#marble eroding

[isolarya]

i know enjolras who is cruel to grantaire without meaning to is a thing but i also always think about the opposite

grantaire who is cruel to enjolras without realising it because enjolras is perfect, enjolras is a god, he's not going to care about what grantaire thinks so does it really matter what he says? grantaire who sees enjolras as untouchable and treats him as such when that's far, far from the truth

love it when they both just deeply, deeply misunderstand each other and hurt each other as a result, and only after a long struggle do they finally start to figure it out

[bruhstories]

Muse I

p.2 && p.3

summary: after futile attempts of producing paintings for the councillors of piltover, you finally find your muse. pairing: viktor x painter!reader warnings: suggestive content, strangers to friends-ish, angst, some swearing, afab!reader with she/her pronouns who wears skirts and dresses, somewhat canon divergent, particularly in part 2 w/c: 4k

a/n: this might be my magnum opus lol. it will come with a part 2. likes and reblogs are much appreciated and encouraged!

Paint dripped on the marble floor of your atelier — an unfortunate safety hazard that you were used to by now. You couldn't fill in the blank canvas with anything other than still life, despite being commissioned to paint portraits of every councillor, as well as a landscape of Piltover. But you lacked inspiration. Motivation. You had no muse, and councillor Salo definitely wasn't one, not with his snobbish attitude. 

"I'm afraid we'll have to postpone your portrait, Councillor." You excused yourself and left the room, armed with nothing but a sketchbook and a dull pencil.

Piltover was a beautiful city, and you knew you could paint it if you just found a nice spot to view it from. Somewhere high above, where you could see it in its entirety. But until you found that perfect place, you roamed the streets, closely observing the architecture, the flora, the fauna. You walked on grass — you weren't sure it was allowed — and found a fountain, clear water trickling down the granite curves and slopes. Whoever sculpted it did a brilliant job, despite the water eroding the stone. In fact, the erosion added a certain charm to it.

You took your sandals off and sat down on a patch of grass to sketch the fountain, steady, so as to not mess up your drawing, even if it was just a guideline for your future painting. It was then when you saw him — the most beautiful creature you ever laid eyes on. His unkempt chestnut brown hair framed his face in a way that made your heart flutter, but his striking amber eyes had you hooked. Even from such a distance you could see the yellow and orange hues mixing in his irises. 

Quickly flipping the page of your sketchbook, you began to draw him. Graphite slid up and down the parchment as your hand moved naturally, like it had a mind of its own. You sketched and shaded, not stopping until he did. Until another man joined him, effectively blocking your vision. No matter, your visual memory aided you in finishing the drawing, but you didn't stop there. You found your muse, and you needed to paint him.

Your nights grew restless as you juggled between painting Piltover, the councillors, and him. But he inspired you somehow, leaving only Councillor Medarda, half of the landscape, and his portrait unfinished. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn't get the colour of his eyes right, and it drove you mad. You couldn't remember exactly how much yellow you needed, or how much red. Was there a hint of green? Did you need to add a drop of blue? 

A soft knock on the door of your atelier startled you, and you opened it, greeting Councillor Medarda. You forgot she was due for her portrait, and invited her into your messy chamber.

"My apologies, Councillor, I didn't have the time to tidy up." 

"It's quite alright. I prefer this — the raw, unfiltered creativity. Besides, I've never met an artist that's organised." She smiled. "May I?"

"Of course." You nodded, bringing her more canvases and sketches to look at.

"You truly are gifted. The colours, the highlights, you must be a prodigy." The councillor nodded. "Is that-"

You snatched the paper from her hand, clutching it at your chest.

"Sorry, that one's... personal." 

"Funny. I thought I recognised that man." She pondered, and the gears in your head rotated. 

"If you do know him, could you introduce us?" You chewed on your lower lip, then left to show her another one of your paintings. "I just can't get his eyes right."

"Viktor." Councillor Medarda gasped at the sheer hard work you put into the portrait. "You weren't commissioned to do this."

"Like I said, it's personal. Practice." You swiftly corrected yourself. "Yes, good practice."

"I suppose I could take you to his lab. A fair warning — you might have to bring your supplies there, because he will never leave his work to pose for a painting." She scoffed. 

"I can figure something out."

Mel Medarda kept her promise after what seemed to be an eternity. Although you hadn't finished her portrait, you managed to paint a good chunk of it, laying down all the base colours and shapes. She would have to come back another day, however. You walked with her, closely trailing behind with a box full of paints, brushes and thick paper. You didn't bring his portrait with you yet, because you needed to assess him first, and you couldn’t paint anywhere else but your atelier. Sketching was different — that you could do anywhere, at any time. But painting was intimate. However, you were considering making an exception for him.

"Goor afternoon, Jayce." Councillor Medarda greeted a very cheerful, very lovestruck scientist. 

You could clearly see that he was doting on her, and she tried to hide her own excitement while maintaining a professional persona. It was cute to see a respectable scientist and a reputable councillor behave like teenagers — her hitched breath, his voice cracking, the quiver of her lip, the twinkle in his eyes — they were adorable. But you were here for someone else, not to witness their blooming love in a cold lab.

"Ahem." You cleared your throat inconspicuously, feigning a cough, and she remembered her promise.

"Jayce, this is Y/N. She's been commissioned to paint portraits of the councillors. Y/N, this is Jayce Talis, scholar, scientist, politician." Mel said, and you reached out your hand to shake Jayce's while propping the box in your hand with your knee.

"Nice to meet you, miss." His grip was firm around your fingers and palm. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

The councillor stifled a chuckle, her thin, delicate fingers covering her mouth. As always, Jayce thought himself to be the centre of attention. He was the centre of her attention, that much was certain.

"She's here for Viktor. Have you seen him?"

"Viktor, yes." Jayce awkwardly rubbed the back of his head, then looked at the crate in your arms. "Do you need a hand?"

"Thank you, Mr. Talis, but these materials are quite precious to me. I'd rather hold them myself, if you don't mind." You gripped the box tighter. 

Jayce found it amusing how fond you were of your paintings supplies, something you had in common with Viktor. He, too, was possessive of his work, in an incredibly stubborn, annoying way.

"Very well. Follow me." The scientist said, and you and councillor Medarda walked down a corridor of marble and limestone.

In classic Piltover architecture, golden columns decorated the tall walls, with blue spheres embedded in them, contrasting the polished white floor. Whoever designed it had a keen eye for details, you thought. Jayce and Mel partook in small talk, but you didn't intrude. You much preferred memorising the way to the laboratory, the number of stairs, and the motifs on the walls.

Two wooden doors stood in front of you, intimidatingly tall. Jayce opened one of them, inviting you and councillor Medarda in first, like the gentleman he was. You were taken aback by the materials on the worktops, the tools, the lights, the runes. It was a lot to take in, and you wouldn't understand what you were taking in exactly. But behind the tables full of hammers, screwdrivers and wrenches was your muse. He was focused on something, brows furrowed and lips pursed. A tiny bead of sweat trickled down his temple, slowly reaching his jawline, and you instinctively licked your chapped lips. 

"Vik!" Jayce called out, but the man offered no response, still concentrating on whatever he was doing. "You'll have to excuse him. When he's working, he seems unable to hear."

You smiled — it was a trait you both shared. Whenever you immersed yourself in painting, you couldn't pay attention to your surroundings. 

"Viktor!" Jayce moved closer to the table, snapping his fingers in Viktor's face, until the man scoffed.

"Yes?" Voice laced with irritation, he finally looked up at Jayce, then behind him. "Oh."

"Viktor, this is Y/N. She's an artist." Mel's hand reached out, and with a nod, you stepped forward, placing the heavy crate on an empty chair.

"I'm terribly sorry to bother you, but I... well, how shall I put it?" You rummaged through the box and pulled out your first sketch of Viktor. "I would like to paint you."

He took the paper from your hand, amber eyes wide at the beauty of it. Viktor scanned the sketch and every detail that went into it, pale cheeks tinted pink.

"I understand if you find this awkward, or if you don't agree." You carried on, but there wasn't an ounce of emotion on his face.

"When did you do this?" Viktor asked, still staring at himself. It was like looking into a mirror, yet he couldn't recognise himself.

"A few days ago, by the fountain." You tried to guess his feelings, but he didn't let you see them. "Again, I understand you probably consider me strange for doing this, but I must paint you, sir."

"I'm flattered, miss. But perhaps Jayce would be a better candidate? You'll find he is much more appealing to the eye." He handed you back the sketch.

You glanced at Jayce, a look of disgust on your face that you tried to hide. Sure, he was objectively attractive, that you could agree on, but you didn't want that. You wanted him. You wanted your muse.

"I think it would be a great idea, Vik!" Jayce beamed at his partner. "You need a break."

"That is precisely what I don't need." Viktor rolled his eyes. "Besides, I don't want to leave my lab."

"I could do it here." You offered. "I won't talk, I won't disturb you, you won't even know I'm here."

"It's already crammed."

"Please." You leaned forward, palms slammed on his table, trying to get a better look at his eyes. You probably looked insane like that, but you didn't care — you were desperate. "If you don't like it, you can hide it, break it, burn it. It will be yours to do as you please."

Viktor was past the point of being irked. He was downright furious, but he had to shut you up somehow. And Jayce, who really needed to wipe the shit-eating grin off his face.

"Fine." He mentally scolded himself for agreeing to do something so stupid. Posing for a painting? Ridiculous. 

"Thank you so much. This means the world to me!" You picked up the crate to find an unused spot in the lab. 

Viktor didn't mind your presence. You were true to your word — quiet. You didn't ask questions, didn't walk around the lab, didn't make him sit in some egregious position. In fact, he was surprised to see just how focused you were on your paintings. The fact that he didn't pose made it difficult for you to do a portrait — the whole point of it was for your model to sit still. And he did, just with his back at you, slouched and avoidant.

And you weren't always there. Bouncing between your atelier and the lab, between sleepless nights and painting, your schedule had become hectic. The bags under your eyes and poorly buttoned shirts, the strands of hair that stuck out from your updo, or the lines of green and blue on your cheeks were a dead giveaway. 

But Viktor was the exact same, missing only the paint on his face and the skirt. You were like two peas in a pod, so much so that it drove Jayce up the walls to practically have two Viktors in the lab. Stubborn, hard-working, irritable, he found it ridiculous that you didn't become friends yet, or at least something more than strangers, considering how similar you were.

But you weren't strangers.

The act of transcribing one's mind, body and soul onto canvas, without losing any tiny detail in translation, was intimate in itself. You had to study Viktor, to memorise his gestures, his quirks — the way his forehead creased when he focused, how he found comfort in gripping the handle of his cane, the twinkle in his eyes when he had a brilliant idea. You didn't need words to understand him.

At first, he found it odd. Having an intruder in his lab, in the only place that brought him comfort, joy and privacy, felt violating. It definitely didn't help that you kept a close eye on him. He understood why — you needed to look at him to be able to paint him. But it was, naturally, strange. Then, he became used to you, to your shadow, your scent — of roses, cinnamon, a hint of vanilla. Viktor never grew tired of the smell of copper and smoke, but whenever you walked past him in the afternoon to set up your easel and paints and brushes, he took a very deep breath in, just to oxygenate his brain with your scent.

The utter silence in the laboratory frustrated Jayce. Since you trespassed with their consent, his partner became quieter, and you barely uttered a good morning or goodbye. He really hoped you being there would help Viktor socialise, but it did the opposite. The sound of graphite scraping on paper, or bristles on canvas was the only thing he heard in days. It was too much.

"I need a break." Jayce slammed a screwdriver on the table, startling you, but Viktor was unmoved by the sudden rattle. "Viktor?"

"I'm fine." His partner waved his hand dismissively. 

"Y/N?" 

You set the brush aside, then cracked your knuckles. It had been hours since you had a drink or food.

"I'll take a break. I can't be efficient if I burn out, and I still need to finish the landscape." You got up from the wooden stool to stretch.

Behind the cogs and tools, Viktor glanced at you, amber eyes fixated on your neck, trailing down your collarbone, and your half-exposed chest. He didn't know when you unbuttoned your collar, or when you bunched up your skirt, but the clothes looked like an uncomfortable confinement on you. Like they stopped your body from flowing naturally. He wondered — an intrusive, improper, shameful thought — if you sometimes painted naked. If you were more creative when not clothed. But he shook the thought away when you walked around his table to the small stove behind him.

