough to continue speaking without seething. "I apologise...if you thought I wouldn't care. I do - more than you could ever imagine. You are the most stunning creature I have had the honour of meeting, in all my lifetime. I was resolved to spend my days at your side, never professing my love, but after hearing that...I..."

You panicked. "Loki...don't. Please-"

"I know it would be impudent to assume that you could accept me right now, but consider that...I can protect you. I will never let him, or anyone, hurt you again." Loki wiped away your crystalline sadness. "But, please...when you can't see worth or joy in this life...please come to me. I will be here to remind you of your victory - you survived such torture, and delivered a child. You are far from weak, (Y/n)."

Loki's fingers darted along your wrist. He yearned to kiss every scar, every inch of your skin.

Though, he would do nothing without permission. "Now, my dear...let's put these treats away. I would suggest that, henceforth, you eat balanced meals and partake in some fun activities. Perhaps I could read to you, one day? And venturing out for a walk - we can do that together. I...um, hope I'm not overstepping any boundaries. I'm simply thinking of ways to occupy your mind...and your time. You can do these things alone, of course..."

You nodded. "But...you'd - you'd do them with me?"

"I would gladly do anything with you, my love." Loki's words were empty of duplicity.

You were angelic - the only one safe from his lies.

[cursed-and-quirkless]

Chapter 1 - The Curse

Hello all! Welcome to my first MHA fic! This is the first part of a series about if Izuku was a quirkless vigilante, because I really love that trope.

TW: This fic, the first part especially, has some themes of injury, death/being on the verge of death, and ideas of suicide. No suicide is attempted, however. If these ideas bother you, please be cautious. To skip the first part, do not read until the first “~” symbol. There is also weird church stuff (that’ll make sense when you read), so if that makes you uncomfortable please be cautious. Thank you, hope you enjoy!

Ao3: queenofliterature

They say before you die, your life flashes before your eyes. Izuku never thought that was accurate until now.

There had been plenty of times he had almost died. When a shot rang and the muzzle of a gun flashed, the only thing Izuku thought was run, dodge, never anything about who he was, or how he got here.

Now though, now he understood.

Izuku blinked his tired eyes, focusing on the grey sky. The city was surprisingly peaceful, though maybe that was the falling snow coating the sounds of the bustling life under him. Or the ringing in his ears.

Eyes swollen with exhaustion refused to close for too long. If he fell asleep now, he would never wake up. And as much as he lied to himself, Izuku wasn’t ready for that, not yet.

Hypothermia was settling quickly into his bones, his shallow breaths obvious against the cold night. But the gentle flakes tickled his nose, and all he felt was relief when they touched his fevered skin. Besides, he wouldn’t be dying of the cold tonight, the pools of blood gathering steadily underneath him was a testament to that.

Maybe if Izuku tried hard enough, he could roll off the edge. The rooftop had no railing, and if he stretched his arm just enough, he could dangle his hand over the streets below. But that wouldn’t do, he wanted to see the sky when his body finally let go, and his eyes closed and never reopened. Besides, Izuku could barely even move his fingers, let alone roll his entire body. No… he was stuck here.

It wouldn’t be long now.

Perhaps it was the fact that his blood was sluggishly trailing out of his body this time instead of the threat of instant death but…

His mind began to drift.

~

He was happy.

The middle class apartment he lived in with his mother and father always had the drapes thrown open, rays of sun keeping the apartment a comfortable temperature and bathing the bright green house plants.

His mother would playfully yell and scream, the damsel in distress. His father and him were the heroes.

He doesn’t remember much of his father, but he remembers the warm feeling of his chest, of the hot and smoky breath that would tickle his ears and ruffle his hair.

His father’s hands would hold him in the air as he flew to rescue his mother from the villains that had taken her.

Most of his peers probably wouldn’t want to spend their 5th birthday in the doctor’s office, but to Izuku it was the best present his parents could give him. He should have had a quirk by now, Kaccan said so. But if it was taking this long, it should have been cool and powerful! Just like Kaccan’s!

Izuku buzzed in excitement as the doctor read his file and looked at the x-rays they had taken in the big machine they put him in. Maybe he’d get telepathy, or fire, or a combination! Kaccan and him would grow up and be an unstoppable team and they’d share the rank for Number One hero (no matter what Kaccan said) and they’d save people and fight villains and-

“Quirkless.”

And just like that Izuku’s world shattered. The doctor’s uncaring drawl barely pierced his mind as his stomach lurched.

“W-what?” His mother questioned tearfully. His father simply sat there, eyes clouded with something Izuku would never understand. Sure 20% of the world was quirkless, but most were old and that number was dying out everyday. Only .01% of Japan’s population remained quirkless. And Izuku was now one of them.

When Izuku awoke the next day, his father was gone, and his mother wasn’t surprised.

There was no explosion, no shouted words, no hits or screams. His father was simply gone, any traces of him lingered like a ghost. Sometimes Izuku thought he had made up his father, the only proof he had that the man existed were the pictures Mom had kept in the trunk beside her bed.

It was raining the night he got diagnosed, as if the heavens were weeping for the shattered dream of a crushed child. He sat for hours watching the video of All Might saving all those people at the factory, hitting the replay button until his fingers hurt.

“Because I am here! Because I am here! Because I am here!”

Izuku heard the door creek softly behind him, but he didn’t turn around, he didn’t need to. “S-see that Mom?” Izuku’s tiny voice cracked, and he finally turned around. His mother already had tears springing to her eyes, and Izuku would realize later that’s the moment he would never see his father again.

“He always has a smile on his face, no matter how bad things get.” Izuku’s voice was slowly breaking down along with the little boy. “Even when things seem impossible, he never gives up.” Izuku will never forget the look on his mother’s face, the pain and the sorrow.

“Do you think… I could be a hero too?” Izuku already knew the answer to that question, he saw the answer in his mother’s eyes. His mother rushed forward, gripping him tightly and nuzzling into his hair, murmuring apology after apology. Her touch burned and the ache in his chest choked him, but Izuku didn’t bother to fight her off.

Izuku doesn’t even remember his father’s last words to him.

~

Izuku and his mother went to church the next day.

His mother was aching for a sense of normalcy, and some foolish part of Izuku believed his father would be there waiting for them.

His father was half japanese, but he never told Izuku what his other half was. Hisashi’s parents and siblings chose to follow the Christian faith, though what branch Izuku also didn’t know, he never paid attention. There was a small church half an hour away from the Midoriya apartment, and Hisashi thought it would be good for the small family to have a sense of community.

His mother must have opened up that day to the pastor before Sunday Service, because that was the first time Izuku was called a curse to humanity.

The little boy sat in the pew, hunching over as every word the pastor said pierced his heart.

“The quirkless are a scourge, a curse, a remnant of the days of old. They are a reminder of the sins of man!” Izuku’s eyes pricked at the cheers coming from around him. “We must stay strong in the face of adversity!” The cheers were stronger this time. Whatever his mother told the pastor must have sunk deep into the man’s skin, because they spent the next hour listening to the talks of plagues and scourge and punishment that were the quirkless population, all while he looked at the little green-haired boy.

After the service, all Izuku wanted to do was disappear. Going home would mean facing the unnatural quiet that now suffocated the once bright household, and staying here meant facing the lingering glares and whispers. His mother was in the restroom preparing for the semi-long trip back when Izuku heard footsteps approaching.

“Hello, Izuku.” The pastor greeted with a soft smile. He supposed it should be comforting, but all Izuku felt was fear.

“H-hello.” A meek voice greeted back.

“Your mother told me of your condition. I just wanted you to know I meant every word I said. But I can help.” The pastor offered, and despite the dangerous glint in the man’s eyes, Izuku perked up.

“You can?” Izuku asked cautiously. Maybe this would make Dad come back! And he could make Mom happy again! Izuku’s heart clenched when a hand grabbed his wrist.

“Come, child, it's not your fault. The children of God are innocent, you are being punished for the misgivings of your ancestors.” The gentle words of the pastor did nothing to ease the bile growing in Izuku’s throat. The more Izuku fought, the tighter the bruising grips became.

“W-wait.” Izuku protested as he was dragged away from the restroom. “My Mom! She’ll wonder where I am!”

“It will be a nice surprise for her, don’t you think?” The pastor ignored the protests and continued dragging the boy through the church.

“What-what’s gonna happen?”

“Simple, child. We’ll get the Devil out of you. It may hurt but I promise you’ll be better for it.” The pastor reassured. Thi wasn’t right. Mom and Dad said never go with strangers! But… the pastor wasn’t a stranger, he said he could help?

“Can we ask my Mom, p-please?” Izuku gave a powerful tug, and that seemed to be the last straw.

“Foolish child! Your mother does not understand what needs to be done! I do!” The others in the church startled at the noise, but turned away when they saw what was happening.

Izuku didn’t know what was happening, but he didn’t like it! In a last attempt, Izuku lashed out and bit the man’s hand, pulling away with a gasp when the pastor yanked his hand back.

“You evil child!” The pastor screamed as Izuku ran as fast as his little legs could carry him. He remembered the way to the restrooms, he just hoped his mother would be there. He wanted to go home! He wanted to play hero and be held by his dad and be tucked in by his mom when he fell asleep on the couch!

“Mom!” Izuku screamed when he spotted green hair. The woman quickly turned around from the couple she seemed to be frantically talking too. Izuku’s own eyes matched the tears that were streaming down his mother’s face.

“Izuku!” Inko yelled in relief as her little boy crashed into her. “Baby, where were you? I was worried sick!” Inko cried.

“M-mom, the p-pastor, h-he, a-and-” Izuku couldn’t get any of the story through the spasming of his little lungs. Through hiccuping sobs, Izuku heard the frantic footsteps of the pastor approach him, and he buried himself further into his mother’s neck.

“Pastor? What-what happened?” Inko hesitated at the teeth marks on the hand of the pastor. Her little boy wouldn;t do that for anything.

“H-he said.” Izuku’s little sobs broke her heart.

“Said what, Baby?” Inko coaxed, ignoring the man above them.

“G-gonna get the Devil out.” Inko’s heart dropped, knowing the implication.

“You were gonna beat him?” The horrified whisper reached the poster’s ears and he scoffed.

“Not him, the scourge. The boy may feel pain, but it would make him better.” The pastor declared. Perhaps if Inko hadn’t already been in pieces, she would have yelled at him. Perhaps if her husband hadn’t left and her son wasn’t falling apart she would have defended her son, but for now she had enough.

“Izuku, we’re leaving.” She said to the pastor just as much as her son, and Izuku saw the glance towards his blackened wrist.

It was the first time his mother ignored a bruise, but it would not be the last.

The drive home was quiet, and Izuku didn’t think he would ever get used to the silence that now permeated his new life.

“Mom?” Izuku spoke up, his timid voice uncomfortable with breaking pure silence. “Everything is going to be okay, right?” He just needed to hear those words as his world was crumbling beneath him, ‘It will be okay’.

“Izuku, my baby, there will be many more like him. From now on I want you to walk to and from school with Katsuki. No detours, nothing.” Izuku nodded at his mom’s serious voice. “We’re gonna get you a phone, I want you to text me everyday at lunch, and before and after school, and when you get home.” Izuku nodded again, and kept doing so as more rules were given to him.

When they got home that afternoon, his mother shut down. From afternoon till night, Inko Midoriya held an empty tea cup, not having the energy to fill it. She sat at the table, and tried to remember the deep voice of her husband that floated around the kitchen like embers, and the light and airy voice of her child that bounced against the walls.

Now all she heard was the stone cold silence of a shattered household.

Meanwhile, Izuku sat at the computer. Mom didn't bother to enforce computer time. So he watched the video, over and over again until it somehow pierced the unfeeling void that was beginning to set in. It never did.

“Because I am here! Because I am here! Because I am here!”

He realized that night with a bitter numbness he was already forgetting what his father’s laugh sounded like.

~

Izuku was finally beginning to understand, he knew he was a plague on his mother and father’s life, an infestation in his own skin.

He knew he was a curse.

~~~

Disclaimer: Nothing against any religion. Just as long as you don’t use it to hurt others I don’t care what religion you are/aren’t, this specific church, however, was very radical and was based loosely on unfortunate experiences I had in churches with some personal issues of mine. I just thought it would be interesting to explore how radical groups like this would see quirklessness.

I don't usually do this, but each chapter is gonna have a song I think that fits it!

Chapter Song: i can't breathe by Bea Miller

I have a Discord, and this fic has a channel! Same with Tumblr

Discord: https://discord.gg/UpWvDzKC5R Tumblr: cursed-and-quirkless

[neighborhoodmoonchild]

Every Part.

Prompt(s):

84. “Yeah, well, I shut everybody out. Don’t take it personally, it’s just easier that way.”

Pairing(s): BestFriend!Namjoon x Reader

Genre(s): Angst, Fluff (maybe just a little)

Summary: Joon hasn’t seen his best friend Y/N in a while, even skipping their daily morning coffee dates. Deciding to check on her, he finds there may be more than a supposed ‘cold’ keeping them apart. How do you love someone that’s too afraid to be loved?

Warning(s): some allusion to toxic relationships (romantic and platonic), fear of being vulnerable, depression, ptsd

Word Count: 3k

It wasn’t like you to skip out on daily morning coffee. In fact, you had been quite vocal about it being the only thing to get you through the day; the dismal clouds parting above your head as the caffeine descends your throat and warms your veins in a way that can only be described as pure euphoria. Then, there was also Namjoon’s more than satisfactory company, to which he would counter is better than any warm drink could ever be and you didn’t have the heart to convince him otherwise.

These were two things, two whole things, that gave you reason to get up in the morning despite the ache in your soul and the dull stab in your heart. So why were you making yourself more miserable by denying yourself even that smallest bit of sanctuary?

It’s an easy question to ask and a frustratingly difficult one to answer. In retrospect, shouldn’t you be elated to have a wonderful escape, though minute as it was, from the never ending war of thoughts in your mind? Namjoon is your best friend, admittedly only friend, and he’d never wronged you in any way, shape, or form. In fact, he always understands your silent breakdowns and internal battles, never once questioning or judging. And yet, here you are, not only punishing yourself, but punishing him as well.

A light buzz interrupted your thoughts, pressing pause on the inner monologue to turn over in your disheveled bed. Pushing the covers away from your face, you grab the device discarded on the bedside table. Thinking back, you should’ve just turned the thing off if you didn’t want to talk to him, but even after ignoring him for the last six calls and messages, you couldn’t find it in yourself to completely cut him off.

Even in the darkest recesses of your mind, tainted by evil thoughts, a piece of you reached forward, searching for the tiny light of Namjoon despite the protests from the negative space. He is reminiscent the sun, whether you hate or love it each day, it’s always there, just like him.

Joonie💜:

-I know you don’t feel up to anything today, but please take care of yourself. I’m a call or text away if you need anything❤️

In spite of yourself, you crack the slightest smile at the message. Being the first one you’d opened in the last 3 hours, you were both relieved and regretful. You know Joon would never impose or push you to share the thoughts and feelings that plague your soul. You’d simply waved his concern off with a small fib of a cold keeping you from your daily routine.

A part of you knows his earlier messages may convey his suspicions of the sudden ailment, but seeing this last one, he’s either finally accepted it or just doesn’t want to pry. It’s the knowledge of the false truth, as simple as it may seem, that sends a swirl of upset through your gut.

You and Joon are as close as close can be and one thing you promised each other was to always be honest. Truth is incredibly important to Joon, important to you as well, and yet, the urge to indulge in this cardinal sin of your friendship won over.

It felt like an awful pattern, one you have been desperate to be free from. No matter how hard you try move on from the past, the negative thoughts, the toxicity of it all, it seems like it always follows, attracted as if centered in your own gravitational pull.

It was the smallest thing that set it off, a grain of sand in a vast ocean that sent tidal waves the size of skyscrapers crashing into your resolve. A simple brush of a hand pulling forth images of past events once thought forgotten. A black and white silent film of horrors replaying over and over again no matter how many times you tried to turn it off.

A glimpse of your father leaving you and your mother in tears, a flash of your first real boyfriend breaking your heart, a shot of your once best friend using those darkest secrets against you. Every person you’d ever been close to in life had found a way to inflict pain. The constant sting of the knife as you let your walls down only made them rebuild higher each time.

It was pure accident you’d managed to let Namjoon in in the first place, and he rooted so well behind those walls you’d thought it would all be different this time. No one had ever stayed this long, been real and honest this long, made you truly happy this long.

And no matter how many times you told the monster in your head that ‘he’s different,’ ‘he’d never do that to you,’ ‘he really cares,’ it reminded you just how many times those same things had been uttered of others. A father would never do that, yet he did. The seemingly love of your life was different from him, and yet he wasn’t. Your best friend truly cares, but she really didn’t. You’ve always been proven wrong; painfully and wholly wrong.

Instead of waiting around for Namjoon to prove himself just like them, deciding to cut your losses before the blow could build felt like the better alternative. To see him turn into the mold of everyone who hurt you before, you decided, would be worse than pushing away and cutting all ties. Instead of waiting for the impending heartbreak to crash into you, you’d drive into it head on and get it over with.

The worst part is the lie. Not the little white lie of a cold, but the lie that he believes you’ll come back to him. That this ‘cold’ will run it’s course and you’ll both be back to the way it was. You’d meet at the coffee shop on Main and he’d walk you home and spend the rest of the day chatting and laughing like normal; everything would be okay. He was none the wiser that those days were over; that you’d be gone from his life without any explanation.

It hurt. More than anything you’d ever felt before.

The last rays of sunshine filtered through the blinds hanging dully in the windows for mere seconds before disappearing behind the dark cast of the night sky.

You still hadn’t left the bed.

Just as you were about to close your eyes and give in to the sweet release of sleep, a knock reverberated throughout the tiny apartment. Your phone had long since died and you felt no urge to revive it, the forewarning of a late night visit unbeknownst to you. Eyes focused on the ceiling, you waited for the silence to span enough time to signal their leave, but the knocks only repeated, almost urgent this time.

The lack of food, water, and movement from the day spent wallowing in bed hazed your mind, and after what felt like the hundredth knock, you rose stiffly from the covers. Joints hissing and cracking as you engaged in the first bit of physical activity in the past 24 hours, you almost tipped over as the blood quickly rushed to your head, making it spin.

Not being able to form any fluent or cohesive thoughts, you wandered aimlessly through the dark apartment until reaching the door handle. You didn’t even bother peeking through the peephole, simply pulling the door until it jerked back from the still-latched chain and squinted out into the bright hallway.

Your eyes immediately adjusted to stare into the dark pair of eyes of the person you’d vowed to quit cold turkey. As he took you in, his face paled, features dropping as if he was staring into the face of death.

“I know you want to be alone right now, but please, don’t shut me out.”

His voice was hoarse, choked with emotions your fogged brain couldn’t comprehend. Refusing to lift the latch and allow him entrance, you stood still, not sure how to react, as your brain slowly processed what was happening.

Namjoon didn’t make any move to force himself inside, to push you to let him in. Instead, he kept your gaze focused on him as he assessed you. Wrinkled sweats and a hoodie that looked like they’d been slept in for multiple days wrapped messily around your small frame. Your hair a tangled, matted nest told him you hadn’t had a proper shower in a while. The skin around your eyes dark purple and sunken in, flesh a pale, sickly hue that scared him.

Namjoon was no fool, he knew what a cold looked like on you, and this was not right. In his gut, he knew since that day, that something had snapped within you.

It started out innocent enough, as he walked you home from the bookstore you’d frequented together. He had carefully brushed his hand against yours, heart aching to slip your fingers into his and hold on tight. Joon hadn’t truly realized his feelings had crossed from platonic to romantic until it hit like a freight train an hour prior.

Standing in the window of the store reaching skywards for a book that caught your eye, he’d graciously grabbed the book for you with a laugh, admiring your effort even though it was much too high. When he chanced a look down at you as he handed off the object of your struggle, he caught that gleam in your eye as you smirked at him. The light of the setting sun formed a soft orange halo that enveloped every curve and dip of your body in a radiant glow. 

He was entranced, watching your fingers flip through the pages cautiously, face warmed by the sun, cheeks tinged an adorable light pink. You looked like an angel sent directly from the heavens above and it stole his breath away.

Namjoon’s friendship with you is his most prized possession. In that moment his heart yearned for more, but his mind told him that if he pushed too hard, he’d lose you. In the simplest of hand brushes, he thought he’d be able to convey to you in a subtle, careful way what he was feeling in that moment, hoping and praying deep down you felt the same.

It all shattered when he saw that gleam in your eyes dim, flushed cheeks devoid of their once healthy glow, as if you’d been touched by a ghost. His heart broke into a million little pieces, sensing deep down he had likely dismantled everything you’d ever built together with the most innocent of gestures.

A needle brought down the entire haystack.

At first, your excuse of illness didn’t perturb him. It wasn’t until day three that he knew his instincts were right; that something more serious was going on. When you ghosted him all day, he thought, for a brief moment, you might be gone. It sent him into a frenzy that led to racing up the steps of your building panicked, pounding harshly on your door until he could confirm with his own eyes you were here. That you were okay.

Only, that wasn’t what was confirmed to him at all once he saw you. Your body may physically be here, but it looked like your soul, your whole being, had dissipated and left nothing but a walking husk in its wake. If anything, seeing you right now only made him all the more terrified.

Namjoon may be your closest friend, but that did not make him privy to your darkest thoughts. One didn’t, however, need to be explicitly told of the sorrows you’d endured, but need only to experience how you interacted with the world around you.

He saw it in the little things, like how you’d shut down after seeing a happy family in public.

Or how the mentions of finding a boyfriend from his friends when he’d managed to get you to hang out would cause you to excuse yourself and avoid contact afterwards.

Most importantly, it was in the way that no matter how close the two of you seemed to get, he was never allowed into the deepest parts of your mind, to let him share the burden or see the truth that lay inside of you.

He had all the warning signs, yet his heart was selfish and greedy, wanting a piece of you he knew you kept locked away, and it was that longing for more that took it all away.

Namjoon would take it back if he could.

“Yeah, well, I shut everybody out. Don’t take it personally, it’s just easier that way.” 

The words slipped out before you had the mind to just shut the door and pretend it never happened. Your throat was dry, coarse, and it translated into the rough tone of your voice. You didn’t even recognize it as your own as it rang through the still air.

Eyes glued to the dirty carpeting of the landing, you couldn’t find the strength to look him in the eyes again. The longer you stood there, mere inches of wood separating you, the harder it got to hold your resolve. It was easy to keep away when he wasn’t there to remind you of all of the reasons to stay and fight.