"Would you like some tea, Mr. Scientist?"

Viktor had forgotten how sweet your voice was, like a siren lulling sailors to their demise. He nodded, back facing you. He didn't dare to look at you after picturing you nude.

"Where did you study?" Jayce asked, and you really wanted Viktor to make that sort of small talk with you.

"Ionia, the Academy of Arts." You stirred the honey in Viktor's cup of tea.

"Mel tells me you're quite talented." Jayce complimented you, and you should've thanked him. 

"Talent is nothing without hard work, Mr. Talis, as I'm sure you already knew, given your career."

Viktor smiled, even if you couldn't see him. He wholeheartedly agreed with you — even if both him and Jayce were geniuses in their fields, they wouldn't have accomplished anything without sheer hard work and dedication. 

"You need to stop calling us Mr. Talis and Mr. Scientist." Jayce chuckled. "You've been in our lab for weeks now. You're part of the team."

"I wouldn't say part of the team, but I do appreciate the company. I can be quite lonely in my atelier." You placed the Viktor's tea on his table.

He couldn't help but feel a slight jab from your words. He, too, was lonely when Jayce left. But he didn't make an effort not to be. Work was more important, and he hadn't yet found anything to prioritise more than that. Jayce pulled out his pocket watch, and froze.

"Shit, I must go. I'm late to my date- my meeting. Sorry, Vik. Be right back! "

"Eeh, we both know these meetings take some time." Viktor grinned.

It wasn't the first time the two of you were alone in the laboratory, but it always happened when you were both working. You, however, were taking a break, and you needed it before returning to your portrait. Sitting in complete silence, you sipped on your tea, brainstorming ideas for the title of your painting. Viktor's Portrait didn't have a nice ring to it.

"You never asked to see it." You spoke, fingers wrapped around the warm mug, interrupting him for the first time.

He didn't, because he only agreed to it to shut you and Jayce up. He was never curious to see it finished, let alone in progress. But after spending weeks in your presence, and after you said that, he couldn't deny the curiosity that bubbled in his chest. Still, by this point, he could wait a few more weeks.

"I don't have any inclinations towards the arts, Miss Painter." Viktor playfully mocked the way you called him Mr. Scientist for so long. "I doubt any feedback I give will be useful."

He sighed, rubbing his eyes. Why were there two wrenches on his table? And two cogs? Two cups of tea? No, he was seeing double, his head was pounding, ears ringing. Viktor reached out for his cane, but when he took one step, his legs wobbled, refusing to support him. You caught him, a firm grasp around his forearm, and pulled the nearest chair for him to sit down after setting aside your mug.

"I suppose I am in need of a break, too." The scientist sighed.

Lately he had been looking paler, thinner. His clothes didn't fit him like they used too, trousers loose around his waist, held only by a leather belt. You brought his cane before he even asked you for it, and dug into your bag for food. Unwrapping the muslin cloth, you offered him your lunch — bread, cheese and a few dried fruits. It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing. 

"Eat, please." You encouraged him, breaking the bread in small bites. 

"No, it's your food."

"And I'm giving it to you." The stern tone of your voice had him oblige. 

"I've wondered, Miss Painter-"

"Y/N." You corrected him.

"Right, Y/N. I've wondered why did you want to paint me?" He asked after swallowing the food. "I'm a broken scientist, surely you could do better with your models."

"I am doing better." You pulled a chair for yourself. "I haven't had any inspiration in a very long time, despite being commissioned to paint fairly simple things. But then I saw you, and everything changed. Like it or not, Viktor, you became my muse that day."

"Well, I'm flattered. Truly." He winced at the weight of his brace around his calf. "I need to take this off. Too tight." Viktor bent over but his vision blurred, forcing him to lean back in the chair.

"I'll do it."

"Please, I don't need pity. Just to rest." He scoffed.

"It's not pity, it's help."

"Help because you pity me." 

"Help because I want to help. Have you never experienced honesty from people?" You kneeled down between his legs to get a better look at his brace.

His jaw clenched at the sight of you like that. It has been too long since he touched someone, and although your intentions were pure, he could not block his sinful thoughts from tainting his mind. You were beautiful, clever, and you shouldn't waste your time with someone like him. Yet there you were, nimble fingers working the leather straps of his brace. You pulled it off, resting it against the table behind you.

"Is there anything else I can do for you?" You looked up at him, and he drowned in your doe eyes.

Oh, there were plenty of things you could do for him, he just couldn't utter them, only imagine them.

"No, I'll just rest here if that's alright with you." Viktor nodded.

"Very well. I shall get back to my painting, but please, if you need any help, tell me."

When Jayce returned, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. You were meticulously combining colours, eyeballing the necessary amount you needed to create the shades you desired. Viktor was back at his table, brace around his leg and a chair closer to him. And it was quiet, normal.

Days of hard work proved fulfilling — you had finished the landscape of Piltover, handed the portraits to each councillor, and got paid. There were other requests that you received, but they could be postponed. You were so close to finishing Viktor's portrait, and you didn't need to do it in his lab anymore, only adding minor details.

But you couldn't just gift it unframed, and so you bought a simple wooden frame that you painted yourself to match the portrait. Purple and golden. You signed it and added something only the Academy of Arts in Ionia taught — a magical rune. Focusing your intentions in it, visualising the magic in the painting, you wrapped the canvas and took it to the laboratory. 

Jayce wasn't there, and you were so grateful for that, because you wanted Viktor to see it privately. You wanted to cherish that moment, just the two of you. Opening the tall wooden doors that you were so familiar with, you walked into the lab, portrait in your hands. Viktor was shocked to see you look so well put together — a dark green dress and heels that clicked with each step on the cold stone floor. He had seen you at your worst, face covered in paint and fingertips darkened by coal and graphite. But now he had the privilege to see you at your best, he thought. 

"It is done." The smile on your lips was contagious. 

His long fingers touched the twine knot around the canvas, almost afraid to untie it and look at the portrait, but your encouraging, eager eyes stopped him from hesitating. Viktor pulled on the string and unwrapped the paper, looking at himself. But he was different. His hair was longer, silver mixed in his brown locks. A purple cloak was wrapped around him, with golden adornments, and his cane was a staff, the handle circular and matching the golden in his outfit. The dark background was lightened by pale yellow shapes and lines, and his eyes were identical, the same amber hues he saw when he looked in a mirror.

"Have you thought of a name?" Viktor asked, still shook by how beautiful he was in that portrait.

"The Herald." You nodded.

The painting belonged in a museum, not in his bedroom to collect dust. He examined every detail, even the frame that was in harmony with him. Was that how you saw him? Like a god?

"I honestly don't know what to say. It's beautiful." Viktor's eyes narrowed down on the small rune in the corner of the canvas. "What is that?"

"Magic." You grinned. "At the Academy they taught us to weave magic into our art."

"Magic? What for?"

"Hopefully to help you get better."

"I'm afraid that is impossible, Miss Painter. But I do appreciate the thought." Viktor offered you a bittersweet smile. "How may I repay you?"

"By doing me the honour of modelling for me." You folded your arms across your chest.

"Didn't I just do that?" He snorted.

"No, you worked. I would like to study you more. Your features are unique, Viktor."

"That one I have never been called. Weak, broken, handicapped, but unique is a new one." Viktor sighed. "I think you've had enough fun, Miss Painter. I won't be an object of mockery."

You were stunned. Did he honestly think you were making fun of him? That you spent countless days and nights painting him just to ridicule him? That you lost sleep and hurt your fingers just to insult him? No. He was insulting you.

"Very well." You straightened your posture. He was not about to wound your pride. "Good luck with your work, Mr. Scientist."

[kortac-sweetheart]

“you erode my edges and turn me into love.”

nikto can’t remember the last time he’s recognized himself in the mirror. a part of him— several parts of him actually, died after that day.

just like a jigsaw puzzle that’s missing a few pieces, his memory is spotty. who was he? who is he? there’s something wrong with him.

he’s not human.

inhuman.

a tool for war. meant to be used to his absolute limit and discarded by the wayside when he finally breaks. to live and die behind the scope of a rifle— that’s all there is for him, for them.

but by some miracle— nothing short of the grace of god himself, you end up in his life.

it’s a blur. his life turned into a complete whirlwind when you entered it. he doesn’t remember when his days behind the scope ended, when the sound of gunfire and crackly comms were replaced by soft humming and joyous laughter, when shitty lukewarm coffee from the mess was replaced with a nice steaming cup of sbiten, made fresh by you.

when his ring finger, once empty now adorned with a simple golden band engraved with your anniversary and initials.

he doesn’t know what he did to deserve it. a mangled and beaten mutt like him, not even living— barely just scraping by in life; taken in by you. lovely, sweet adoring you.

you’re too good to him, they think.

your love does not revive the missing parts of his psyche. nothing ever will. but they’re replaced, slowly but surely, lovingly hand repaired by you.

like the charming patchwork on a well loved jacket, or the golden streaks of kintsugi in a once shattered bowl.

repaired, different, but whole once more. changed, but for the better, marbled with visible signs of healing and life.

they don’t know how to repay you. don’t know if they ever can, in return for the sheer scale of love and care and adoration you’ve shown them. nothing would ever suffice as recompense in their eyes. but you never ask for such repayment from him.

life is not transactional when it comes to you.

but he still wants to show his gratitude nonetheless. he learns all about all of you, until he’s able to recite it eyes closed, by heart. the way you like your coffee in the morning, your favorite meals in the winter and summer, your clothing measurements, that look in your eye when you want affection but are too shy to ask. he learns all that and much more on his quest to love you like you do him.

but his favorite way of loving you is built into his daily routine. without fail, every night before bed he’ll kneel before you where you sit on the edge of your shared bed. head nestled against your lap and arms around your waist or thighs and he’ll just. speak. endlessly, he’ll let you hear the timbre of his voice and the rumble in his chest when he recites all that he loves about you.

how you looked dazzling in the afternoon sun earlier today, or how much he appreciates your cooking. he lets himself verbalize all that he loves about you. with him, you will never be able to doubt the magnitude of his love for you.

you hold him close, running your hand through his hair as he speaks, and sometimes he gets choked up. drowning in emotion and love for you, you don’t shush him, instead quietly thumbing away his tears and loving him all the same.

the sharp, inscrutable edges of his past, all now sanded down by you. your love. he’s all yours. body, mind, soul and heart, like a little pebble of sea glass tumbled by the shores of your love. all points and razor’s edge melted away under your quiet care.

his past self would scoff. say that he’s grown soft, undeserving of this little life he has. you’re too good for a beast like him. but to hell with him. to hell with the past. you’re all that matters now, he’ll live in the present— embraced with you and your love until the end of time.

[yandere-wishes]

𝕆𝕦𝕣 ℙ𝕣𝕖𝕥𝕥𝕪 𝕃𝕚𝕥𝕥𝕝𝕖 𝔾𝕚𝕣𝕝

Summary: You try to escape from two fearsome Sith Lords. Surprisingly they take it rather well.

Author's note: This is totally getting a part 2. Or maybe a series we'll see. 

Warnings: dark, absolutely no regard for the rule of two, sorta a vent fic (venting that these two are so fine and I can't get them out of my mind), slightly fluffy.

The empire's warships have a tendency to blur reality. The interiors of their large hulking exoskeletons house endless corridors and makeshift chambers. Vast, endless arrays of space. They've been optimized for housing droids, clones, and artillery. Not for escape, not for an endless search of a freedom that has long since eroded. 

Calling yourself anything but desperate would be a lie. Your feet run to the chorus of your broken heartbeat. The need for freedom, the need to escape spreads through your body like a poison. You know it'll end up killing you, either from exhaustion or by their sabars. But you have to try, you have to run. Even if you've left fragments of yourself in the warm bed the three of you sleep on. Even if you forgot your heart under Anakin's pillow and your soul still lingers in Maul's warm embrace. Maybe freedom is worth cutting off pieces of yourself, if only in the hope that someday they might grow back. 