The silence was deafening, neither party knowing the right thing to say, if there even was anything ‘right’ to say in the first place. If you couldn’t be honest with yourself, how could you ever expect to be honest with Namjoon?

Running away, leaving, abandoning things. That was the only course of action you’d ever bore witness to when it came to relationships. If it was so easy for your father, your boyfriend, your best friend, to leave you, why was it so difficult for you to leave Namjoon?

The salty taste in your mouth gave way to the tears that flowed freely down your face, even though you hadn’t given them consent to do so. You didn’t want him to see you like this, so broken at your own undoing. 

As much as a part of you wanted to blame Joon, to say that this was his fault, you knew it wasn’t. As much as you wanted to blame the past, the monstrous characters that shaped your negative outlook on the world, you didn’t.

It must have been, and always will be, your fault.

If everyone in your life leaves, the only constant factor, is you. There must be something wrong with you that forces people out, makes it easier for them to walk away. 

Like the second a bomb goes off, the realization that all the pain you’d endured: the wars waged in your mind, the destruction of yourself and the life you tried to salvage, could all be self-inflicted tore apart every fiber of your being with the initial blast.

For so long you’d chalked the misfortune up to bad luck; ill-fate. You were a victim of circumstance. Yet now all you could see was yourself at the root of every disaster. 

Suddenly drowning a the sea of self-deprecating thoughts, the weight of your body felt like a ton of bricks with which you no longer had the strength to support. 

Falling to your knees, you didn’t realize you had, at some point, subconsciously unlatched the door, until warm, strong arms caught you in your dissent. 

They held you as you cried; a loud, ugly cry, that had your inner-self cringing. It couldn’t be helped, though, and you no longer cared as you let the sobs wrack every part of you. The only thing anchoring you being the man you tried so desperately to push away.

His soft ‘shs’ combined with the soft glide of his hand in your hair calmed you despite the circumstances. You were a complete and utter mess.

And yet, Namjoon was still here.

After the stress you’d put him through, the lies, the ghosting, the cold shoulder, he remained constant, steady throughout the storm. He didn’t walk away when things got difficult, he didn’t blame you, he didn’t hurt you.

He is here, holding you, telling you it’s going to be okay.

The small part of you, the dark piece tainted by the negativity, had quietly retreated within you. The tiny hand reaching out for Namjoon’s light had prevailed. That film inside your brain burned away like acid as a new one began production. One in bright, saturated color; full of all the wonderful things you’ve experienced life with Namjoon.

Coffee dates, movie nights, grocery runs at 3 a.m.

Bad jokes, boisterous laughter, warm blankets.

Tight hugs, pinky promises, your best friend.

“I’m right here. I’ll always be right here,” he whispers through tears. He’s holding you tightly, despite the part of his mind screaming at him that this is what got him into trouble in the first place. His deep, innate need to protect you, to hold you, won over any worries he had of pushing you further away. When he felt your arms wrap tightly around him, face nuzzling into his chest, he knew he’d made the right choice.

In the end, it wasn’t space that would heal your heart, but closeness. You’d been so scared of him leaving, you tried to force him away, when he wanted nothing more than to keep you close. 

Finally, you realized that Namjoon was the only person who has ever stayed. He’d had plenty of time to walk away, been given a multitude of opportunities to excuse himself from your life, yet he never did. 

He rode out everything you’d thrown at him. 

As you both sat there, tear-streaked messes holding each other as if your lives depended on it, you knew that this storm had passed. Despite any damage it had caused, with Namjoon by your side, it wasn’t anything that couldn’t be repaired.

Letting a person in when you’ve been broken so many times is not easy and it never will be. A part of you will always be wary that one day something will change, that you might eventually wake up and be on your own again. It is a part of dealing with the trauma you’ve faced.

While Namjoon can never ‘fix’ the ‘broken’ parts of you, he will be there to show you new, beautiful parts of yourself that have long gone overlooked. To be the shoulder you can cry on, the ear you can confide to, the heart you can someday love without reserve.

It’s never been about putting the pieces back together, tearing the walls down, or proving the past wrong.

Namjoon’s only wish is to be there for you in any way you let him, to be himself, and live life with the person he cares about the most. 

So, he’ll be there through every pitfall, every tear, every laugh, every smile, because to Namjoon, every part of you is worth sticking around for. Always. 

“Thanks for not leaving.”

[diamo-chan]

THE REASON I’D CHOOSE IVAN IF I WERE IN ELOISE’S SHOES

Ivan had been my second favorite from the start, and, no, not even his route was able to spoil that, for me. But since Ethan is my fave my taste is questionable anyway.  (☉ε　⊙ﾉ)ﾉ

The snippet includes spoilers for his route! So be warned. (English is not my native language + not beta-read – simply because I’m not used to that process)

Word count: 1,4k

The screams made her jump up from her seat on the garden bench and fall into a frenzy in a split second. The fear she felt was her own, not his. No, he was calm, albeit not quiet. This serenity only passed when Eloise came running into his room and stepped between Aaron and Ivan’s… she didn’t know what to call it, strict parenting? Authoritative weaning? – To say Ivan was surprised would be a grave understatement. He was shaken to the very bone  with no room for neither breathing nor moving; suddenly his mind was clear, and his emotions sober.

The dispute that followed was the first time he hears Eloise scream like that, fists balled in fear, but still refusing to let Aaron anywhere close to Ivan. Maybe that was still a reflex from last week. Ivan was left in the role of a spectator. Sure, his plan had been stupid, sure it brought everyone in the manor into danger, but Eloise was not responsible for his bad decision making, his friend had no right to be angry with her. But before he could interfere, his sire let out a deep sigh.

Eventually Aaron gave in before it would escalate, seeing as how Eloise was deaf to any and all of his arguments with mental fingers in her ears. He threw one last look over his shoulder into the room of the young vampire before leaving the two of them to figure out what should become of bond now.

After a moment of silence the chalice slid down the door with a laugh and just sat there on the floor with her legs spread away from her, staring at her dumbfounded vampire in relieve.

“You are either suicidal or mad.” Ivan whispered in awe. Those were the first words he had spoken to her since the incident with his ex. Not that he wasn’t grateful for her help. He was. Hell, without her he would be dead by now. He loved her, very much so, even without her risking her neck for him… but last week just had been a lot to take. Still, he knew her well enough by now, to be aware that she would not allow him to lock himself off of her again. A swift jump and Eloise was back on her feet, and let her drained body rest next to him at the edge of Ivan’s bed.

“What makes you think that I am not both?” The playfulness in her eyes betrayed nothing of the exhaustion, that the conflict with Aaron left her in.

He layed back on the bedcover with an elegant flop. During the hunt he had a lot of time to think. It always gave him the chance to clear his head of all troubles, but there was something that has been incomprehensible to him from the very first day. Maybe now, that they had established something more stable, now, that they both had made peace with their respective deaths, this might be the right moment to ask.

Turning onto his stomach he searched for her eyes. When she noticed his interest, she looked at him in expectation, the golden fire of his irises met her icy grey ones, and he almost backed out of it, if it wasn’t for the reassuring smile on her lips. Ivans voice was hoarse, barely loud enough to reach her, if it wasn’t for her increased sense of hearing.

“I am grateful to have you. But whenever I think back I can’t help but wonder” He took a deep breath. “Why did you choose me in the first place?”

Eloise looked genuinely confused. But after a short moment she just shrugged. “Because I wanted to give you a chance”

“To do what exactly?” he insisted.

Her exhale was a soft laugh when she let herself sink back on the covers so she was face to face with him. Ivan was forced to shift his weight to the side when she gently took the hand that was closer to her and started caressing it in a calming manner. She knew that that was a tough topic for the blond vampire, that whatever she would say, whichever answer she had for him, she would be left walking on eggshells.

“On that first night,” It was as if the scene was replaying in her head, like she was once again seeing his panicking expression through the shards of the glass that were illuminated by the moonlight.  “You wanted to catch me and pull me back up again. You were wide awake, when I saw your face during the fall.” Instantly she was captivated by those orange eyes that shone like merciless flames. But the boy whom these expressive orbs belonged to, his heart used to be broken, fearful.  “I didn’t know what would come of this, but I didn’t want you to blame yourself, or try to make it up to everyone.” Once again Ivan looked at her as if she was crazy. Crazy to safe the person who brought her into that situation in the first place. But before the pain had a chance to settle on his soul again, a foxy grin appeared on Eloise’s face as she added: “And I found you hot, but that’s just convenient side effect”

“You really are mad.” Grabbing her hand Ivan pressed a kiss to her palm.

With a giggle Eloise sat back up. With a gentle tug on the arm her boy leaned on, she turned him on his back, so he was resting in a more relaxed position, before climbing up, to rest in top if his thighs. She shook her head, jokingly. “No, Ethan is mad. I am just one lucky girl who hit her head too hard.”

She loved this man, what happened in the past could not change anything about that. And now that they finally had the peace to enjoy the bond they shared, she could not have her nearly-death dragging it down. Rather, she had to prove to Ivan that he was just as alive as her. Maybe this was crazy if one was not part of this. But she could not care less.

She grabbed the cape that Ivan took off after returning from the hunt and left crumbled next to his pillow and threw it over her shoulders like a blanket. Fluttering her lashes under the shaddow of the hood, she cleared her throat before speaking in a faked deep voice, that must be a horribly failed attempt to intimidate Ivan’s.

“Did it hurt when you fell from the window?”, seductively, but in a ridiculing kind of way, she wiggled her brows with a lopsided grin on those sinful lips that Ivan craved even more than her blood. “Something, something, me being an angel.”

Ivan bursted out laughing, at her way of changing the mood in her favor, at the happiness that bloomed in his chest whenever he saw her.

“That was terrible.” he managed between chuckles. As his whole body shook from the contractions of his breathing, she let off a bit to give him room, all-the-while keeping her gaze sultry. Her hands rested on his chest until he had calmed down a bit and was responsive again.

“Why don’t we work on improving that then.” Her suggestion might have been innocent, of it wasn’t for the heated look in her grey eyes.

One pull and he had caught her off balance, pulled his lover closer on top of him, flush against his torso. No more words were needed. Ivan’s body, his hands, pressed against her with an urgency that held promises he’d be eagerly fulfilling when it came to her.

* * *

Downstairs, Ethan sat on the couch with his face burried in his hands, breathing deeply and soundly. With and energetic motion he combed his fingers through his hair and got up.

“I will ask Vlad if I can move down into the cellar.” Aaron, who was throwing darts at the board on the opposite end of the room, raised a questioning eyebrow, so Ethan could see that he was indeed listening and  continue with his explanation. “They are constantly on each other. I don’t know how long I can take, having the room under his”

The redhead snorted.

“I didn’t expect you to act even more prude than Vlad… he sleeps on the other side of that wall, after all.” He said with a mocking grin on his face. Even after all the time Ethan had spent with Beliath, this was still bothering him? But there was one thought that might reassure the medic, or rather hit him even harder than the present. As soon as Aaron voiced it, a silken pillow came flying at his face, but he simply caught it with a laugh and an bemusedly fond gaze at Ethan’s moping form.

“You will get used to it over the next months… years…decades.”

[andrianawinchester]

Lover Of Mine: An Analysis.

A/N: This is my first attempt at writing a thorough analysis on one of my favourite songs. This is my personal view on the song both sonically/musically (with the little knowledge I have on music) and lyrically. I will also link the sources I utilised and whatever else I consider interesting considering the song.

Disclaimer: I do not own anything of the song or the pieces of the articles I've utilised.