There's something wrong with the corridors you're sure of it. You've never been one for directions, instead relying on the holo screens and navigation systems to lead the way. Mirror images as far as the eye can see. Identical, plain. Nothing substantial to store in your memory. There's something ironic about this situation, a punchline that doesn't quite land. You half haphazardly tug on the skirt of your nightgown, desperate for anything familiar. You're not sure why.

You remember how Anakin called you pretty this morning, still hazy, still clinging to the sensation of slumber. Perfect blue eyes too dazed to look at you.��Really look at you. The chosen one gazes at your ghost, your ethos. the perfect doll he and Maul had morphed you into. Behind you

 Maul pulls you to his chest. Hand running up and down her side, trying to resurrect you into his dreams. It's only when Anakin's eyes close, seeling the shimmering blue orbs, that you crawl out of bed and into the unknown. 

You're lost, abandoned in absolute desolation. The marble tiles bleed frost into the soles of your feet. Somewhere in the distance, you feel a disturbance in the force. Too far away to matter, yet leaking with a potent rage that burns. It's hope you think, albeit pathetically, maybe it's better to capitulate this pointless crusade and wait for the Sith lords to find you. The crash comes just as you're about to stop. You bump into him, falling in the process. All armor and steel. The Stormtrooper's mask is off giving you a clear view of his scarred face. His eyes flash, some dreary emotion too obscure to read, he offers you a gloved hand, something human something casual. 

You stare frozen. 

When exactly did you stop comprehending human idiosyncrasies? 

When exactly did you start reading every interaction as a threat? 

He's a monster, you think, just like the ones you've been warned about. Lectured time and time again by both Anakine and Maul. Monsters pry on little girls, especially ones who wander off on their own. Monsters lurk behind unsuspecting walls, ready to pounce when their prey approaches. You wonder if, the definitive definition of "monster" could be passed on to the two Siths who call themselves your lovers. 

There's blood, too crimson to be real. Metallic aromas wafted through the air. You've only now noticed how close the disturbance in the force really is. Close enough to distinguish itself. To reveal that, in actuality, it's not a disturbance at all.

 It's two...

Something cold yanks at your forearm. Pulling you to your feet. for a split second, your nerves calm. The familiarity of the cybernetic arm grants you a heavy ease. Anakin pushes you over to where Maul is standing. Golden eyes burning holes through the stormtrooper's armor. 'He didn't do anything' you long to say. But the words wisely die on your tongue as Maul grips your shoulders. Anakine's saber is lit, stabbing through the soldier's armor as if it were flesh. As if killing him where as easy as killing a rogue thought. "You're quite a foolish soldier for daring to touch that which belongs to your commanders. Even more imbecilic for so much as looking at emperor Palpatine's disciple." 

Maul's grip on your shoulders tightens, eyes never once leaving the bloodshed. One of his hands instinctively roams to your belly, then slides down to your thigh. Rubbing it ever so gently as his claws pierce your soft skin. You close your eyes trying to make yourself smaller. You hate how his touch grounds you. How the familiarity plucks at your heartstrings. When he touches you like this you wish you would forever rot in his arms.

"'I'm sorry" You don't know why the words come so easily. As if they've been itching to spill from your tongue. Maybe it's easier to say 'I'm sorry' rather than 'You've broken my perception of love, of reality and now I can only find comfort in your darkness.' "Hush" Maul's anger spills with every syllable. His claws dig deeper, earning him a pained hiss from his doll. 

"You're not sorry, in fact, you rather enjoyed this didn't you? Running away making us chase you down, I never thought your species would enjoy being the prey so much, little one." Anakin walks over, saber seethed at his side. His every step promised pain, retribution. He's angry, furious. They both are, you wonder if maybe, just maybe, they'll end it all today. 

Maul's chambers have always been a testament to Dathomir, bathed in deep scarlets and endless ebony. You wonder if he's homesick for a place he's only visited in his worst ephialtes. After the incident in the corridors, they drag you back to the Zabrak's room. Neither bothering to say a word. Merely permitting their rage to engulf you, subduing you into submission. It's an unwelcome surprise when they begin to prep for the day. Throwing on their black cloaks, prior to choosing your outfit. An abnormal affinity settles across the room. Too unnerving to go unchecked. 

They dress you each morning, a ritual you think, some attestation of love that's never been quite right. Maul drapes you in velvet dresses. Each one harbors a sui generis softness that sits erroneously across your skin. Their opulent sensation only brings forth feelings of aversion and despair. Their softness an ode to your imprisonment. 

the dresses come in shades of crimson, detailed sometimes in black, sometimes in gold, and sometimes in a frigid blue that sends shivers running up your spine. 

Anakin fusses over your accessories, why they feel the need to dress you so extravagantly daily is beyond you -as you've come to realize many things are- On days when Anakin's hubris reaches its apex, he bathes you in gold. Astonishing glittering collars across your neck and Kuat bangles hanging from your wrists. When he's sober from his pride he chooses black diamonds. Simple and exotic. scintillate and opaque.

Allusions to the dark side.

A hidden reference that crawls inside you. 

Once, back when you'd been sure defiance was still an option. Back when callow hope still dared to flow through your veins. Back when you'd been a jejune, stubborn thing. You had refused to wear one of the dresses they'd bought. Adimant in your refusal until Maul had stuck out his hand. Summoning the Force to remind you just who held the supreme authority here. 

The Force had strangled you, clawing hungrily at your neck. You felt your bones caving in on themselves, watched with exacerbating hysteria as your feet abandoned the floor. He'd only released you when he was sure you were near death's adorned door. Permitting you to molder on the floor akin to a ragdoll. 

Anakin had chastised you after you'd conjured enough strength to sit up, gasping greedily for air. He'd broken two fingers that day. One still harbors a small scar.

A Promise ring. 

An augury.

There are days, few and far between. When they've deemed you've been behaving adequately for long enough. That they permit you the choice of which dress you'd fancy wearing for the day. It's a rare event, reserved as a special treat. You think it's their way of proposing variety, giving you the illusion of choice. Making you feel a little less smothered. 

Today is not one of those days. Today, you feel them pick you apart, only to reassemble you in their image. Drowning you in extravagance. A reminder, one whose deprecating nature weaves itself within your muscles. You, little girl, are nothing more than a doll. And dolls should know their place.

No sooner do you feel the final lace fasten across your back, that Anakin is tugging you outside the door. Metal arm clasped around your forearm. 

Maul follows behind molten gaze locked on your face. The hallways bend to their will as if the walls themselves quiver with their presence. You recognize this corridor, recognize the frigid forlorn. 

There's something wrong with Emperor Palpatine's throne room. It's surreal, makeshift. His real throne lays somewhere cold, somewhere even his apprentices don't dare wander off to. The ironclad throne has never felt right. Never felt like it held any real power. Just terror, just dread, just hatred. But here it is in all its glory. Left to two apprentices who'd rather treat it as a toy than a sacred place.

 Anakin dramatically throws himself onto the throne. One leg thrown over the armrest as he leans against the other. His other leg planted firmly on the ground. He keeps you steady on his thigh. Torturing you with his distant, disappointed look. Maul stands in front of you. His eyes liquid gold melting into you. You see the galaxy in them. Hear it whispearing secrets meant to be forgotten. It's Anakin's voice that rattles you from your disjointed thoughts. 

"You caused us so much worry angel" he's being nice. You don't trust that. There's something sinister plaguing his words.  

"You know Ani, she may cease escaping if you'd cease to spoil her." Maul leans down, gripping your chin and squeezing. " The brat forgets her place, merely cause you'd rather coddle her than discipline her." 

Anakin glares, a shift in his eyes, blue bleeding into gold. "Hmm, Maul, you're starting to sound an awful lot like Kenobi right now."

"Why's that? Did the old fool tend to also point out your shortcomings?" 

You wonder who this Kenobi is, as you watch the Siths' exchange crude childish vitriols. Maybe he'd make a better lover than the two men you have the misfortune of being adhered to. 

They never could truly see just how similar they were.

Two sides of the same coin. 

One born of copper, the other, black rose petals.

Subconsciously you reach out. Grasping Anakin's robotic hand, fiddling with the panel, peeling it away to gain access to the wires and circuits. You have a bad habit of ripping things open. Anakin learned this the first time he kissed you and you tried to gnaw at his chest with your nails. Not in malice, but rather to satisfy a ravenous curiosity. A raging need to open him and see just how he ticked. You'd wished to perform an autopsy on his soul. Rip him open and devour all his secrets. Back then you'd wondered if you could kiss sunrises into Anakin's eternal night. Strip him of bleak blackened skies and introduce him to stars and a moon that shines. He'd only vaguely permitted it. Opting to pluck the stars lying within you. Swiping them for steel and lava and other mundane things that fueled his incessant rage. 

Anakin's head dips, lips pressing on your jugular vein. "You're ethereal" Anakin mubbles against your skin, like the dying prayer of a collapsing star. He's so pretty when he kisses your neck. Biting away pieces of you. Stealing your light for himself. 

"Princess" Maul seethes venom pelting from his words. You realize you'd been ignoring him. Something he's not too fond of. "What in the stars was going through your pretty little head?" 

 he looks like he'd love nothing more than to wring your pretty little neck right now. "I just..." your words feel heavy. Tiny bullets polluting your tongue. It feels so cruel to say when you know just how much they love you. "I just wanted some freedom. Just a bit of space." 

"Dumb little angel" Anakin chastes. You lower your head in embarrassment watching Maul kneel in front of you. He cups your cheeks, placing a soft kiss on your head. "You can never escape us beloved".

 "I love you," says Anakin. All you hear is, I'll haunt you, I'll break your ribs one by one so that I may possess your heart. Maybe they mean the same thing. 

"And I'm pretty sure if Maul could feel normal emotions like everyone else, then he'd love you too." You can't help but let out a giggle as Anakin throws his head back laughing. A rare melodious sound, that causes your heart to skip a beat. Maul merely rolls his eyes before pecking you on the lips.

You trace your fingers across Maul's chest, feeling the pummelling of two hearts. A double heartbeat. Two melodies entwined, You wonder who he harbors in those hearts. One for love and one for family. You nip at his bottom lip. Ushering the blood into your mouth. He tastes of Ichor and smoke. Of sadness and rage. From behind you feel Akanin bite into the hollow of your flesh. Leaving traces of himself upon your skin. 

"Our pretty little problem" Anakin mumbles. 

You're a problem, a vexation draped in velvet, an unsolvable equation. Trapped between a love that seethes through your body like a toxin. Engulfing you until your mind relents. Maybe it's easier this way. Easier to say 'I love you' without the double entendre. 

You do love them.

A rather arduous conclusion to reach.

Maul and Anakin.

Palpatine's apprentices. 

Your lovers

Yeah, that sounds about right...

💜💜: @athanasia-day @hotpinkboots @jenn-patterson-69 @nickiiiixoxo-blog @the-chains-are-the-easy-part

[wonyowonyo]

Queen Bee (K. Minju x M! Reader)

Another request! I've tweaked some stuff here n there with anon's suggestion but overall it came out nice in the end. Writing Bully Minju was a great experience for me too! Anyways, hope you all enjoy this one!

The opulent marble halls of Evergreen Academy echoed with the clacking of Minju's designer heels as she swept through the corridors, her entourage of loyal followers trailing behind her like a flock of well-groomed ducklings. Her eyes scanned the crowd of students, searching for any sign of rebellion or dissent against her ironclad rule.

Minju was the undisputed queen of Evergreen, her family's wealth and influence casting a long shadow over the prestigious institution. She had carefully cultivated her image as a benevolent, yet firm leader, maintaining an air of superiority that few dared to challenge.

But beneath the polished veneer, Minju's true nature simmered - a burning desire for power and control that knew no bounds. She ruthlessly crushed any opposition, using her family's resources to quash any threats to her reign. The students of Evergreen were her subjects, to be molded and manipulated as she saw fit.

That was, until the arrival of a new Yuna, Yuna, who dared to disrupt the carefully curated social order that Minju had worked so hard to maintain.

From the moment Yuna set foot on campus, Minju could sense the threat she posed. The girl's humble origins and lack of social pedigree were an affront to the exclusivity that Minju prized. And so, Minju set out to make Yuna's life a living hell, subjecting her to a relentless campaign of bullying and humiliation.

But Minju's reign of terror met an unexpected challenge in the form of (Y/N) (L/N), the scion of one of the wealthiest families in the country. As a member of Evergreen's elite social circle, (Y/N) had always been one of Minju's loyal followers, dutifully adhering to the unspoken rules that governed their exclusive world.

Until, that is, the day Minju's cruelty towards Yuna pushed (Y/N) to the brink.

Minju still vividly remembered the confrontation in the courtyard, the way (Y/N)'s usually calm demeanor had been replaced by a righteous fury that left her momentarily unbalanced.

"That's enough, Minju," (Y/N) had said, his voice steady but laced with an unmistakable edge.

Minju had been taken aback, her lips curling into a sardonic smile as she tried to regain her footing. "Well, well, if it isn't (Y/N) (L/N), coming to the rescue. How noble of you."

But (Y/N) had refused to be cowed, his eyes burning with a determination that Minju had never seen in him before. "This has gone on long enough. You can't keep bullying people just because they don't fit your narrow definition of what's 'acceptable' at this school."

Minju's expression had darkened, and she could feel the jealousy and resentment bubbling beneath the surface. "Oh, please. As if you have any right to lecture me about what's acceptable. You may be one of the richest students here, (Y/N), but you're still just a pathetic little worm trying to act like a hero."

The words had tumbled from her lips before she could stop them, a desperate attempt to regain the upper hand. But (Y/N)'s response had only served to further erode her confidence.

"Maybe I am a worm, Minju, but at least I have the courage to stand up for what's right. Unlike you, who just uses her wealth and status to crush anyone who dares to defy you."

Minju's jaw had clenched with frustration, her mind racing as she tried to formulate a retort. But before she could, the arrival of Mr. Park had turned the tide against her, forcing her to retreat in the face of the teacher's stern rebuke.

As Minju had stalked away, her followers trailing behind her, she could feel (Y/N)'s gaze burning into her back. The humiliation of being exposed and challenged in front of her peers was a wound to her pride that refused to heal. The clacking sound of Minju's designer heels as she swept through the corridors was fleeting away from the scene. Her entourage of loyal followers trailing behind her like a flock of well-groomed ducklings.

However Minju's eyes would find its way back on (Y/N) (L/N) and the new transferee, Yuna. As she watched the confrontation unfold, a strange, unfamiliar feeling stirred within her - a cocktail of jealousy, possessiveness, and a touch of something she couldn't quite place.

Minju had always prided herself on her ability to command the attention and adoration of her peers. Her family's wealth and influence had granted her an almost godlike status within the hallowed halls of Evergreen, and she reveled in the power it afforded her. But now, seeing (Y/N) stand up to her, his eyes burning with a passion she had never witnessed before, left her feeling...unsettled.

The familiar scent of her expensive perfume mingled with the crisp, sterile air of the academy, and Minju found herself thinking back to the intensity of (Y/N)'s gaze, the unwavering determination in his voice. It was as if he had awakened something within her, a dormant ember that now threatened to burst into a roaring flame.

Minju's fingers twitched with the desire to reach out and reclaim (Y/N)'s attention, to remind him of his place at her side. She had grown so accustomed to his loyal, obedient nature, the way he had always deferred to her without question. But now, that delicate balance had been shattered, and Minju couldn't help but feel a twinge of...longing.

As (Y/N) walked away, his head held high, Minju's heart raced with a mixture of emotions she couldn't quite identify. The sound of her heels echoed through the corridors, a steady beat that seemed to match the rhythm of her rapidly beating heart.

Minju knew she had to regain control, to reassert her dominance over the situation. But deep down, a part of her couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to have (Y/N)'s unwavering loyalty and devotion directed towards her in a different way - one that went beyond the boundaries of their established dynamic.

In the days that followed, Minju's obsession with (Y/N) and Yuna only intensified. She couldn't understand why (Y/N) had chosen to side with the lowly Yuna, defying the very social order that Minju had worked so hard to uphold.

Worse still, she could see the effects of (Y/N)'s actions rippling through the student body. Whispers of discontent and dissent began to circulate, and Minju could feel her grip on the school starting to slip.

Desperate to regain control, Minju unleashed a relentless campaign of sabotage and intimidation, targeting both (Y/N) and Yuna. She sabotaged their assignments, spread vicious rumors, and even went so far as to try and have them expelled.

But (Y/N) refused to be cowed, rallying support from other students who were tired of Minju's tyrannical reign. Together, they formed a resistance movement, challenging Minju's authority at every turn.

Minju's frustration only grew, and she lashed out with increasing ferocity, her actions becoming more and more reckless as she fought to maintain her hold on Evergreen. She was like a cornered animal, baring her teeth and lashing out at any perceived threat.

And then, the final confrontation came at the annual school gala, a prestigious event attended by the elite of Evergreen Academy. (Y/N) and Yuna had been invited, and they knew that this was their chance to make their move.

As the gala unfolded, (Y/N) and Yuna worked tirelessly to rally support from the other guests, exposing Minju's misdeeds and rallying the school community against her. The tension in the air was palpable, and everyone held their breath, waiting to see how the showdown would play out.

Finally, Minju took the stage, her eyes blazing with fury. She tried to discredit (Y/N) and Yuna, but their allies stood firm, refusing to be cowed by her intimidation tactics.

In the end, it was (Y/N)'s impassioned speech that tipped the scales. He spoke of the values of kindness, compassion, and mutual respect that should be the foundation of Evergreen Academy, and how Minju's selfish and cruel behavior had betrayed those values.

As Minju's supporters began to waver, (Y/N) seized the moment, calling for a vote of no-confidence in Minju's leadership. The vote was close, but in the end, Minju was toppled from her throne, stripped of her power and influence.

In the aftermath, Minju found herself adrift, her carefully constructed world crumbling around her. She had lost everything – her status, her power, her very identity as the queen of Evergreen. And worst of all, she had lost (Y/N), the one person she had always counted on to be by her side.

As she wandered the empty corridors of the school, Minju couldn't help but feel a sense of profound loss and regret. She had sacrificed so much to maintain her reign, but in the end, it had all been for naught.

It was in those moments of solitude that Minju finally began to confront the truth about herself – the truth that she had been desperately trying to bury beneath layers of arrogance and cruelty.

She had been a bully, a tyrant who had used her wealth and status to crush anyone who dared to defy her. And in doing so, she had lost sight of the very values that had once defined her – the compassion, the kindness, the sense of community that had once been the hallmark of Evergreen Academy.

Minju's eyes filled with tears as she realized the full extent of her transgressions. She had betrayed the trust of her peers, her teachers, and worst of all, (Y/N) – the one person who had always seen the best in her, even when she had long since abandoned that part of herself.

With a newfound sense of shame and determination, Minju knew that she had to make amends. She had to find a way to redeem herself, to rebuild the trust she had so carelessly destroyed.

It was a daunting task, but as Minju steeled herself and set out to confront the consequences of her actions, she knew that she had no one to blame but herself. The road to redemption would be long and arduous, but she was determined to walk it, no matter the cost.

And deep down, a small part of her still harbored the hope that one day, (Y/N) might see the change in her, and that perhaps, just perhaps, he might be willing to give her a second chance.

The aftermath of Minju's dramatic downfall reverberated through the halls of Evergreen Academy, leaving a palpable sense of unease and uncertainty in its wake. The once ironclad social hierarchy that she had so ruthlessly enforced lay in tatters, and the students found themselves navigating unfamiliar territory, unsure of where they now fit within this new, uncharted landscape.

For Minju, the transition from untouchable queen to disgraced pariah was a bitter pill to swallow. Gone were the days of her loyal entourage and the unchecked power she had wielded with such casual cruelty. Now, she found herself cast adrift, her very identity as the reigning monarch of Evergreen stripped away, leaving her feeling vulnerable and exposed.

As she wandered the empty corridors, Minju couldn't help but feel the weight of her actions pressing down upon her. The memories of her past transgressions – the bullying, the sabotage, the relentless pursuit of power at any cost – played out in an endless loop in her mind, a cruel reminder of the monster she had become.

Minju's gaze drifted to the trophy case that once held the symbols of her dominance – the accolades, the awards, the trophies that had been a testament to her success. But now, those gleaming artifacts felt like a hollow victory, a meaningless accumulation of trinkets that had done nothing to fill the void within her.

With a heavy sigh, Minju turned away, her steps heavy as she made her way to the one place she had once found solace – the school's library. It had always been her haven, a quiet refuge where she could escape the relentless demands of her social obligations and immerse herself in the world of books and knowledge.

But even this sanctuary felt tainted now, the whispers and sidelong glances of her former peers following her like a dark cloud. Minju could sense the judgment in their eyes, the resentment that bubbled just beneath the surface. It was a humbling realization, one that she had never been forced to confront before.

As Minju settled into a secluded corner of the library, her fingers tracing the spine of a well-worn volume, a familiar voice suddenly reached her ears.

"Minju?"

She looked up to see (Y/N) standing before her, his expression unreadable. Minju felt her heart leap in her chest, a surge of emotions she had long since buried threatening to overwhelm her.

"(Y/N)," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. "I... I didn't expect to see you here."

(Y/N) regarded her for a moment, his brow furrowed in a faint expression of concern. "I... I wanted to make sure you were alright. After everything that's happened, I-"

Minju cut him off, her hands trembling slightly. "I'm fine, (Y/N). I'm... I'm managing."

An uncomfortable silence hung between them, the weight of their shared history palpable in the air. Minju could feel her carefully constructed walls beginning to crumble, the mask of indifference she had so painstakingly cultivated slipping away.

"(Y/N)," she began, her voice wavering with emotion. "I... I'm sorry. For everything. I know that doesn't begin to make up for what I've done, but I-"

(Y/N) raised a hand, silencing her. "Minju, I... I've been doing a lot of thinking since the gala. About you, about all of this. And I realize that... well, that I may have misjudged you, in a way."

Minju's eyes widened in surprise, her heart pounding in her chest. "What do you mean?"

(Y/N) sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Look, I'm not going to pretend that what you did was right. You hurt a lot of people, Minju, and you betrayed the very values that Evergreen is supposed to stand for."

Minju felt a familiar sting of shame, her gaze dropping to the floor. "I know. I-I don't expect you to forgive me, (Y/N). I've done so many terrible things, and I-"

"Let me finish," (Y/N) interrupted, his voice gentle but firm. "The truth is, I've always known that there was more to you than the bully and the tyrant. Somewhere, underneath all of that, there was a person who cared, who had a genuine passion for this school and its community."

Minju's breath caught in her throat, her eyes searching (Y/N)'s face for any hint of deception. "You... you really believe that?"

(Y/N) nodded, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "I do. And I think you believe it too, deep down. That's why this has been so hard for you – because you know that you've betrayed that part of yourself."

Minju felt the tears welling in her eyes, her carefully constructed walls crumbling under the weight of (Y/N)'s words. "I... I don't know what to say. I've hurt so many people, (Y/N). How can I ever make up for that?"

(Y/N) reached out, his hand coming to rest on Minju's shoulder. "It won't be easy, Minju. Rebuilding trust and earning forgiveness takes time and effort. But I believe you can do it – if you're willing to truly change, to become the person you know you can be."

Minju looked up at him, her eyes shining with a newfound glimmer of hope. "I... I want to try, (Y/N). I want to be that person again. But I'm scared. What if I fail?"

(Y/N) squeezed her shoulder reassuringly. "You won't be alone, Minju. I'll be here, supporting you every step of the way. We'll face this challenge together, just like we used to."

Minju felt a wave of gratitude wash over her, her heart swelling with a newfound sense of purpose. She had lost so much, but in that moment, she realized that she had the chance to regain something even more valuable – the trust and respect of her peers, and the chance to become the person she had always wanted to be.

It would be a long and arduous journey, but with (Y/N) by her side, Minju knew that she could overcome the obstacles that lay ahead. She would have to work tirelessly to make amends, to prove that she had truly changed. But for the first time in a long while, Minju felt a glimmer of hope – a spark that she was determined to nurture and grow into a blazing flame of redemption.

As she and (Y/N) stepped out of the library, their footsteps echoing through the empty halls, Minju felt a renewed sense of purpose. She knew that the road ahead would be filled with challenges, but with (Y/N)'s support and her own unwavering determination, she was confident that she could overcome them.