 Let's start by saying that Lover Of Mine is written on a ¾ rhythm, also called waltz time. Now, the waltz dance is what we could call a "passionate couple dance". What I feel it's important to point out is that the ¾ time might not be that rare in piano pieces, but it's quite rare in today's pop/pop-rock music. The piano and the acoustic guitar in this song, along with the incredible vocals, are prominent, in your face, giving off a sense of desperation, need to get what you mean on the other side. Luke Hemmings had said that he wanted the song to have a Jeff Buckley vibe and I'd say he got that right. At this point, it is worth mentioning that Luke co-wrote Lover Of Mine with his girlfriend, Sierra Deaton. It is also his favourite song on the album.  Genius mentions that this song is about the maturity of the protagonist and realising the past mistakes they have made with their lover. A fair observation, but let's take a deeper look into the lyrics.

[Verse 1: Luke] Lover of mine, maybe we'll take some time Kaleidoscope mind gets in the way Hope and I pray, darling, that you will stay Butterfly lies, chase them away, mmm  It seems that there is a need for some research here; A kaleidoscope is an optical instrument with two or more reflecting surfaces tilted to each other in an angle, so that one or more (parts of) objects on one end of the mirrors are seen as a regular symmetrical pattern when viewed from the other end, due to repeated reflection. So, returning to the interpretation of the lyrics, they are constantly replaying scenes of their relationship in their minds, the way a kaleidoscope would reflect an image multiple times. Maybe the scenes replayed in their heads aren't the happiest of their time together, it's in the human nature to think more of the bad times than the good ones anyway. That echo tires them and maybe taking some time apart would be helpful to both parties, but it isn't what the protagonist desires. Then we have the butterfly lies. It could mean "beautiful", small lies or it could be a different phrasing of "lies about the butterflies" suggesting that they are deceiving eachother about "the butterflies in their stomachs", hence their feelings. When I first heard the lyric, I thought it was a nod to the Butterfly Effect (in chaos theory, the butterfly effect is the sensitive dependence on initial conditions in which a small change in one state of a deterministic nonlinear system can result in large differences in a later state, a very small change in initial conditions creates a significantly different outcome) and a chain reaction of sorts, where each innocent lie leads to another, more sinful one. Continuing on.

[Pre-Chorus: Luke & Calum] Dance around the living room Lose me in the sight of you I've seen the red, I've seen the blue Take all of me Deep to where your secrets hide Where we've been a thousand times Swallow every single lie Take all of me  For starters, let me mention two things; 1. The song was written in one day in Hemmings' living room. 2. Does that sound familiar to you? (Dancing through our house with the ghost of you, Ghost Of You) I am aware of the notable differences of both the songs as a whole and the fragments of the lyrics, but I'm recognising some similarities as well. Dancing in the house, but being unnoticeable by their partner, be it of boredom or neglect, quite like a ghost.  The mention to the colours red and blue could be a reference to the "warm"(red) and "cold"(blue) moments in their relationship, but what came in my mind was the red and blue glasses we used to wear to watch 3D movies. Using a red and blue lens tricks the brain into seeing a 3D image and false-perceiving depth in an image. So, that either means that the protagonist understands all the sides of the relationship, or the depth of it and wants to stay either way.  Ignoring all that their situation is lacking and all the lies and despite all the secrets, there is this plea; "Take all of me", it's like begging, like saying take me for who I am and for what I am not and take me  with all my wrongs and for what I'm willing to give. And, oh, the way Luke sings it, so desperate that you can imagine him on his knees with one hand on his lover's knee and tears in his eyes. Proceeding before I cry my eyes out.

[Chorus: Luke] I'll never give you away 'Cause I already made that mistake If my name never fell off your lips again I know it'd be such a shame When I take a look at my life and all of my crimes You're the only thing that I think I got right I'll never give you away 'Cause I already made, already made that mistake  The chorus begins with a promise of redemption, but maybe it's a little too late.  The lines "When I take a look at my life and all of my crimes You're the only thing that I think I got right" compose the most heartbreaking and honest love confession ever. I can hear a barely there crack in Luke's voice on the word "right". *Collecting the scattered pieces that once were my heart* On we go!

[Verse 2: Luke, Luke & Calum] Lover of mine, I know you're colourblind I watched the world fall from your eyes, ooh All my regrets and things you can't forget Light them all up, kiss them goodbye  Here, we have a second mention to colours, or the lack of them in this case. Maybe it suggests resignation on the partner's side, lack of emotional availability, in contrast to the protagonist's perseverance and will. The next line states two things; firstly that the partner has indeed quit and secondly that they mean the world to the protagonist. The second verse also ends with a plea that is similar to the one from the end of the first verse ("Butterfly lies, chase them away, mmm").

 By that time, the music has intensified and the drums can be heard more clearly and somehow their beats synchronize with the ones of the listener's heart, creating the ultimate song experience, conveying all the right emotions, making it all the more perfect for the Pre-Chorus and Chorus to sound for the last time. 

Lover Of Mine - 5 Seconds of Summer

Kaleidoscope

Genius Lyrics&Info

Another Interpretation For The Song

[parasympathic]

SELF PARA 002.

[ isa 💕 → monty ] sel’s already here but you’re welcome to join us...? 😁 

It was, objectively speaking, a terrible idea. For a number of reasons that came quickly and didn’t require any great amount of overthinking on Montgomery’s part this time. If it were only Isabel, there wouldn’t be a question, a promised bottle of Patron that he’d offered to bring to her tonight, a long overdue escape that he thought they both might need. Drinking with Selwyn, however, carried a number of complications, even if it was solely for her status within the Magistrate. A string he’d already pulled on a few times, bullets dodged thanks to sympathies she pretended she didn’t have. Which still didn’t make it wise to let go of his firmly held self control, not in front of a telepath or a friend, when there was an expansive list of secrets he carried, both damning and personal. 

There was one reason stacked against it, a side effect of the forced distance between himself and Emil. One he hadn’t anticipated, because it had never been a problem before, not really. He might have had a strained relationship with sleep, a tendency to overthink that kept him up until strange hours of the morning, but he’d learned to function on the bare minimum. It was time alone that was disappointing, sure, but it wasn’t an overwhelming kind, at least it wouldn’t have been before. 

Before the Institute. Before cuffs around his wrist and white walls around him, memories that crept into his thoughts when he was staring up at the ceiling in an empty bed, finding himself stretching his mind out to move the bed, or a book, or anything so long as he could assure some irrational part of his mind that there wouldn’t be a blue flare across the ceiling the second he did. Memories that found those cracks in his unconscious mind, a few confusing moments when he first awoke that he couldn’t remember where he was. A brief second of panic, of his heart pounding as he tried to blink the grit from his eyes and focus on his bedroom. Bed empty, but his, scars on his wrists, but no cuffs.

It was a reassurance that got him through the day, but hadn’t helped the last three nights, and it left him staring at his phone for a moment before he replied.

[ monty → isa 💕 ] be there in twenty, chérie. 

The game was never have I ever, and after the first three shots Montgomery decided it had been chosen with the specific purpose of fucking with him. Enough sins already shared between the two women sitting around the table with him that he suspected most of what they said was either an inside joke, or in Selwyn’s case, a chance to figure out just how much Monty had changed. Because she’d recognized a shift in him as much as he had in her, pinpointing it the first time he’d seen her at the Pit, just by the way he smiled. Even if she didn’t know why he hadn’t before, even if she didn’t know why it hurt to hear himself called a robot. And maybe it was because she’d paid more attention, because Dom had looked up to him, but not at him, and Dev might’ve forced her hobbies on him, but she’d found him boring.

“Never have I ever been arrested.” Isabel’s offering, accompanied by a muted grin in his direction. His response an easy roll of his eyes before he tossed the shot back, aware that there were three empty glasses hitting the table afterwards.

“Why Dr. Monty, I’m shocked.” Selwyn, putting a hand to her chest and looking at him with mock surprise. “Scandalized even.”

“Are you though?” Brow raised in a challenge before he nodded his head to the dark haired woman on his left. “We have the same friend.” A point proven solely by the ease of his posture, back against the chair and Isabel’s feet crossed and resting in his lap. Palm curved around her shin with easy affection he didn’t give most.

Something just as endearing in the way she cursed him afterwards. “Hijo de puta I did that for you.”

“Oh, I know, that’s why it’s funny.” A grin flashed at her that dissolved into a laugh as she kicked at his knee, and a memory of a holding cell that shouldn’t have left him with so much warm fondness sitting on his chest.

It didn’t surprise him when the game started devolving into questions of love and sex and heartbreak, and he lost track of how many he tossed back alongside them. Ignoring that three months ago he wouldn’t have been able to drink to half of them, heartsick before, but never heartbroken, a list of lovers but never in love. Somewhere along the line it drowned out some of his fear, leaving a secret out on the table among empty shot glasses. One he’d kept so long he thought it had become part of him, but there was something liberating about leaving it on the cutting room floor.

"It makes sense,” said Sel. A response that had Monty lifting a brow, a tone far too innocent as she toyed with a shot glass. “No wonder you were so oblivious to my charms.”

It made him laugh, something too relieved in the sound, head resting against the back of the chair. “Obviously. The only reason.” Because some secrets were easier to let go of than others, and he found this one didn’t hurt as much as he’d feared.

He was still grateful when they broke for food, a chance to let the tequila settle, Isa complaining about the poor quality of her weed before she remembered why, and he blamed both the liquor and the smoke hanging thick in the air instead of her for the bluntness that followed. “Tell your boyfriend to stop avoiding me.” 

“We’re too old to pass notes, chérie.” Said as gently as he could, not wanting to sit in the middle even while feeling as though it was a space he firmly occupied.

“Dile a ese cabrón, stop being a little bitch.” A curse accompanied by a gesture of the lighter, and he knew he was drunk because he found himself biting back a laugh, even while fully aware it wasn’t funny. That his trust wasn’t the only one left shattered, too many messages in her phone that Monty hadn’t written, and if there was the faint prick of guilt that he might’ve helped ruin something between them, he couldn’t remember how to lie to her, or if he even wanted to.

It left him with a quiet longing, missing the man abruptly when he’d managed to keep himself distracted most of the night. Not for any comfort he wanted to steal, but for the absence of him, the certainty that Emil would fit easily into place around the table with them. A familiar fantasy of their lives intertwining, and after a moment he pulled himself to his feet and reached for his phone.

Monty didn’t regret the decision to call Emil, not while he was on the phone with him. It wasn’t until after, sitting there on Isabel’s fire escape with nothing but the quiet sound of voices and laughter behind him and the distant hum of a car in the distance that it finally set in. Trying to replay a conversation where already the details were slipping away, and he was just left with a growing unease and the ache in his chest, a quiet voice swearing that he’d somehow fucked up. Sinking guilt following when he thought it was for the conversation itself, Emil miles away and trying to balance his life and his family. He didn’t need Montgomery falling apart.

He was slow to untangle himself from his place on the metal grate, vertigo hitting him hard and leaving him with a hand pressing against the side of her building to keep himself steady. A brief laugh following, an instinctive reaction that lacked real humor, and then he was trying to navigate his way back through the window.

It went worse this time, one leg getting caught on the edge, body tilting to compensate for it, and ending with Monty on his back staring up at Isabel’s ceiling with one foot still sticking out into the cold air. He heard laughter somewhere behind him but he didn’t look back, a distant awareness of burning in his eyes and the sensation of something stuck in his throat. Making it harder to breathe, to talk, to think, and he couldn’t tell if it was regret or despair.

Only that it hit in waves, his own voice in his head, am I different?

Do you want to be the same?

The answers slipping in easier now, one after another, when he wasn’t trying to hold onto something more fragile through the thin connection of a phone call. I just don’t want to be weaker. I don’t want to be ruined. I don’t want to feel that powerless ever again. I don’t want nightmares and I don’t want fear and I don’t want to wake up and not remember where I am. I don’t want to wonder if everything good about myself already got destroyed years ago and if Hugo just finished the job.

I want to know who I am.

Monty’s palms pressed against his eyes, self restraint doing a poor job of holding himself together when there was so much tequila stripping it away, so he tried to cling to it with the pressure of his hands and desperate, steadying breaths that got cut off again when it just left room for something worse to slip through. Every memory he’d tried to put aside, to strip whatever useful information he could before discarding them, a month of his life that still clung to him like smoke. A logical dissection of events and an illogical shaking of his frame, trying to hold in the wretched sob that wanted to rip from his chest, because what good is that? 

“Monty?” Isabel’s voice breaking through first before he felt fingers in his hair, a soothing comfort that he flinched away from before settling under her touch. “Hey. What happened? What did he say to you?” 

“No, no, he didn’t do anything wrong.” Words that came quickly and thoughtlessly, escaping somewhere between ragged breaths to stall any anger before it came. Even if it felt like a blatant lie after it was past his lips, because Emil had left one of the deepest scars, that feeling of betrayal, of trust shattering, one he hadn’t given blindly, but with too much hope. And the man had burned it all down, maybe destroyed them both, and it left Monty with too much hurt pressing down on his chest, a brutal crushing ache in both heart and his lungs that wasn’t just for himself, his prison stark and white, Emil’s looking like a rotting mockery of his own bedroom. 

He didn’t know if he could forgive, but he’d wanted to forget, and found it still all too close the second he stopped packing those wounds with something golden and kinder. Reaching out his hand to grasp at her arm, the other dragging across his face again, trying to ignore the warm wetness slipping down his cheeks, a memory of sitting on his couch trying to stem the same flood. “Can you just... hug me?” 

There was no hesitation, just Isabel shifting behind him, pulling his head into her lap and arms curving around his shoulders. A comfort that made the shaking of his frame worse before it got better, fingers tight around her arm and wishing he could explain to either of them why he was crying. But if Emil had told him to talk about it, he couldn’t find the words, just the distant awareness of a wound that hadn’t healed and her voice, telling him “I’m here.” 

His awareness of Selwyn was just as removed, barely aware of her settling down on the carpet next to him. None of the same easy affections given, but after a moment her hand settled on his shoulder, her voice “do you want to see more of memories of you?” and no real chance given to answer before the world faded away.

Isabel’s living room was made black, soft and encompassing, like dreamless sleep, a darkness that Montgomery felt himself sinking into. Warmer for the comforting contrast to stark white, muscles untensing and going liquid as he stretched out onto the carpet. Wondering if he didn’t fall asleep in the brief moment before nothingness and the sudden emergence of memories, cast in bright technicolor even if his own were black and white. An intense projection of thought, of someone else’s life, none of the images belonging to him, and he didn’t know if it was comforting to see it all again, but he thought it was meant to be.

Because there was a version of himself in Selwyn’s memory, the version she saw, of someone calm and composed even as a child. Always the babysitter when he was older than the rest, always the one taping up wounds and skinned knees, and there was a flicker of his own memory in the back of his head, putting them on his own scrapes and scars too, but alone in the bathroom. A version of himself he’d thought was so dissonant from who he was now, but there was too much familiar, beyond the simple physicality of the boy in her memory. The starkest difference in the eyes, because they looked impossibly vacant, and part of him wondered distantly how she hadn’t seen it, how no one had seen it, why no one could hear him silently screaming when he’d still been young and new. It was a feeling that was all too familiar, like it had echoed through the years until history repeated itself, taking new form; how did no one notice I was gone?

The tug on curled locks distracted him, tipping his head back to see a smile so much brighter on Isabel’s lips as she watched the images around them, invited in by the woman who controlled them. “Look how young you were. Look at your hair,” she said. A different echo this time, like family, like a mother sharing stories about her only son, the warm smell of coffee and old books. And those were present too, an image of a lanky, teenage version of himself, still curled in a chair with a book in his lap before he was interrupted. He closed his eyes briefly to hold onto it, to hold onto Isabel, letting the world shift on its axis beneath his spine, the kind of vertigo that made him wonder if he wasn’t in danger of spilling off the earth altogether. A distant, nostalgic ache that always came with missing a home that he’d never had. 

And he knew when it faded, light pressing against his eyelids before she was prodding him gently. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He stayed quiet for a moment, blinking away the darkness and left staring up at the ceiling that was too bright in comparison, but he reached out, floating the bottle of tequila off the table. Thoughtless and casual and his, no flicker of blue, no yawning emptiness greeting him in place of his gift. He wasn’t trapped, not in a cell, not in his own home, not by anything but chains of his own making, and if he’d changed, if he was different, it wasn’t the first time. A painful echo of empty eyes looking back at him, and he finally nodded his head. Tilting it back to look up at her, a grateful squeeze of her arm. 

“No,” he said. “But I feel a little better.” Sitting up slowly, hand reaching out for the bottle as it drifted into his grasp, a swig straight from it before he turned and passed it to Selwyn like quieter gratitude. Letting the taste of something sharp and sweet ease the dull and distant ache in his chest when he couldn’t quite name its form. If it was for what he’d lost or never had, if it was for who he’d never become and who he wished he was, for a moment all he had was another memory, her voice somewhere in the back of his head, and he didn’t know if it held hope or just another hurt. Although, who knew you would change so much, after all these years, making jokes and all. No longer quite the robot.

Despite his assurances, Monty didn’t feel better, not right away. Tequila that was compromising his faculties, but kept him hovering on that line between bleak despair and a reckless, boundless happiness that he’d wanted to hold onto. A quieter thought that he’d wanted to share that with Emil more than anything, a version of himself that didn’t carry cuffs around his wrists or the scars from it, but he’d warned the man about delusion and he should’ve known better. There was more comfort from simply passing the bottle around like he was back in college again, the first time he hadn’t felt like an outsider staring in from behind two way glass. 

“I want ice cream.” Decided abruptly, unsure if it was true until he was saying it.

And that was how Montgomery Lacroix ended up in the Circle K sometime after midnight, a mess of snacks and ice cream scattered across the counter, and Sel plopping down a slushie next to it. “It’s not a Slurpee,” she said. “But it’ll do.” 

This time the nostalgia made him laugh, something easy and simple from his childhood that didn’t demand anything more complex, a joy so small it hadn’t been worth stripping away from him, and he nodded his head at her once it settled into an easy grin. “Get me one too, yeah? The blue flavor.” Turning afterward to the poor kid working behind the counter, a little wide eyed as he stared at the three of them. Finding himself unconcerned for now about whatever rumors spread tomorrow, the kind of thing he’d always avoided and always feared, never letting anyone see a single crack in the man he’d made himself into. 

Ones that might all be on display, but there was something just as liberating in how little he cared, even if it was courage fueled by tequila. “Can I get... stop...” the words broken up by a short laugh and Isabel tucking sunglasses into place over his ears, grinning at her reflection in the red and orange lenses. “A pack of Camels,” he tried gain. “And these too, apparently.” Gesturing vaguely at his face, and if his eyes were hidden he decided it was enough for tonight just to know they were no longer empty and vacant.

[musicreviewbfox]

Chromatica

The Album Chromatica is Lady Gaga’s newest album. It’s a new album not only in the sense that it marks her return to being an Enigma to the general public again. But this album also uncovers how the artist behind Lady Gaga has been feeling and hopes to reach out to people. She hopes to reach out to her fans. The album its self is almost a love letter to not only Stefani the woman behind the mask of Lady Gaga. But Chromatica is an album to let others join in on her own self-love affair. Chromatica has three string arrangments that are key to dividing up the album from Resentment and depression to Entrapment and PTSD and lastly ends in a blanket of upbeat pop rhythms where Stefani assures herself that she is making an everlasting impression on not only her fans but the music industry itself. 

 I didn't ask for a free ride

I only asked you to show me a real good time

I never asked for the rainfall

At least I showed up, you showed me nothing at all

The beginning lyrics of Rain on Me by Lady Gaga and Ariana Grande form a beautiful entry to the depressive side of Chromatica after Lady Gaga drops us into Chromatica with Alice and ensuring that Chromatica runs on everlasting Stupid Love. Rain on Me is different from its predecessor in which Stefani admits that the love-filled joy trip she had has finally come to halt and she is left yet again broken-hearted. She dissects the struggle she now faces being alone and admitted by herself in interviews “A fountain of misery for tears to pour out of”(Spotify). This everlasting presence continues with the lyrics.

It's coming down on me

Water like misery

It's coming down on me

I'm ready, rain on me

We are reminded that this is the mesmeric miserable state that Gaga and Ariana are in with the lyrics but the beat in the background of Rain on me is a heavy bass and beat to carry the singers on and be able to channel that miserable energy into fighting dance styles as displayed in the music video that they both appear in. Gaga leading the front of the pink tribe and Ariana with the purple tribe. Both singers are seen in Mad Max outfits which is the setting of Chromatica. A dystopian world where all ideas are challenged and the only way to survive is to dance away the pain or love you feel. Which carries us to Ariana’s lyrics 

Living in a world where no one's innocent

Oh, but at least we try

Gotta live my truth, not keep it bottled in

So I don't lose my mind

Baby, yeah

I can feel it on my skin

It's coming down on me

Teardrops on my face

Water like misery

Let it wash away my sins

It's coming down on me

Let it wash away

 Ariana comes in with massive vocals and is able to quickly catch up to Lady Gaga in terms of performance. In an hour-long interview with Zane Lowe this was one of the hardest parts of the song for both Ariana and Gaga. Ariana reportedly felt overwhelmed and felt like she couldn’t keep with Gaga until Lady Gaga pulled her out of the booth, determined Gaga said “you are gonna sing as you’ve never done before, while I dance in the corner”. That’s exactly what happened and Ariana outdid herself with many fans and critics saying that the high notes Ariana not only hit while in the studio were astounding but the high notes she hit on the VMA’s matched up to why the duo worked so well together on this record. This now brings us to some closing lyrics

I'd rather be dry, but at least I'm alive

Rain on me, rain, rain

Rain on me, rain, rain

I'd rather be dry, but at least I'm alive

Rain on me, rain, rain

Rain on me

I hear the thunder coming down, won't you rain on me?

Rain on me

I hear the thunder coming down, won't you rain on me?

Rain on me

The final lyrics of Rain On Me show how Ariana and Gaga are prepared for any more trials to come in the future. The duo is prepared for whatever comes their way and are ready for the misery that the tears of regret and broken love may give them. Love being a recurring theme is Chromatica so far in the first section means that it won’t be overplayed and overdone as you the reader will see which is really one of my only criticisms of this album.

The next song that we’ll cover on the Chromatica album is Replay. The song Replay has a lot to do with much of Lady Gaga’s PTSD and Trauma responses to the violent attacks she suffered at 17 and 19. The middle of Lady Gaga’s album is much more of her pained past and how she chooses to come through the other end is with music. Lady Gaga heals as reported is through music. Lady Gaga reported in a Spotify/genius interview. “I refused to not allow this song to be on the album. Sure, I’m the “boss. But really chromatica cannot exist without an abstract explanation of what it’s like to be triggered if you have PTSD.”. So with the explanation of the reason why the track exists at all, it’s now to dive into the lyrics of Replay. 