The journey to redemption had begun, and Minju was ready to face it head-on.

The path to redemption was not an easy one for Minju, but with (Y/N)'s unwavering support, she was determined to make the most of this second chance.

In the days and weeks that followed their conversation in the library, Minju set out to systematically rebuild the trust and respect she had so carelessly squandered. It was a slow and arduous process, marked by skepticism and outright hostility from many of her former peers.

But Minju refused to be deterred. She knew that she had to prove the sincerity of her transformation, that mere words would not be enough to undo the damage she had done. And so, she set about making amends, one small step at a time.

She began by publicly acknowledging the wrongs she had committed, standing before the entire student body and offering a heartfelt apology. It was a daunting task, laying bare her past transgressions and vulnerabilities for all to see, but Minju knew that it was a necessary first step.

To her surprise, the reaction was not entirely hostile. While some of her former followers turned their backs on her, others – the ones who had borne the brunt of her cruelty – seemed cautiously receptive to her words. Minju could see the glimmers of hope in their eyes, a yearning for the redemption she now sought.

Emboldened by this cautious progress, Minju set out to make amends in more tangible ways. She used her family's resources to establish a scholarship fund for underprivileged students, ensuring that the doors of Evergreen would be open to all, regardless of their social standing.

She also volunteered her time, working tirelessly alongside her peers to organize fundraisers and community service projects, using her influence to mobilize resources and inspire others to action.

Through it all, (Y/N) remained a steadfast presence at her side, offering guidance, encouragement, and a much-needed dose of reality when Minju's progress threatened to falter.

"It's not going to be easy, Minju," he would remind her, his voice gentle but firm. "You've hurt a lot of people, and earning their trust back is going to take time and effort. But I believe in you. I know you can do this."

And with each passing day, Minju found herself drawing strength from (Y/N)'s unwavering belief in her. She could feel the walls she had built around her heart slowly crumbling, replaced by a newfound sense of purpose and determination.

It was during one of the school's annual charity drives that Minju's transformation truly began to take root. As she stood alongside her peers, sorting and packing donations for the local homeless shelter, she couldn't help but be struck by the sense of community and camaraderie that had once been the hallmark of Evergreen Academy.

Minju watched as (Y/N) worked tirelessly, his sleeves rolled up and a genuine smile on his face as he interacted with the other students. She marveled at the way he had seamlessly integrated himself into the fabric of the community, his once-aloof demeanor replaced by a genuine warmth and compassion.

And in that moment, Minju felt a pang of regret – regret for the years she had spent tearing that community apart, for the ways in which she had betrayed the very values that had once defined her.

Hesitantly, she approached (Y/N), her voice barely above a whisper. "(Y/N)... can I help?"

He turned to her, his eyes widening in surprise, but then a gentle smile spread across his face. "Of course, Minju. We could always use an extra pair of hands."

As Minju rolled up her sleeves and joined the effort, she felt a sense of peace wash over her. The familiar weight of her past transgressions still lingered, but in this moment, it felt as if she was finally beginning to shed that burden, to reclaim the part of herself she had so long ago abandoned.

The other students were wary at first, casting sidelong glances in Minju's direction, but as she worked alongside them, her genuine enthusiasm and commitment began to break down those barriers. Slowly but surely, she could feel the walls of distrust and resentment crumbling, replaced by a cautious acceptance.

And when the day's work was done, and the students gathered to admire the impressive pile of donations they had amassed, Minju found herself surrounded by her peers, their expressions no longer filled with hostility, but with a newfound respect.

(Y/N) stood by her side, his hand reaching out to gently squeeze her shoulder. "I'm proud of you, Minju," he murmured, his voice filled with genuine warmth.

Minju felt a lump rise in her throat, her eyes brimming with tears. "Thank you, (Y/N). For... for believing in me, even when I didn't believe in myself."

(Y/N) smiled, his gaze holding hers. "I always knew you had it in you, Minju. You just needed to find your way back."

As they walked back to the dorms, Minju felt a sense of renewed purpose and determination. The road ahead was still long and uncertain, but for the first time in a long while, she felt a glimmer of hope – hope that she could truly become the person she had always aspired to be.

And with (Y/N) by her side, Minju knew that she could overcome any obstacle that stood in her path. Together, they would rebuild the community, reclaiming the values that had once defined Evergreen Academy and creating a legacy that would endure long after they had graduated.

It was a daunting task, but Minju was more than ready to face it head-on. Her journey to redemption had only just begun, but she was determined to see it through, no matter the cost.

As the weeks turned into months, Minju's journey of redemption continued to unfold, marked by both triumphs and challenges.

While her initial public apology had been met with a mix of lingering skepticism and cautious hope, Minju's unwavering commitment to making amends began to slowly erode the barriers that had once separated her from her peers.

She threw herself wholeheartedly into the various community service projects and charity initiatives that now dotted the Evergreen Academy calendar, using her family's resources and influence to amplify the reach and impact of these endeavors.

Whether it was organizing food drives for the local homeless shelter, spearheading fundraising campaigns for underprivileged students, or lending a hand in the school's environmental conservation efforts, Minju's presence was a constant and welcomed one. Gone were the days of her tyrannical reign; in its place, a newfound spirit of collaboration and camaraderie began to take root.

(Y/N) remained a steadfast ally throughout this process, his steadfast support and guidance a crucial lifeline for Minju as she navigated the treacherous waters of redemption. Together, they worked tirelessly to rebuild the bridges that Minju had once so carelessly burned, forging connections and alliances that would help to solidify her transformation.

But the road was not without its challenges. There were still those who viewed Minju's change of heart with a healthy dose of skepticism, unwilling to forget the pain and humiliation she had inflicted upon them. These were the battles Minju fought the hardest, confronting her past transgressions head-on and refusing to shy away from the uncomfortable truths that lay buried beneath the surface.

In one particularly poignant moment, Minju found herself face-to-face with Yuna, the very individual whose arrival had set in motion the events that had led to Minju's dramatic downfall.

The tension in the air was palpable as the two young women stood there, the weight of their shared history hanging between them. But to Minju's surprise, Yuna did not recoil or lash out – instead, her expression held a curious mixture of wariness and something akin to compassion.

"I... I know that what you did was wrong," Yuna began, her voice soft but resolute. "And I can't say that I've forgiven you, not completely. But I see the way you've been working to make amends, to truly change. And I... I respect that."

Minju felt a lump rise in her throat, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "Yuna, I... I can't even begin to apologize for the way I treated you. It was unforgivable, and I know that. But I want you to know that I am truly, deeply sorry. And I promise, I will spend every day for the rest of my life trying to make it right."

To her surprise, Yuna offered her a tentative smile. "I believe you, Minju. And I'm willing to give you a chance – a chance to prove that you've changed, and that you're worthy of forgiveness."

It was a small, yet significant victory for Minju – a testament to the power of resilience and the possibility of redemption. And as she watched Yuna walk away, Minju felt a newfound sense of purpose and determination surge within her.

She knew that the road ahead would still be long and arduous, but with each step forward, she could feel the weight of her past sins slowly lifting from her shoulders. And with (Y/N) by her side, a constant source of support and encouragement, Minju was more determined than ever to see her transformation through to the end.

As the months turned into years, Minju's impact on the Evergreen community only grew. She became a tireless advocate for inclusivity and social justice, using her family's resources and influence to enact real, meaningful change. Her once-loyal followers, once blinded by her tyrannical reign, now looked upon her with renewed respect and admiration, seeing in her a leader worthy of their trust.

And through it all, (Y/N) remained a steadfast presence in her life, their bond growing stronger and more profound with each passing day. Minju marveled at the way he had always believed in her, even when she had been at her lowest, and she knew that without his unwavering support, her journey to redemption would have been all but impossible.

As they stood together, side by side, on the day of their graduation, Minju couldn't help but feel a deep sense of pride and accomplishment. She had come so far, overcoming the darkest parts of her past to emerge as a true leader, one who was beloved and respected by her peers.

And as she looked into (Y/N)'s eyes, Minju knew that this was only the beginning – the start of a new chapter, one filled with endless possibilities and the promise of a brighter future for them both.

As the sun set on their final day at Evergreen Academy, Minju and (Y/N) found themselves standing on the steps of the main building, the warm evening air carrying the faint scent of blooming flowers.

The campus was alive with the energy of their fellow graduates, laughter and voices mingling together in a joyful cacophony. But for Minju and (Y/N), this moment felt tinged with a bittersweet edge, a realization that their time at this school – a place that had once been the epicenter of their lives – was now drawing to a close.

Minju turned to (Y/N), her eyes shimmering with a complex tapestry of emotions. "I can't believe it's over, (Y/N). It feels like just yesterday we were walking these halls for the first time, full of excitement and trepidation."

(Y/N) nodded, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "A lot has changed since then, hasn't it? For both of us."

Minju's gaze grew introspective as she contemplated the journey that had brought her to this moment. "You've been by my side through it all, (Y/N). I don't know if I would have had the strength to overcome my past without you."

(Y/N) reached out, his hand finding hers and giving it a gentle squeeze. "You did that all on your own, Minju. I may have been there to support you, but the courage and determination to change – that was all you."

Minju felt a lump rise in her throat, her fingers intertwining with his. "I couldn't have done it without you, (Y/N). You believed in me when no one else did, and you never gave up on me, even when I had given up on myself."

(Y/N) pulled her into a warm embrace, his arms enveloping her in a comforting shield. "You're stronger than you know, Minju. And I'm so proud of the person you've become."

They stood there for a long moment, the sounds of their graduating class fading into the background as they savored the quiet intimacy of the moment. Minju could feel the steady rhythm of (Y/N)'s heart, a soothing cadence that had become as familiar to her as her own.

As they pulled apart, their gazes locked, and Minju felt a surge of emotion that she had long since buried deep within her heart. The walls she had so painstakingly constructed – the barriers that had once protected her from the pain of vulnerability – had crumbled away, leaving her raw and exposed.

"(Y/N)," she began, her voice barely above a whisper. "I... I don't know what the future holds for us, but I do know one thing. You've become more than just a friend to me. You're... you're my everything."

(Y/N)'s eyes widened, and for a moment, Minju could see the same vulnerability reflected in his gaze. "Minju, I... I feel the same way. I've always felt this connection between us, even when everything else was falling apart."

Minju felt her heart racing, the weight of his words settling warmly in her chest. "Then... what does this mean, (Y/N)? Where do we go from here?"

(Y/N) reached up, his fingers gently caressing her cheek. "It means that we face the future together, Minju. Whatever challenges lie ahead, we'll confront them side by side, just like we always have."

Minju felt a tear of joy escape the corner of her eye, her hand coming up to cover his. "I don't know what I'd do without you, (Y/N). You've been my anchor, my guiding light, through it all."

(Y/N) leaned in, his forehead resting against hers. "And I'll always be here for you, Minju. No matter what."

As their lips met in a tender, passionate kiss, Minju felt a sense of peace and belonging wash over her. The weight of her past had been lifted, replaced by a boundless hope for the future – a future that she would build, hand-in-hand, with the person she had grown to love more than anything.

The world beyond the walls of Evergreen Academy awaited, brimming with endless possibilities. And with (Y/N) by her side, Minju knew that she was ready to face it head-on, determined to forge a path that would continue to inspire and uplift those around her.

This was not the end, but a new beginning – a chance to write the next chapter of their story, one that would be filled with love, growth, and the pursuit of a brighter, more just world.

[charliedaltonswife]

going to the met with henry on winter break and him finding traces of you in each piece of art (the greek + roman wing, obvi!) you really are his helen, his platonic ideal. just ugh! henry’s pov, just silently swooning over you, really.

Art Everywhere

Henry Winter x reader (The Secret History)

thank you for the requestt

Summary: read the request

Warnings: none

master list found here

I do not know why I came here. It was the thing to do on break, I suppose. 

It was not planned. I was walking, thinking, and then I was here, standing beneath the great carved façade of the museum, the wind biting at my collar. I hesitated only a moment before stepping inside. There are places one returns to as a matter of ritual. Churches. Gravesites. Museums. I suspect all three fulfill much the same function.

I remove my gloves, tuck them into my coat pocket. The warmth of the museum is immediate, almost suffocating after the sharp winter air outside. People move in languid clusters, hushed voices barely rising above the echoing marble. I do not consult a map. I know the way.