Am I still alive?

Where am I, I cry

Who was it that pulled the trigger, was it you or I?

I'm completely numb

Why you acting dumb

I won't blame myself 'cause we both know you were the one 

In the beginning Lady Gaga questions if she is still alive much like how she reports in her song 911 at the beginning of the second act of Chromatica is if she is still sane and can’t escape the voices in her head during a manic episode. She again feels trapped but an outer source forcing her to relive a traumatic experience that she feels undeserving of. The questions of why does my existence amount to this, why was I the chosen out of so many people, why can’t I escape this anguish and misery. Gaga takes all of these questions and puts them as a side focus to have the answer put in front of people. Lady Gaga believes she isn’t a savior but rather looking to take the pain she’s delt and expresses it through music cause in the same interview Gaga says “ And the very thing that plagued my mind for years, trauma, is precisely the thing that now powers my lifeforce to be braver. I.e. this voice I hear- continue to make music although your brain feels it’s breaking sometimes.”. This brings us to the next set of lyrics 

Every single day, yeah I dig a grave

Then I sit inside it, wondering if I'll behave

It's a game I play, and I hate to say

You're the worst thing and the best thing that's happened to me

What Lady Gaga is trying to submit here is with her vocals radiating up and down a registry key is that she is condemning herself for feeling the pain and relieving the trauma she is experience. She continues to feel this pain and she questions is it her or the monsters that have been created in her head that force her to feel this way. She questions if she even cares about the damage being done to her mentally and physically and if she is paying the price for a much higher power for being the way she is. 

Psychologically, it's something that I can't explain

Scratch my nails into the dirt to pull me out of pain

Does it matter, does it matter? Damage is done

Does it matter, does it matter? You had the gun

You had the gun

You had the gun

You had the gun 

In the last lyrics of Replay, we the audience get a full picture described to us of how Lady Gaga is fighting the monsters in her mind and how she is trying to break free from a fire zone. A red zone in which every step causes pain and misery but Lady Gaga fights this torture by dancing and singing against it. She uses her music to help balance herself once and remind herself that she is ready to keep going and fight these monsters every time they replay.

I need you to listen to me, please believe me

I'm completely lonely, please don't judge me

In the sing 1000 Doves we get a different side of Lady Gaga, the side she’s sheltered and kept away from the world, aside she is ready to nourish and feed love again. That side of Gaga is Stefani. Lady Gaga put an alter ego in the spotlight and hid away Stefani the person and mind behind Gaga away from the world. She kept Stefani away and in this song she tells Lady Gaga she finally gets to meet the person who had the hard path and tough road to ride to fame and fortune. Stefani the woman who stuck around whenever everyone left her. Stefani endured many hard times and never got to fully understand and put into motion how her Trauma and battles against those that deposed her especially at her time in NYU Tisch. The next set of lyrics describe the passion and love that Stefani has for Lady Gaga.

When your tears are falling, I'll catch them as they fall

I need you to listen to me, please don't leave me

I'm not perfect yet but I'll keep trying

When your tears are falling, I'll catch them as they fall

In these sets of lyrics, Stefani is the singer and at the reigns. You can tell that this is Stefani coming through because she is saying she is always ready to catch Gaga’s tears as she falls apart no matter where and or why. Stefani has healed and is always ready for the net challenge. She was born ready for fame because of the humiliation she faced growing up. Misunderstood and abused was Stefani and so she took all the pain and formed an alter ego to protect from the world which is Lady Gaga. which is complex because the song seems like a love ballad to another person she vows to protect but in reality, it is a love letter to Lady Gaga from Stefani and how she is ready to combine to the two and have them heal one another.

I've been hurting, stuck inside a cage

So hot my heart's been in a rage

If you love me, then just set me free

And if you don't, then baby leave

Set me free

In these final lyrics, we get a showcase of what it was like for Stefani to finally meet the creation she helped launch into stardom. A woman she doesn’t know almost because of how long it been since shes played a role in Gaga’s life. Not since the Artpop have the two been in hand deep of creating music as Stefani has had the reigns in the last couple of years with Cheek to Cheek, Joanne, and A Star is Born. But Stefani knows the woman who brought the stardom and first captured the world’s attention which is Lady Gaga. So at the end of this song, the two recollect and remember how hard it was for Lady Gaga and Stefani to receive the credit that they’ve held onto for over a decade now.  

A thousand do-o-o-o-o-o-ves

Oh-oh

Flying, flying, flying like a thousand doves

A thousand do-o-o-o-o-o-ves

Flying, flying, flying like a thousand doves

Flying, flying, flying like a thousand doves

Flying, flying, flying

With these lyrics I abid you a good morning, afternoon, or night on our journey of Chromatica. Overall the main takeaways of Chromatica as an album are that Lady Gaga wrote this album as a self-love note much like in the ways of Ariana Grande did with sweetener, Kesha did with Rainbow, and what many artists do with self-titled albums or more depending on how long they’ve been in the music industry. But the core points to take away from Chromatica is that hardships are expected and what you can expect for Stefani or even Lady gaga to do with those hardships is to write music and dance the pain away. Either is be a traumatizing experience in Replay, a broken heart in Rain on Me, or even a question of self-worth in 1000 Doves. Gaga will and forever make music for those who feel like an underdog and had many crazy experiences.

 Links:

https://genius.com/Lady-gaga-1000-doves-lyrics

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CZXBF9t32zA

https://www.rollingstone.com/music/music-features/lady-gaga-chromatica-making-of-bloodpop-axwell-1007139/

https://genius.com/Lady-gaga-and-ariana-grande-rain-on-me-lyrics

https://genius.com/Lady-gaga-replay-lyrics

[anthracenes]

Passion-Based Learning | Chapter 5

Tags/Trigger Warnings: Non-Con/Rape, Hypnosis, Hypnotism, Abuse of Authority, Conditioning, Dehumanization, Master/Pet, Master/Slave, Dom/sub, Brainwashing, Praise Kink, Anal Sex, Manipulation, Objectification, Creampie, Implied/Reference Incest, Step-Parent/Step-Child Incest, Cock Rings, Orgasm Delay/Denial

[read on AO3 here]

After sending Isaac home for the day, Wilfred closes and locks the front door behind him.

He strolls through the foyer, the living room, and past the empty kitchen—traversing nearly the entirety of the first floor alone, all the way towards the staircase in the back. Though he knows of the lovely surprise he’s kept waiting for him, Wilfred is in no real hurry to actually get to it. He’s slow to climb the winding flight of steps leading to his bedroom.

All the while, he can't help but think of Isaac. As Wilfred makes his way up, his mind continues to replay over and over again the sinful, mesmerizing acts shared between him and his new “student”. He thinks back to those big brown eyes: soft pools of melted honey, staring up at him with such innocence through the boy’s long lashes. Warm and oh-so-trusting till the very end, when they had glazed over as Isaac beautifully submits to him.

And who could forget such creamy thighs—wrapped around his shoulders like a vice, pulling him in closer as he plowed through the boy’s virgin-tight body?

Goosebumps prickle at his skin as Wilfred recalls the absolute thrill of it. The boy’s reaction at the end is all but icing on the cake. What matters to him more is successfully instilling in his student the suggestion to let go and obey—to crave the feeling of sitting back, surrendering both mind and body to his tutor during these little “breaks”. Once he has Isaac addicted to this, it will be mere moments before the boy is his; and by that point, it won’t matter how he reacts in the end. Wilfred could reveal everything to Isaac then, and the poor boy will still be all but helpless on his knees for him.

Two lovely pets, both under his complete and utter control.

Wilfred couldn’t wait for the day to come. He’s only certain his little kitten feels the same way.

Eventually, Wilfred reaches the end of the narrow corridor leading to his bedroom. Turning his attention to the silver knob in his hand, he gently pushes open the door.

“Here, little kitty,” he calls, smiling. “Master’s back.”

Inside, his “surprise” lays splayed out on top of his bed. Naked, of course—save for the weighted clamps biting down on his pink, puffy nipples, and the collar snug around his neck. His kitten’s thighs are spread wide open for him on the mattress, giving Wilfred a lovely view of the thick vibrator he slides in and out of his hole. His prick stands tall and pretty between parted legs, drooling all over him as it strains against his cock ring.

His head, lolled to the side in mindless bliss, perks up at the sound of his master’s voice.

Wilfred walks over to the bed beside him. The clothes he had him wear to greet Isaac had since been discarded on the floor, tucked neatly in a little corner away from the bed. His kitten must have been so uncomfortable having to pretend to be human, even for such a short amount of time, that he must have shed them here immediately after. Even still, he’s carried everything out so nicely that Wilfred has little to complain about. The performance he had given them all was stellar, given the truth of the matter. And he’s even gone above and beyond his orders here—putting on his collar and clamps all on his own, knowing just what to do to please his master.

Such obedience begs to be properly rewarded.

Gathering his kitten’s face in his hands, he leans in for a taste. The kiss between them is sloppy and rough, just the way he likes it: lips and tongues grinding against one another in a fervent, heated passion as Wilfred plunders his mouth. He relishes the little sounds he receives from his pet, who’s long abandoned playing with his toy in favor of wrapping his arms around him—pawing desperately at his face, his hair, his chest, his back. When he pulls away from the boy, Wilfred admires the adorable way his lips tremble, glistening with saliva in the pale light of the room.

He doesn’t need to look hard to notice the flush that had crept onto his skin, or the way his bound cock twitches with wanton need in between his legs.

“My… eager today aren’t we?” Wilfred smiles, nipping at his lips. “Were you that lonely, kitten? Waiting here for me, all on your own?”

Alex nods, mewling. His pet nuzzles insistently at him, rubbing his face against his fingers.

Wilfred chuckles. He narrows his eyes as he slides his fingers past his kitten’s cheeks and drags them onto his hungry lips.

“Well. Why don’t you show me how much you’ve missed your master, then?”

His kitten eagerly takes them in his mouth, licking and sucking on the digits like there’s nothing else he’s ever meant to do in life. He closes his eyes, moaning around them as he starts to couple the act with other sensations—tugging at the weights dangling from his chest, stuffing himself silly with the toy again.

“Good boy…” Wilfred purrs, sighing as he pets the boy’s head. “You’ve become such a good kitty for me now, haven’t you?”

The sight of such a submissive display from his pet only excites Wilfred. There is such a marked difference from the way the boy had been their very first meeting together, and it only highlights just how far his pet had come since then. It’s a blessing that Wilfred had come and “fixed” him just when he had. His mother, the weak-willed woman, had only spoiled the brat rotten all these years. Were it not for him, there’s no telling what type of trouble the little wretch would be getting into otherwise—what with that mouthy attitude, and his blatant disrespect for his elders.

Now, though? Now, his stepson is nothing if not an absolute dream.

A mindless, cum-thirsty little kitten, who lives only to please and serve.

He takes his fingers away from his pet, eliciting a desperate whine from the boy. Before he could go on to protest anymore, however, Wilfred flips him over face down—lifting his hips up and pinning his wrists down onto the mattress. He traces the curve of his lovely ass, rubbing soft, sensual circles with the flat of his digits before surprising his pet with a loud, harsh smack.

“Now, now... we’ve gone over this before, pet,” Wilfred whispers, voice thick and husky in the boy’s ear. “Well-behaved little kitties don’t complain like that now, do they?”

He rubs the sore bottom before giving it another hard spank.

“What should you do instead, when you want to ask Master for something nice?”

Alex keens at the assault on his buttocks. If the way he’d moaned just now hadn’t already signaled how much he had enjoyed his punishment, the way his cock twitches and leaks precum all over the sheets certainly does. He’s long been made receptive to Wilfred’s every touch—mind heavily altered and played with, to crave every bit of pain and pleasure his master wishes to hand him.