The Greek and Roman wing has always been my favorite. It is vast, unhurried, flooded with cold light. The statues stand in their silent, shattered forms, bodies frozen in the white smoothness of marble, some missing hands or faces, yet still possessing an unearthly grace. The air smells of old stone and something faintly metallic, like dust on ancient pages.

I walk past the busts first, their eyes blank, lips fixed in a language I cannot decipher. And then, as if drawn by some unconscious thread, I turn a corner and see it, the place where I have found you before.

The bench remains where it always is, low against the cool stone of the floor. The statue before it is familiar. A woman, poised, her robes clinging to her as if caught in a frozen wind, her gaze lifted slightly as if she sees something in the distance that no one else can. I remember the last time I found you here. The way you had sat, one leg folded beneath you, a book balanced on your knee, reading without ever turning the page. I had not spoken, just watched, and even now, I can recall the way the light had caught the barest glint of gold at your wrist.

The bench is empty now, without you. I think of sitting, instead I glance at the statue again, something sharp twisting in my chest. I move on.

The corridors stretch before me, high-arched and quiet. Footsteps echo in slow rhythms. I trace the path through the galleries with an absent familiarity. Past the friezes. Past the reconstructed ruins. Past the mosaic floor, where I had once pointed out the fading outlines of a hunt, a stag frozen mid-leap.

There are pieces here that remind me of you.

I hate the thought, and yet it does not leave me. The delicate curvature of a hand, the tilt of a head, the knowing smirk on a fragment of carved lips. It is ridiculous, really. These are nothing but remnants, marble and dust, and yet I find myself pausing in front of them, studying them as if they might provide some answer I have not yet thought to ask.

I do not look for you, and yet I find you everywhere. In the marble, in the half-light, in the curve of a sculpture’s throat where the chisel has softened the stone into something impossibly lifelike. You are not here, not really, and yet I see you in the art that has survived centuries of ruin.

I turn a corner and there she is, Aphrodite, luminous even in ruin. The statue stands tall, her form partially eroded, the smoothness of her stomach interrupted by a jagged fracture. The delicate slope of her shoulders, the faint suggestion of movement in her stance, one foot slightly forward, as if stepping toward something unseen. I have stood before this piece before, but never like this. Never with the quiet, uneasy recognition that settles over me now.

There is something of you in her.

Not in the way most would think, her beauty, yes, but not the kind that can be reduced to symmetry and proportion. It is something more ephemeral, more difficult to define. The way you tilt your head in thought, the way light moves against your skin, the way your gaze lingers on things that others overlook. You exist in the margins, in the delicate balance between presence and absence, and here you are again, carved in stone, looking back at me with the same knowing distance.

I exhale, slow and measured, as if that might rid me of the thought.

I do not believe in fate. Nor in reincarnation, nor in souls split and scattered through time, drawn back to one another across centuries. These are the things you would say in jest, half-serious, your fingers tracing the edges of a book as you read something impossibly old. “Tell me you don’t see it,” you would say, grinning, holding up a page of something translated from a dead language, some poet’s desperate plea for love immortalized in ink.

I never humored you.

And yet here I stand, before a woman carved from stone two thousand years ago, and I see you.

It is maddening.

I turn away sharply and keep walking.

The museum is silent but for the occasional murmur of other visitors, the distant clicking of shoes against marble. I move past statues draped in robes that have not moved in millennia, past fragmented figures frozen mid-motion, past the hollowed-out spaces where eyes once were, their gazes lost to time. And still, you remain.

I do not like the way it unsettles me. The way it follows me through each room, lingering like an unanswered question. I should leave. But I do not.

Instead, I keep walking, waiting for the moment when I will stop seeing you in the ruins of things long gone. The ache I feel for you is unnatural, something that tears my core morals and ethics apart, leaves me naked, bare and vulnerable. It is as if my skin is translucent and you can see right through me, understand me in a way I can not myself. 

Before I can continue my thought, I stop at a rather large painting adorning the wall, large enough to fill the entirety of it. The painting is not one I had planned to linger before, nor does it carry the same weight as the grand mythological scenes, the violent ecstasies of Caravaggio, the stoic tragedies of Poussin. It is quieter, more restrained, almost domestic in its simplicity. A Roman fresco, salvaged from the ruins of a villa outside Pompeii. A woman in a garden.

She stands beneath the shade of a fig tree, the folds of her tunic caught in a breeze long since passed. The painter has softened her features, a faint smile hovering at the corner of her lips, as if she is on the verge of laughter, as if she has just heard something amusing and is waiting to see if the joke will land. There is something unguarded about her, something unposed, a rare informality in the otherwise rigid canon of antiquity.

And, God help me, I see you.

Not just in the painting itself, but in something deeper, something lodged within memory.

You, last spring.

The first real warmth of the season settling over campus, coaxing everyone out of their dimly lit corners and onto the green. You had abandoned your shoes somewhere in the grass, your ankles crossed as you sat beneath a tree, flipping through a book with only half your attention. Francis was beside you, making some remark, something deliberately absurd, and you laughed.

It was that laugh, the one that started small, bubbling up before you could stop it, your head tilting back just slightly, sunlight catching on your cheekbone.

And I remember, with almost unbearable clarity, the way my breath caught in my throat at the sound. You exist in the periphery of my life like a half-remembered verse, untouchable, but always there, shaping the silence between my thoughts.

It had unsettled me at the time. A reaction too instinctive, too immediate. I had told myself it was nothing, some strange trick of the moment, some lingering trace of exhaustion, but the lie had not sat comfortably.

And now, here you are again. Or, rather, a version of you, painted two thousand years before you ever set foot on this earth. You are a thought experiment, a study in impossible ideals, never mine, never meant to be, but still written into the margins of every text I have ever loved.

The resemblance is not exact; it never is. It is not in the line of her jaw or the curve of her nose, not in anything so concrete. It is in the way she stands, the way she waits, the way she holds the air around her like an unspoken challenge.

And it is in the knowledge, cold and inescapable, that if you had been born in another time, in another place, some artist might have painted you this way. Preserved you in pigments mixed from crushed stone and ash.

There is something unbearable in the thought.

I do not know how long I stand there, how much time passes before I force myself to move. It is only when I hear the faint rustle of fabric, someone shifting beside me that reminds me to glance down at my watch, that I become aware of how still I have been.

I exhale, long and slow, and turn away.

I dream of you, laughing beneath a fig tree, sunlight dappling across your face; you are my history, my philosophy. I realized I can never escape you, but I was content with that. For you are my art, my everything.

[agentc0rn]

The sun shines down

on your face, long worn and cemented with woe

now shows peace, a smile finally carved out of marble.

Oh I wonder, how many sunrises, full moons, and springs have you forsaken to witness? How many times have your temple been rebuilt? How many memories and stories lie within those etched scars?

As its light slips into those sunken, eroded caverns of your vision

and into the innermost crevices of your burdened heart

a spark of humanity flickers to life

you, now unshackled and free from the prison of self-hatred

bask in the sun's warm, tender embrace, revitalized

There, I see you have returned, the same you who I've always loved.

[sketches4mysw33theart]

No Such Thing As Ghosts

Pairing: Henry Winter (The Secret History)

Summary: A secret meeting with Henry Winter in a graveyard at twilight. What can go wrong?

Warnings: None

Also would like to add - I know ventriloquism is spelt wrong in here. It's on purpose!

Other Henry Winter pieces: To Indeed Be A God, Omnia Redit Ad Pulverem

“Henry?” I whispered tentatively into the quiet, purple darkness. “Are you there?” 

I always felt the need to whisper when we met on nights like that. To this day, I don’t know why. The only people I could wake there were the dead.  

As I stepped through the foreboding arch, rising up like a gargoyle through the twilight, and into the graveyard, I heard the clicking of a light, the clapping of a book shutting, the rustle of a thick coat, the snapping of twigs. 

“I���m here,” he said, from the right. I turned to the sound of his voice in time to see him, dot of a lantern in hand, emerging from behind a grave sculpture he was rather fond of, a weathered marble depiction of a cherub whose nose had long since eroded. When we were last there, that same cherub had been on its side in the dirt. Despite his admiration for it, Henry had refused to put it back in its place.    

“I wasn’t sure you’d come. It’s supposed to snow tonight.” He looked tired, particularly in that incandescent light. This, however, was nothing new.  

“I know. We’ve managed snow before.” 

Henry and I had been secretly meeting for months, almost a year. Our clandestine trysts were well considered, in far-flung places that no one, not even Bunny Corcoran, would consider searching. Henry feared the scrutiny he and I would receive. I, after all, was majoring in medicine. It felt like a treachery to our separate kingdoms, I in medicine, he in Classics, that we were in love. A war on time. Romeo and Juliet, kept apart by the fog of the mountains and the turrets of Hampden College. But never by the snow, it seemed. 

It was a funny night, illuminated by a bright moon but encroached with shadows, the threat of the oncoming storm. Still, it was just light enough to see the outlines of the graves around us, the one mausoleum of the tiny town, the eerie statues looming before us, faces turned piously in every direction as though we had recruited them as lookouts. 

“Someone’s been here since August,” Henry said, coming to me finally and rubbing his gloved hands up my arms. I didn’t realise I'd crossed them over my chest. “The cherub’s back in place. You’re cold. Perhaps we should go to my car?”  

He must have felt my quivering bones, even beneath the thickest coat I owned. I shook my head. Despite it all, I liked meeting at the graveyard. It was quiet, far away from the familiar, and, in a terrifying way, beautiful. Almost all old things were beautiful to me then. Henry taught me that, through the strange photographs in his books and his detailed monologues. He had a gift of bringing history to life. 

“No, I’m fine. Have you seen anyone around?” 

He scoffed. “Of course not.” 

This was the main reason we met there so often. Who on Earth would hike through the woods at twilight to laugh among the tombstones? Well, we knew the answer to that. There had been the time we held a picnic in the height of summer, when fireflies had flew through from the nearby river and Henry had managed to catch one in his bare hand, the night we spent in the mausoleum to satisfy some maudlin craving of Henry’s, the evening we’d played hide and seek (somewhat begrudgingly, on one of our parts) among the gravestones. That had been the first time we'd claimed the graveyard as our own, mere days after Charles and Camilla had shown Henry through the place after hearing them speak about it.   

The graveyard had belonged to a town, struck by disaster and long since deserted. Besides a looming church pyre and a few piles of rubble, it was the only indication that a town had once stood there at all.  

“Here, sit down.” Of course, Henry had come prepared. Behind his grave of choice was spread out a meticulous picnic blanket, the host of his book, another thick blanket and matches and kerosene for the lamp. Gingerly, I arranged myself on the it, leaning partly on the gravestone for support. Once I was settled, Henry stretched out beside me, arm pressed against mine, hand resting on my leg.  

“I missed you,” I mumbled, reaching over to take that same hand. He settled his thick fingers between mine and afforded me a small smile, nosing softly at my cheek. “How’s the new boy?” 

Henry sighed, a warm exhalation that spread across my face. “Strange. I can’t read him very well. But he seems the silent type, so I don’t see why he won’t get along just fine. Charles and Camilla are particularly fond of him.” 

“You’re not?” 

“No. He's so... quiet, closed off. He walks around like a ghost.” 

I didn’t say anything. I’d seen Richard, the new addition to the Greek class, fairly often around campus, floating to his classes and slipping into the rowdy parties. Ghost was certainly the best way to describe him. But I’d never said two words to him, so who was I to judge? 

With that conversation abruptly dried up, I glanced around the cemetery that protected us from our lives, looking for snow. There was none yet, of course. Just gravestones, cool and still. 

“Do you think this place is haunted?” I asked, ghosts on my mind now. Henry laughed scornfully. 

“Of course not. There’s no such thing as ghosts.” 

“How do you know?” I asked accusingly, with a teasing smile. Henry rolled his eyes, shaking his head. 

“Because how could there be? There’s no conclusive evidence of a life after death, and there is certainly no conclusive evidence of spirits.” 

“Didn’t the Ancient Greeks have a God of ghosts?” 

“Oh yes, Melinoe. Also, the God of nightmares. Far too much of a coincidence, don’t you think?” 