Everything Wilfred does to his body now feels nothing short of good.

“Forgive me, I… please…” he breathes, in between heavy panting. “I… I want… in me… please…”

“What’s that?” Wilfred tugs hard on a weighted clamp, causing his kitten to cry out from under him. “I can’t hear you at all. Come now, Alex, speak up for me. Tell Master what you need, properly.”

“Please, Master!” Alex cries, shamelessly begging him. “I need your cock inside me, please…!”

Wilfred chuckles, letting go of the weight. He removes the clamps off his pet’s chest altogether, taking a swollen nipple and rolling it gently in between his fingers. With his other hand, he grabs the vibrator and slides it out of the boy, turning it off.

“I do love it when my kitten purrs so prettily.”

Wilfred unfastens his slacks, just enough to pull his hard cock out from within while still leaving the clothing on him. He doesn’t bother grabbing the lube from his nightstand either, seeing as how his pet had done well to prepare himself already—judging by how slick and gaping his hole is for him. He strokes himself off before lining up at the boy’s entrance.

“You did good out there today… I couldn’t be more proud of you. Good kitties like you deserve to be rewarded once in a while, don’t they?”

His pet mewls, nodding.

“Well then, what are we waiting for?” Wilfred grins, gripping his pet tightly. “Here’s your reward, little kitty.”

With a quick thrust of his hips, he shoves himself in. Both Wilfred and Alex moan in unison as his cock twitches deep inside the boy, buried up to the hilt. Wilfred holds himself there, steady and fully seated inside his kitten’s fluttering hole. He makes no effort to move, casually taking the time to enjoy the warm, wet heat of his body while he watches his pet strain to keep from rutting back.

“Don’t move, darling. Stay. You know who’s in control, don’t you?”

Alex nods, shivering.

“Who do you belong to, Alex?”

“You, Master,” the boy manages. “I’m yours, a… all yours…”

“Do you want to cum?”

“Only if... Master wishes for it…”

Wilfred smiles, pleased at his kitten’s complete obedience. He knows there’s simply no turning back from here. There’s no undoing the months of sex and abuse he had heaped onto his stepson’s body; certainly no undoing the fact that he had long taken his virginity. His kitten can’t even get it up without a cock in either hole now. Even if he could erase the suggestions rooted firmly in his mind, there’s no way his pet would ever go on to enjoy a normal life after all of this.

He starts thrusting in earnest, then. In and out at a brutal pace, fucking his kitten hard into the mattress and making the boy gasp and writhe around him. He slides back, almost pulling out completely before slamming back inside, over and over again.

“That’s right. You’re mine, Alex. My pet, for me to use as I wish,” Wilfred whispers in his ear. “Your mind, your body, your orgasms, your pleasure… only I decide what to do with it all. And for you, there is no greater pleasure in life than that now, is there?”

His kitten shakes his head. He’s mewling happily as he gets to rut back and forth, driving his cock deeper into his unresisting body.

“To let go and take everything I give you, without a single thought in that empty little brain. It’s the highest honor a pet like you could ever have. And now you’ll help me bestow it on our new student too, won’t you?

“What do you say, Alex? A new little pup for you and I to play with. How does that sound?”

“Yes, yes yes...” his pet moans, rolling his eyes back. “Please, Master, please…”

Wilfred holds his kitten tight as he feels himself nearing orgasm. He reaches down front, smearing the boy’s own fluids all over his bound prick before tugging at the cock ring.

“I’m going to fill you up, kitten,” he grunts. “Nice and full. I want you to feel me deep inside of you, as you come on my cock. That will be your reward for such a brilliant performance.”

His pet merely sobs in gratitude, too far gone for words at this point.

Wilfred slides the ring off of him as he reaches his own climax. Immediately his pet cries out, cock pulsing as he shoots ropes and ropes of white onto his hand. The feeling of his kitten clenching down on him is so good, Wilfred is content to stay that way on top of him for a while—allowing that beautiful hole to milk him dry.

They collapse on the bed, not long after. Wilfred holds his stepson close as they both come down, panting heavily and catching their breaths together. Up close, he watches as his kitten closes his eyes, fast asleep in his master’s arms. He must have been so exhausted from the day’s activities, to have succumbed to sleep so quickly like that.

Wilfred chuckles. He pats his head gently, smiling as he murmurs sweet nothings into the sleeping boy’s ears. Alex is permanently, irreversibly ruined, now—incapable of being anything other than the dumb little pet Wilfred had meant for him to be.

And pretty soon, Isaac will be too.

[explodingcrenelation]

Tony Stark and the Messianic Archetype in Avengers: Endgame

* * * * * S P O I L E R S ahead for Avengers: Endgame * * * * *

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From a purely analytical standpoint, I don’t have anything against Tony’s character arc in Endgame culminating with his death. His last moments in the heat of battle weren’t rushed, poorly written, or unearned. If Tony Stark was going to die on screen, of course he’d do it like a goddamn badass—and he did.

At this point Marvel is telling a single story to millions upon millions of people and there’s no way they can craft a narrative to suit every single person. When I say Tony's death didn’t work for me, I do so knowing that Marvel wasn’t writing the story for me anyway. And I'm not trying to disparage the creative team's efforts and storytelling choices. They made a call. I don’t agree it was the right one.

For me, Tony’s death traps him inside a Messianic Archetype that doesn’t elevate his character in a wholly satisfying way and doesn’t fit the themes of the established, team-centric universe. In this essay I will…

…actually write a fucking 4000-word essay, so buckle up and read on if you’re in for the ride.

What Is the Messianic Archetype?

The Messianic Archetype is a messiah trope. It’s exactly what it sounds like—one person (usually (but not always) white, usually (but not always) male) who sacrifices themselves for the greater good. 

Here’s how TV Tropes puts it: 

In media, the Messianic Archetype is a character whose role in the story (but not necessarily personality) echoes that of Christ. They are portrayed as a savior, whether the thing they are saving is a person, a lot of people or the whole of humanity. They endure a sizable sacrifice as the means of bringing that salvation about for others, a fate they do not deserve up to and including death or a Fate Worse than Death. Other elements may be mixed and matched as required but the Messianic Archetype will include one or more of the following:

- The Chosen One. - True Companions who follow him. - Betrayal by one of those followers. - Persecution by nonbelievers. - Crucified Hero Shot (or other parallels to the Passion Play). - Figurative or literal resurrection. - A Second Coming. - The initials JC.

Some examples of Messianic Archetypes in popular narratives are: Gandalf in Lord of the Rings, Spock in Star Trek: The Wrath of Khan (or Kirk in Star Trek: Into Darkness), Harry Potter in The Deathly Hallows, Superman in Batman vs Superman, or Neo in the Matrix trilogy. The Doctor in Doctor Who is frequently and repeatedly presented as a messiah figure. Multiple incarnations of Sherlock also follow suit in multiple imaginings of the the Reichenbach Falls scenario. (I won’t go into details with any of these characters. I trust the Messianic Archetypes here are obvious to anyone familiar with these stories.) 

In the Marvel Cinematic Universe itself, we see Messianic Archetypes popping up all over the place—like daisies! Steve plays this part when he sacrifices himself in The First Avenger to stop Red Skull's plan to bomb several major American cities. His time in the ice is a kind of death from which he is subsequently “resurrected” in modern day New York. To a lesser extent, he also offers himself up as a sacrifice to save Bucky in The Winter Soldier. 

T’Challa follows this pattern in Black Panther when he’s betrayed by W’Kabi, defeated by Killmonger, and subsequently resurrected within the safety of M’Baku’s tribe. 

In the first Thor movie, Thor is betrayed by Loki, sacrifices himself to the Destroyer to protect his human friends, and he comes back from near-death with the return of Mjölnir, having proven himself worthy of the hammer. 

Carol Danvers destroys Mar-Vell’s engine in Captain Marvel to keep enemies from getting their hands on tech that could harm millions of innocent people. Her human life symbolically ends in the subsequent explosion, and she’s effectively reborn with superpowers.

Pepper Potts is betrayed by her former colleague Killian in Iron Man 3, selected as his “chosen one” for the Extremis injection, and she dies and is reborn from fire.

Yondu in Guardians of the Galaxy Volume 2—

Well, I could go on for a long time, but... you get the idea. 

The Messianic Archetype isn’t particularly new to popular media, let alone the MCU. 

This trope is deeply, almost subconsciously, woven into the fabric of popular western storytelling. There's nothing inherently wrong with that. Tropes are tropes for a reason—they speak to us on a cultural and instinctual level. We want to hear these stories over and over, replay them in new ways and look at them from different angles precisely because there is something meaningful in the narrative. 

And Tony Stark's narrative is no exception. His repeated acts of self-sacrifice fit into the Messianic Archetype very, very well.

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Proof That Tony Stark Has a Heart

The MCU kicked off in 2008 with the first Iron Man movie and Tony Stark has ostensibly been the main character of the franchise from the beginning. 

The Iron Man movies establish early on that Tony has a savior complex to match the size of his ego. Our genius playboy billionaire philanthropist is a deeply flawed hero who started out his career as a maker of WMDs. He was widely known as “The Merchant of Death” before he saw the error of his ways. Tony understands he has done many Bad Things and he must atone for those Bad Things—with his life, if necessary.

“I shouldn’t be alive, unless it was for a reason. ... I finally know what I have to do and I know in my heart that it’s right.” —Tony Stark, Iron Man

The first Iron Man movie climaxes with Tony ordering Pepper to blow the Arc Reactor to stop Stane’s rampage, even though Tony might perish in the process. In Iron Man 2, Tony is actively dying from palladium poisoning, but he faces down Vanko (sans Iron Man suit) on the speedway of the Monaco Historic Grand Prix. In the first Avengers movie, we see Tony put his life on the line to get a nuclear weapon out of New York.

This is a repeated pattern for Tony, and like an addict, it’s one he struggles to break. Over and over Tony flings himself into the fray, believing he’s the one who makes the difference—he’s the willing sacrifice whose blood saves the world. 

Tony selects himself to be “the chosen one” because he sees himself as the one at fault for bringing evil into the world. 

“We create our own demons. Who said that? What does that even mean? Doesn’t matter, I said it cause he said it. ...So why am I telling you this? Because I had just created demons, and I didn’t even know it.” —Tony Stark, Iron Man 3

Iron Man 3 shows us just how deeply responsible Tony feels for the wrongs of the world. Because he made naive (and selfish) mistakes when he was young, Tony blames himself for creating villains that plague the earth now. 

We see this best in the aftermath of the destruction of Tony’s mansion in Malibu. 

“Pepper, it’s me. I’ve got a lot of apologies to make and not a lot of time. So first off, I’m so sorry I put you in harm’s way. That was selfish and stupid and it won’t happen again. ...And I’m sorry in advance because I can’t come home yet. I need to find this guy. You got to stay safe. That’s all I know.” —Tony Stark, Iron Man 3

Yes, Tony absolutely provoked the Mandarin, a known terrorist, and the result is the complete annihilation of Tony’s home. Tony accepts responsibility for the destruction as though he was the one who shot the missiles himself. He goes so far as to volunteer himself for a solo mission to find the Mandarin without even bothering to contact SHIELD or the Avengers for help. He made this mess, he’s going to clean it up. All the while he suffers through crippling anxiety and panic attacks, demonstrating that the burden he’s put on his own shoulders is, in fact, too much for him to handle by himself. Still, Tony denies himself the comforts of home and family until he can atone for his wrongdoings.

Miraculously, Iron Man 3 gives Tony a respite when the tables are turned and, for once, Tony is the one ultimately saved by Pepper. After her rescue (pun intended), Tony gives up the armor, commits to having the shrapnel taken out of his chest, and he starts rebuilding the literal ruins of his life—both physical and metaphorical.

The respite doesn’t last, of course, because recovery doesn’t go in a straight line—oh, and also the franchise isn’t over and the MCU kinda needs Iron Man. And so Tony slides back into familiar, self-destructive patterns. 

"Few years ago, I almost lost [Pepper], so I trashed all my suits. Then, we had to muck up Hydra. And then Ultron. My fault. And then, and then, and then. I never stopped. 'Cause the truth is, I don't wanna stop.” —Tony Stark, Civil War

Tony taking on the mantle of the Messianic Archetype once more in Endgame falls perfectly in line with his established need to compulsively and perpetually atone for his sins. As a perfectionist who needs to assuage his guilt for his ongoing (and perceived) failures, Tony simply can’t stop himself from offering up his life in penance. Statistically it was bound to catch up with him, and in Endgame it does.

And not only does Tony give his life in true Messianic fashion, we are “treated” to a hyper-realistic and painfully extended sequence where his life drains out of him as his loved ones gather to witness him gasping out his last breath. (Thanks for that, by the way, Marvel. I’ll put this scene with the dead baby bunnies my childhood cat used to bring home as gifts. How thoughtful.)

Maybe the reason for the intensity of Tony’s death scene is to make the audience believe his death is the Real Thing, not some comic-book-superhero-movie trickery that he’ll be back from in a few minutes’ time. Perhaps it’s the only way to ensure we commit to the emotional depth of the moment. Perhaps the filmmakers see it as an homage to RDJ’s acting talent and commitment to the role. Regardless of the rationale behind the camera’s unflinching gaze, Tony’s excruciating death hammers home the brutal and lonely reality of the Messianic Archetype: it’s cruel to put the fate of the world on one person’s shoulders. 

But Tony embraces that end. He throws himself into the machinery of fate, convinced he’s the cog that will make it all work. 

And he does make it work. 

So why is that a problem?

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The Team-Oriented Universe

The problem with Tony doubling (tripling? quadrupling?) down on the Messianic Archetype at the apex of the franchise is that the MCU is an ensemble, team-oriented universe. 

“You think you're the only superhero in the world? Mr. Stark, you've become part of a bigger universe, you just don't know it yet." —Nick Fury, Iron Man

Fury tells us from the get-go that Tony isn’t the be-all-end-all of the MCU. It’s possible for Tony—for them all—to become something greater than the sum of their parts. 

“There was an idea, Stark knows this, called the Avengers Initiative. The idea was to bring together a group of remarkable people, see if they could become something more.” —Nick Fury, Avengers

The entire first Avengers movie is dedicated to establishing this premise, to getting these knuckleheads to work together because, alone, they’re too wrapped up in their own bullshit to adequately deal with the forces that threaten the planet. Things don’t start to go right for them until they set aside their personal issues and act as a unit. 

As we all know, our team passes the test and they establish an important principle of the MCU: teamwork is powerful and it’s more effective than working solo. 

True, Tony’s self-sacrifice in the context of the Battle of New York helps save the day; but it’s only one part of a coordinated effort. Tony chucking the nuke into space would have been pointless without the added efforts of Steve to coordinate civilian safety, Hawkeye to relay enemy movements, Thor to separate Loki from the scepter, Natasha to close the portal, and Hulk to subdue Loki and ultimately catch Tony as he fell from the wormhole. The team achieved a better outcome together than they each could have achieved separately. 

But even in the shared afterglow of winning the Battle of New York, the individual members of the team struggle to perfect their dynamic. New challenges present themselves. There’s always room for the team to grow and become stronger together as the franchise progresses. That’s the whole point. 

Tony, for his part, waffles back and forth between his desire to be the savior mechanic (to fix everything by himself) and his desire to work cooperatively with his found-family of superheroes for the common good. This internal conflict plays out over the course of the franchise as Tony takes on the Mandarin by himself in Iron Man 3. The issue then escalates in Age of Ultron when Tony convinces Bruce to help him create Ultron, unbeknownst to the rest of the team. Murder-bot problems and team drama ensue. Tony’s cycle of guilt perpetuates itself in the wake of the disaster in Sokovia, which prompts Tony to adopt the Sokovia Accords. He submits himself and the team to UN governance in Civil War. More team drama ensues.

The logical progression of this escalating team conflict should have involved Tony confronting his deep-seated compulsion to destroy himself for the sake of others. This is exactly the problem Pepper keeps trying to point out to him—his Messianic tendencies have started to cause more problems than they solve. 

“There is nothing except this. ... There's the next mission, and nothing else.” —Tony Stark, Iron Man

Tony has struggled from the beginning to find the right balance between personal sacrifice and sharing team effort. 

Pepper frequently tries to remind Tony that he doesn’t live alone in the world, he can’t do it all by himself. And there are people who want him to live. 

“You’re all I have, too, you know.” —Pepper Potts, Iron Man

Imagine how emotionally satisfying it would have been to see Tony outgrow his need for sacrificial penance and internalize a better lesson: that the savior can be saved, the burden can be shared, and life can go on. 

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A Better Ending for Tony

The MCU had the perfect opportunity to give us an ending that would be happier for Tony and a better fit for a team-centric universe. 

In Guardians of the Galaxy we see Peter Quill and his team survive the power of an Infinity Stone by working together to share the burden of its energy. 

Peter Quill is the son of a Celestial—he’s basically immortal up until the end of Guardians of the Galaxy Volume 2. That’s why he and his team could hold the stone without any ill effects. 

Also, they only had to channel the power of one stone. Not six. 

That’s a fair point. 

But by the time Tony had all of the Infinity Stones in Endgame, the battlefield was chock full of all kinds of superheroes. Wanda and Carol by themselves are  embodiments of two of the Infinity Stones. Hulk had managed to bear all of the stones by himself earlier in the movie. Steve, T’challa, and Bucky are enhanced super soldiers. Thor, Valkyrie, and the other Asgardians might not be Celestials, but they are gods—and there were a lot of them on that field.

And we’re supposed to believe none of these characters could offer any help to Tony whatsoever? None of them could hold Tony’s hand for a single minute to save his life?

There are plenty of arguments that could be made: Tony was too fast, no one knew what was happening, or everyone else was occupied in battle. But at the end of the day, it’s a choice the creative team made. Tony died because they wanted him to die. 

And not much would have to change to save his life. 

Imagine this: Tony gets the stones from Thanos and, in true Messianic Archetype fashion, he commits to making the snap, fully expecting it means his death—but then Pepper is there and Pepper has always been the one asking Tony to stop offering up his life to pay for some imaginary debt he thinks he owes. He hesitates, and it’s just long enough for Carol and Wanda swoop in, putting their hands on him and taking the brunt of the energy. Thor and Steve and Bruce and Clint pile on. Peter Parker links up, too, and on and on until the entire rest of the team, all across the battlefield, are in contact with each other and alight with power, channeling the energy of the six stones, keeping Thanos and his monsters at bay. 

Tony can still have his ultra-badass “I am Iron Man” moment as he stands at the center of this surging and fluxing cosmic energy—but this time he does it with support. There are people who care about him (and each other) on all sides. And there are so many of them. Tony isn’t the only one who matters, he’s just the lynch pin that holds it all together. 

Tony is Iron Man. 

More importantly? Together they’re all the Avengers. 

*SNAP*

The universe is set right.

Maybe Tony doesn’t escape entirely unscathed. Maybe he loses his arm as suggested by this post. Maybe the others all leave with their own scars, too. But Tony’s alive and he’s finally, deeply aware of what it means to transcend the limits of personal sacrifice and share the hero’s burden with others. 

He knows now exactly what the Avengers are capable of. Oh, and by the way? That protective shield he wanted around the world in Age of Ultron? Here they all are. All these wonderful, powerful people are going to protect the Earth. And you know what? They don’t need Tony Stark’s myopic self-sacrifice to do it. 

Tony finally feels like he’s done enough—and maybe now he believes there are other heroes out there who can do better than he can. Anyway, he gets to go home to Morgan and Pepper and he finds that it’s not so hard for him to let the new kids do the tough jobs now. He happily goes back to his role as “consultant” for the Avengers, he’s a mad inventor helping change the world for the better, and he also gets to have the long adventure of being a husband and a dad. He doesn’t have to choose one identity over the other—he’s Iron Man. He can redefine what the job means whenever he wants to.

(Also, he finds a way to rescue Nat because she didn’t deserve to be fridged like that. Just saying.)

This ending, or any number of variations like it, would have allowed Tony to finally show real growth at the end of his character arc, instead of succumbing to the same old self-destructive pattern we've seen from him time and time again. And it would have reinforced the theme of teamwork and its power to elevate all those who participate. 

Maybe it’s cheesy, but you know what? It’s the ending I wanted. I know I’m not alone. 

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Tony’s Not Really Dead, You Say? 

“There’s no need to be upset about Tony’s death,” some might say. “Tony’s gonna come back!” 

Resurrection is a huge part of the Messianic Archetype—and it might be that the filmmakers do intend to bring Tony back in some later movie. It might be they simply want Tony’s death in Endgame to sit a little while longer so it has a greater impact. (Gotta push for that best picture Oscar, right? The Oscars hate superhero movies, but they do love a sad ending.)

While I’m wishing for things, maybe Marvel will also release the multiple alternate endings they filmed for Endgame, essentially creating a “choose your own adventure.” Maybe we’ll all be able to pick the ending we like best and forget the rest exist. 

But I can’t make a judgement based on what might be, I can only say how I feel based on what we were given in the theater—for all intents and purposes, that’s the official story Marvel wants to share. 

The Endgame narrative insists there’s only one possible path to victory against Thanos. The “one possible path” is basically the equivalent of the creative team saying, “Don’t @ me.” There certainly must have been an impossible number of endings they could have put on film. Tony’s death is the one they picked. 

So, sorry for @ing you, Marvel, I guess, but there’s just one more point I want to make...

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A Personal Note

RDJ acted the hell out of Tony's final scene. He acted the hell out of the whole franchise. Tony's death was powerful and intensely moving. I wanted to ugly cry in the lobby after the movie was over, and I was upset for days after. 

So. Good job, Marvel. You got in some surprises and you wrung out some feelings from viewers like me. Now that the movie’s taken the world by storm, the surprises will play themselves out. So, I guess the big question is: Will audiences want to revisit this adventure and the feelings you ultimately left them with? 

For me? My reluctant answer is: no. I don’t want to see Infinity War or Endgame again. Not really. Not in their entirety. I didn’t mind the slog through Infinity War in 2018 because I thought, Hey, maybe this is leading to an ultimately happy and satisfying conclusion for these characters I care about so much. And, to be fair—right up until the last 15 minutes of Endgame, I was ready to say, “All’s forgiven.” 

There’s this thing in storytelling called “payoff.” It’s when you deliver a satisfying resolution or fulfillment to your audience after they commit to your narrative journey. Payoff can be extraordinarily subjective, so, again, I acknowledge that there’s no way to please everyone. 

For me, there’s no reward in the resolution of Endgame that makes the slog to its conclusion worth it. Tony’s ending is so needlessly sacrificial, so unnecessarily brutal, that it erases much of the enjoyment I otherwise had in watching the entire rest of the film. 

Don’t get me wrong. I like sad movies and scary movies in their own context. I like them when I can choose them and know that’s what I'm getting myself into. Sometimes I want the catharsis of being utterly terrified or brought to tears. Sometimes we need stories to give us the chance to feel deep and scary emotions in a safe environment. That’s an important function of creative work.

And, I mean, truly, Endgame gave us some great acting, great effects. Amazing talent. Really fun and creative moments. I’m not trying to disparage all the work that went into its making. 

But I feel like someone took me in a limo to a high-class restaurant to eat caviar and watch sad arthouse theater when all I really wanted was to go into town with my friends for some ice cream and a fun movie. 

I didn’t need rainbow-colored sprinkles on my ending, but something a bit sweeter would have been nice. So, well done, Marvel. But also—no, thank you. 

As it stands, Endgame was too bitter for my taste.