 I stared at him, and he raised his eyebrows. “Come on, you don’t believe anything happens after death?” 

He was silent for a moment, considering my question. “I believe... that our souls linger. Not on Earth, that’s far too ridiculous. But... somewhere. Julian once said...” 

Before he could continue speaking, there was a creak out in the woods, echoing through the silence. Startled, we both whipped up to face the direction. A hunter stalking down its dinner? A bird flying past a bare tree? Or... 

“Did you hear that?” I said, springing to my feet, holding back a laugh. “That sounds like a ghost to me.” 

“Oh, for...” Henry’s head fell to his tented hand, but I could see the curve of his lips.  

“No, no, listen, Henry.” I was smiling as I held my hand to my ear and nudged his leg with my toe. There was another noise. A rustle in the forest. Closer.  

I looked down to him. “We’re not alone here.” 

Henry chuckled. “There is no such thing as ghosts!” 

“I don’t know, I think we could be about to capture your conclusive evidence.” 

Another noise. Even closer. Twigs snapping, leaves rustling, insects buzzing, wind blowing. 

“Really,” Henry huffed, shaking his head as he pushed himself to his feet. “How many times? There’s no such thing as...” 

Suddenly, another noise, a crash, like an elephant marching through the forest edge, and Henry fell silent, peering beyond the gravestone. “See?” I said, gleefully. “No such thing as ghosts, indeed.” 

Henry shushed me forcefully. “No, there is not.” Then, footsteps, not loud, necessarily, but obvious in the quiet that echoed between the gravestones. Very clearly human. It was only when I heard it getting closer that I realised my spectre, corporal or otherwise, could present a serious danger to us. Two college kids, out in a graveyard, in the dark. Good Lord.  

“So, who the hell is that?” Henry finished, darting eyes staring uselessly into the darkness. His gaze flew to the lantern, still lit on the blanket. 

But, before he could stoop to pick it up, there were more footsteps, the eerie sound of a mumbling voice getting closer, like a radio being turned up. Henry’s spine was stiff, assuring the stretch of his shoulders and each inch of his height was obvious. Then, a shout, “Is anyone there?” 

I knew that voice. It was familiar, terribly so, but I couldn’t place it. A glance at Henry told me he knew it too, but seemingly better than me. 

“Oh God.” He had gone white, all the colour sapped from his cheeks in the flutter of my eyelashes. Instantly, I was on edge. 

“What?” I whispered. “What is it?” 

His Adam’s apple bobbed listlessly as he swallowed. “It’s Bunny.” 

Oh God. I knew Bunny, alright. There weren’t many on campus who didn’t. Loud, ferreting, damn near insufferable Bunny, whose obnoxious voice seemed to reach as far as Fairfax and twisted mind ensured acquaintances either adored him or loathed him. From what I had experienced and seen, and the stories Henry had hesitantly told me, I fell into the latter.  

“Bunny?” I repeated incredulously. “What the hell is he doing here?” 

Henry shushed me forcefully. “Get down,” he whispered, “on the blanket, behind the cherub. Stay down, don’t move.” 

I followed his commands without delay, happy to be told what to do in the face of this unforeseen upheaval. My mind was frantic. Of all the people who had to happen upon us, it had to be him. Now curled up on the blanket, cradling my knees like a child, I looked up to Henry, his strong jaw set, calm hands cleaning his glasses on the tail-end of his shirt. As the footsteps came closer, through the archway, and the mumbling voice bounced off the gravestones in awe, he was tucking his ruffled shirt back neatly into his waistband.  

And then... 

“Henry,” Bunny honked, his voice carrying so harshly it made me wince. “Am I glad to see you, old boy, I just got so lost on one of my little walks. These damn Vermont nights, hm? Creepin’ up on me. What on Earth are you doing out here at this time of day? It’s supposed to snow tonight, you know.” 

“Yes, I heard, Bun. I was –“ 

“You wouldn’t be hiding someone back there, would ya?” He knew. I could tell, just from his voice. “’Cause, y’know, I couldda sworn I heard ya talkin’ to someone.” 

“No, not at all. I –“ 

Again, Bunny cut him off. “Naw, I know I heard you talking to someone. What you doin’, taking up ventriloqulism, or somethin’?” He laughed, the squawking of a flock of seagulls. “What you got behind there, hm? Is that where you’re hiding her?” 

Henry protested uselessly, trying to mollify Bunny before he could get too close. I watched him step forward, presumably to meet his friend before he could get to me, then saw the red of Bunny’s hair and the glint of his glasses as he tried to see beyond Henry’s broad frame.  

“You brought blankets, I see. And a lantern. And-“ I saw no point in avoiding it. Bunny was leaning so far around the grave, trying to poke his head around Henry’s large frame despite the latter’s protests and fidgeting, that he would see me one way or another. May as well save everyone’s blushes. 

This time, it was Bunny that got cut off, by my face, no doubt paled and terrified-looking, rising up over the other side of the grave. “Hi, Bunny,” I said meekly. 

“Well,” Bunny said, stopped in his tracks. I could see the surprise glinting behind his glasses, the few cogs turning slowly in his futile brain. Henry, his shoulders still braced but looking somewhat relieved, took the hand I reached out to him under the cover of the grave. “Well, well, well. I’ll be damned. Henry and his little doctor, is it? I must say, Henry, I never thought you’d get down with a pill pusher. Actually, now that I say it, it makes perfect sense.” He laughed again, but I looked at Henry without even a smile on my face. I saw, with little surprise, that Henry wasn’t sharing in our unexpected guest’s joy either. In fact, he looked angry. Startlingly so. 

“Go on then. Doctor, doctor, give me the news. What’s the story between you two?  Y’know, my father always says doctor’s are charlatans, a load of crooks.” 

“Actually, Bun, I don’t want to be a doctor.” Henry squeezed my hand tight as I finished this sentence.  A warning, I realised after, when it was too late. “I want to be a psychiatrist.” 

“Oh, a shrink, hm?” Bunny’s eyes glinted maliciously, illuminating like hell fire in the cast of Henry’s lantern. He gestured to Henry. “He your first patient? There’s rules and regulations, y’know, codes of conduct. No mouth to mouth at those appointments.” He laughed again.  

“Yes, very droll, Bunny,” Henry said disdainfully. “Do you need us to walk you back to Hampden?” His hint wasn’t even subtle, voice dripping with annoyance, but Bunny did not, or refused to, pick up on it. 

“Me? Oh, no, I’m fine, I know the way. But I want to hear about you two. Has he tried to-?” 

“Actually, Bun,” I jumped in, trying to think on my feet under his scrupulous gaze. “I don’t know if you’ll have time. I heard Marion was looking for you earlier. Something to do with Cloke Rayburn, and a tinfoil package?” 

Bunny’s face, which had twisted into an aloof, non-caring expression at the mention of his girlfriend, fell instantly as I finished speaking.  

He dithered for a moment, fisting the edge of his thick coat with one hand and scratching at his head with the other, mumbling vocal disfluencies, half-baked excuses and nonsensical reasons why he should or shouldn’t go. These fell out of his mouth in a torrent, almost unintelligible. I glanced at Henry, but he was only staring stonily at our unwanted visitor. 

“Perhaps you’d better go find out what she wants?” I pushed as gently and indifferently as I could. 

Bunny threw his hands up, a surrender to a decision finally made. “Doctor’s orders.” He laughed raucously, so shrilly it set me on edge. “Well, I’ll leave you two to your little love nest. I look forward to hearing all about this later, Henry.” It felt like a threat. From the look on Henry’s face, he took it like one. 

“See you folks later.” And with a wave of his hand and a blur of sandy hair, Bunny was gone like the apparition I’d initially thought he was. Immediately, Henry sighed out a long, deep breath. Relief. 

“Good God, I’m never going to hear the end of this now,” he said as he slid down the gravestone to rest on the blanket. “Of all the people who could’ve found us, it had to be him, didn’t it? Not Charles, not Francis, not even one of your friends... Bunny.”  

“C’mon, he’s your friend, Henry, he would-” Henry shot me a glare, quickly broken by a smile as I stopped talking. 

“Oh, he would do that to me. To us.” he said, sighing as he took my hand and coaxed me down beside him. “Well, I’d been meaning to introduce you to everyone, anyway. Camilla will adore you, I think.”  

A spark of anxiety flared at the bottom of my stomach, but I refused to let this show in front of Henry. The Greek class always walked through the college grounds like royalty, simultaneously above and below everyone around them, who were awestruck by their ethereal presence or disdainful of the timeless coldness of their manner.  

Still, I’d had the same misleading thoughts about Henry until I met him, when he spoke to me with an open air I had originally thought was beneath him. I knew meeting his classmates would have had to happen some day.  

“Look,” Henry said, startling me out of my worry. I glanced at him, still, stoic, carved like a great Greek statue, staring up into the dark shadows of the trees swaying in the breeze. “It’s snowing.” 

It was. Finally. Flakes as small and thin as dust were beginning to fall, catching in the sparse leaves and landing quietly on the headstones around us. The graveyard and the forest were completely silent once more, slowly sprinkling with snow.  

“Come on,” Henry said. “Stay with me tonight.” 

[spacequokka]

JB.two

Prompt: “I think we need to talk.”

You froze, nearly dropping the plates you were carrying to the cabinet. You turned around. Jaebeom was leaning on the kitchen island with a crease in his eyebrows. Oh, no. “What about?”

“This.” He gestured vaguely between you, an air of discomfort settling in the space. He was seldom a man of many words, but his eyes always spoke volumes, and right now they were filled with a mixture of concern and determination.

You put down the plates slowly, apprehensively wiping your hands on your apron before facing him fully. “Is something wrong?”

Jaebeom took a deep breath, his fingers drumming against the marble top, a habit when he was trying to organize his thoughts. “It’s just… I’ve been feeling like there’s distance growing between us. We’re like ships passing in the night, and I don’t want us to become strangers living under the same roof.”

Your heart sank. His words echoed the nagging fears that had haunted the back of your mind for weeks. Your chaotic schedules had stolen more from you two than just time. They were eroding your connection. “I’ve noticed it too,” you admitted softly, unable to keep your voice from shaking.

He straightened, seemingly relieved that you acknowledged the issue too. “I miss us, you know? How we used to be. And I think we need to do something about it.”

Feeling a complex mix of relief and apprehension, you nodded. “I miss us too. What do you think we should do?”

“We need to make time for each other,” he suggested earnestly. “Maybe set aside one night each week just for us? No phones, no work, just… us.”

It sounded simple enough, but in your whirlwind lives, it felt like a lifeline being thrown in tumultuous waters. “That’s doable. My schedule’s more flexible than yours. Just say when and where and I’m there.”

[yiiiiiiiikes25]

Top 5 pieces of furniture you have considered unwisely buying

stood up and braced my hands on the table like i'm in a war room

OKAY. parameters are:

pieces i still think about

must have come across them organically rather than hunting them down to solve a problem

did not actually purchase

fb marketplace. $600 and a seven hour round trip to eastern CT. michel ducaroy for roche bobois smoked lucite modular shelving unit, missing the support poles and their attachment screws. the pictures were just piles of tissue-wrapped slabs of dust in a blurry garage. got as far as calling my steel fabricator to quote out the missing poles before i taped out the only feasible footprint in my 425 sf apt and realized i was delusional. probably could have resold with poles for $5k in new york. would have kept them forever anyway. still regret not pulling the trigger--i sit up in bed out of a dead sleep once a month about these

2. insane butt plug lamp (kundalini ETA lamp by gugliemo berchicci): found it for $1k (mediocre price) at an auspicious moment when moving in with my girlfriend and we both found it hysterical and perfect. would have regretted paying this much, and it's not particularly rare; will pick up when i come across it in a moment of fbmp kismet

3. briefly dated a woodworker/furniture designer whose preoccupation was in finishes; for some bk zillionaire, they'd done up a simple white oak table with copal resin, which they patinated over the legs (example below from a different piece) and then burn-blackened to matte into the top. it smells subtle and sacred, and the burned finish feels like velvet. they do the most incredible organic shapes, like driftwood eroded down to curvature, juxtaposed with stunning planar orthogonals--really some of the most striking furniture i've ever seen. sadly i whiffed the dismount on dating them and can never speak to them again so any future purchases will have to be through a proxy llc

4. all time dream sofa: mario bellini's le bambole, which is so friendly and goofy-ugly and comfy as fUCK that you don't notice how refined and masterful it is. like the lines are actually really beautiful! in green velvet below for the bisexuals and in patinated vintage leather for the real heads. i saw it in vintage burgundy suede at brimfield once and almost passed out. i just think it's such a cool exercise in form and tension--like a child pushing their fingers into a soft block of clay--that somehow adds up to the best piece of italo-california ease you've ever sat on. it's modular; i love the armchair and the loveseat, too, though the slipper chairs i could do without. the repros are stiff and awful, so i'll have to pay out the nose for the real deal. someday, someday

5. in my heart of hearts i am a restoration/salvage bitch; this is perhaps cheating, since it's not precisely furniture and "considered unwisely buying" would entail also buying a house, but maria speake runs a design/salvage firm in london called retrouvius--one of their signature moves is a sturdy apothecary vitrine from the late 1800s or early 1900s refinished into a kitchen island. i think it puts something unexpected and jewelbox-beautiful where a bulky monolithic altar to the gods of expensive marble would usually go in a kitchen. here are a few examples:

thanks for asking the best question of all time! do we know each other

[isolarya]

fucking love it when grantaire realises he loves enjolras the idea and not enjolras the man but then falls in love with the real enjolras all over again

[ruinparadox]

Full deamon husk x shy gn reader in a beauty and the beast like relationship

I'm actually so upset I hadn't thought of this idea before because its so good. Like, you can't just drop a banger idea like this and just not elaborate!

The Beast and his Beauty - Full demon form overlord Husk x Gn!Reader

It’s been a few months since that fateful day. A casino stands at the edge of the city, all but abandoned. The tables are barren, the cards are rotted, and the castle-like building has only one resident, and now one hostage. You swore up and down to your friend that they should not just throw themselves into the casino just to fish for gold and whatnot on the off chance that the overlord who purportedly lives there has somehow died off in the past few centuries of his life.

But no matter how you tried, no matter how you pleaded, they simply waved you off and made for the decrepit castle. One day turned into two. Two days turned into a week into a month, and you left for the castle as well. Other sinners called out to you, trying to warn you of the dangers, but you didn’t heed them. Your friend was in danger and you needed to help them, safety be damned.

Interestingly, the casino stands opposite of the Hazbin Hotel. Atop a hill, behind a tall gate, sequestered away from the big city. It's such a short distance, yet so far away. The metal creaks as you push the entrance open, rust coating the exterior. And just like that you’re scrambling up the hill towards that ornate but blemished door. You grab the handle and notice that it isn’t locked. The mechanism must have eroded away or the overlord is eager to hunt for prey within his walls. Either way, you gain free entry into the estate.

Bravely, or perhaps foolishly, you call into the depths of the halls, your friend’s name reverberating like a siren call. And like a moth to a flame, the overlord appears. He is a hulking beast, his stature so tall he takes up half the entrance hall of the casino floor. His tail is covered in scars and spines, his wings tattered and frail, the colors of the feathers dull and grey. Barely enough plumes for him to assume a brief bout of flight. 

A snarl rumbles in his throat, his face riddled with soot with his face taking the shape of a tiger who’s muzzle is scrunched and wrinkled in perpetual anger. His eyes are like gemstones, glowing in the dark, his slit pupils watching your every move. He’s a predator eyeing prey in his territory. The scythes for talons and claws on his giant paws scratch the floor as he stalks towards you, leaving deep wounds in the marble panels.

“Why are you here?” You could feel the castle shake with his distorted voice. He sounds so… tired.

Why else are you here? For your friend. You demand to know where they are, right now. You demand for their release. 

“Friend? You mean this little plaything?” His tail comes around from behind him, the tip hooked through the hoop of a cage and your friend dangling inside it. “I am merely defending my home from intruders. Intruders such as you, if that wasn’t clear. Why should I release them?”

Indeed, why should he? He has no reason to care about you, a strange person trespassing on the monument to his shame. He has no desires to cling to, no vices to drown in. What could you possibly have to offer the beast who wants nothing but to be left alone?

A question that leaves you stumped. No amount of money could lift him from this state. He’d just gamble it all away again on the vain hopes some windfall might come his way. You can’t offer him power, he has that in droves, not that it's done him much good. And redemption is far too flimsy a concept for him to take on faith.

No, there’s only one thing you could give him. Your soul.

Immediately, your friend is banging at the bars of their cage, crying out in protest, but your gaze is fixed firmly on the beast towering over you, its breath brushing through your fur. 

“You would gamble away your soul on something so small?” He’s almost surprised you’d even considered it, let alone actually offered. But nevertheless, as terrified as you are, even as your body shakes in anxiety and fear, your gaze does not drop. You will see this through. Though to what end? Even you yourself aren’t sure.

His eyes narrow down at you, but he accepts your proposal. You utter an apology to your friend as they cry and beg for you to take it back. They’re cast out after the beast places a spell on them to never speak or mention anything about what took place and can never return to the castle beyond the gate.

In the next second, the beast has returned, and your friend is barred from the estate, their figure barely visibly beyond the gates at the foot of the hill. A golden manacle manifests itself around your neck, a chain rattling as it extends to the beast. You expect him to yank you towards him, but surprisingly, he doesn’t. Instead, he looks down on it, and lets it fall to the floor, its brilliant yet ominous glow fading out of sight.

You don’t even get a word in before he’s stalking off to some unknown part of the castle, his voice quiet as he mumbles for you to “do whatever you want.”

It's been a few months since that day, and you two have grown close since then. The beast, whose name you now know as “Husk,” is trapped in his own casino, surrounded by nothing but forgotten bets and dried up alcohol. He can’t even drink the pain away anymore. He refuses to elaborate when asked about what is keeping him here.

At first, he’s distant and grumpy, barely acknowledging your presence with small grunts, let alone words. You attempt to talk to him, but whether he can hear you, or is just outright ignoring you is anyone’s guess. With conversation a moot front, you attempt to at least make a space for yourself to sleep and live in. If you are going to be staying in a decrepit castle, you might as well make it as comfortable as you can.

He sees you attempting to clear out a room as best you can, but the dust, dirt, and rot are endless. Begrudgingly, he tells you to stop and to just sleep in his room. There’s a lot less dirt and it has the only bed in the entire building that hasn’t crumbled to dust.

The bed in question is more than half the size of the room, a large circle mattress dressed in blemished silk sheets. You imagine it must have looked lavish in the casino’s heyday. You find yourself impressed when it's revealed that the room is capable of housing both you and Husk, the giant resting his head on the empty half of the bed next to you. 

His breathing is soft, but given the size difference it's a veritable gust of wind ruffling your clothes in your sleep. No matter, you’ll just have to use a few more blankets from now on. Assuming there are still any left.

In the next few days you do some exploring of the grounds. You’re not allowed outside, lest you bring more intruders to disturb his territory, but you’re free to go wherever you wish inside. It is then you happen across a closet filled with dresses and other clothes somehow untouched by the ravages of time. Husk is equally surprised but says you can have them. Normally they’d be gifts for his employees if they excelled at their jobs but… well, you get the idea by now, don’t you?

Happily, you put one of them on, looking at yourself twirling about in a cracked vanity mirror. In the reflection, you catch Husk staring at you with a look that’s less than grumpy as he usually is. He notices you looking at him and immediately turns around, his tail nearly knocking you over as he grumbles about taking a nap.

The weeks go by and you catch Husk looking at you more and more, a glint of something you can’t quite recognize in his eyes. It escalates from there. Purrs rumbling the castle, an unexpected nuzzle here or there, and his tail gently wrapping around you.

He refuses to say anything about it until you confront him directly. Reluctantly, he tells you of days long past, when dancers lined the stage, when bright lights and strong drinks bathed the walls, when money flowed through the establishment like water through a dam… when a horrible deal gone wrong took everything from him and one by one, the people disappeared. 

Soon there were no dancers, no booze, no lights, and no money. He’s been here all alone in his self imposed exile. It's not that he can’t leave, but he won’t. For what purpose would that serve? There’s nothing waiting for him out there. Nothing that could fill the hole in his heart. A hole he carved out himself.

At least, that’s what he thought until recently. Until he felt a spark go off within him when he saw you wear that dress, smiling like you were ready to go dancing. He feels something for you, but he can’t trust himself to not mess it up, to not ruin it like he did everything else. 

You give him a smile and he feels his fur go warm for a bit. You tell him that he won’t know if it will work if he doesn’t try. That seems to touch something inside him and for the first time in a while, he smiles. 

That night, you two make for a ballroom. Not sure why a casino needs one, but neither of you really care right now. You two dance and dance throughout the night. Well, more like you’re the one dancing and he’s gently guiding you with his talons. He’s far too big to move about in such a manner without causing some damage.

Still, it doesn’t matter, both of you have fun, and the next few weeks, it only gets better. You two are now having dinner together with what little food you can find or afford, you’re allowed to go outside and buy or steal anything you need, and you now sleep together on the bed, his body curled around yours to give you all the warmth you need.

You tell your friend that you’re okay and you don’t need rescuing. You pack your things from the hotel and move them into Husk’s castle, saying goodbye to your friends while promising to visit. Redemption is overrated. And whether your lives end from being redeemed, or from an exorcist's blade, or perhaps they never end at all, you’re just happy to spend your life next to a beautiful creature such as he.

It doesn’t matter that he can’t return to his normal form anymore. You love him just the way he is.

[stervrucht]

Steve Harrington\Eddie Munson | Rated: M | cw: Blood, Death, Gore | Tags: Alternative Universe: Vampire, Horror, Dom/Sub undertones, Implied Mind Control, Dubious Consent, Vampire!Eddie, Hotelclerk!Steve | AO3

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The Graveyard Shift - Part 2

They are heading northwest from their last gig in Cincinnati. The highrise of the city center quickly makes way for long stretches of road until the city is nothing more than a bunch of lights in the rearview mirror.  

The guys are giddy, strung up from another good show—another good hunt. Eddie is happy to leave Ohio behind; to be returning to his home ground of Indiana. 

True, the state itself isn’t much to look at, but in the darkness of the night, he doesn’t care much for a scenic view. 

When was the last time he laid his eyes on the vast green fields, the rich yellow of dried wheat, or the cerulean sky? Eddie can hardly recall—it has been decades after all.

Compared to the first half of the 20th century, the 80s are a spectacle to behold. The morals are looser, the clothes more revealing, and hunting was never this easy—never this fun. Eddie likes the way he can walk around at night now, bathed in light and color like he’s living once more. 

And the music is something else. 

It’s hard to believe he might have missed out on this—on the leather and the smoke and the loudness of it all. The shrieking of guitars and voices that perfectly captures the chaos of the world; to instill darkness in mortals, not through death, but through music. 

What a splendid age indeed.

Indianapolis shines like a beacon of light in the distance and in this new age, this time of neon lights and secondary colors, it might as well be Eden itself. It shines in darkness much more than it ever did in the light of day.

When they arrive in the city, Gareth drops him off at some gaudy hotel, and it’s their usual spiel. They stay at separate hotels, avoid suspicion, and then once their show is over, they leave again. Ditch the city and trade it for another. 

Rinse and repeat, for centuries to come.

The hotel looks different from the last time Eddie stayed there a decade ago. New owners have tried to put their mark on history. Tearing down the old and replacing it with artificial plastics that seem so prevalent at this time. 

It’s cute, the way they try, but few are ever remembered. Most will disappear into obscurity—just another name on a tombstone until that erodes as well.

Most, but not Eddie. 

Not Corroded Coffin.  

The new marble floors are laid in a checkerboard pattern—polished to such an extent that they reflect anyone who walks on them. It’s a giveaway, but Eddie doesn’t worry about that. Humans are remarkably dim; remarkably easy to fool. 

Not that he minds. Eddie prefers his food a little dim.

Behind the front desk stands a boy. Eddie could smell him from outside—the smell of lifeblood and light. It matches his looks in every way. He has an easygoing charm to him. 

The boy doesn’t notice him as he massages his temples and Eddie feels like a fox stalking a rabbit unaware of its impending doom. 

After so many decades, it’s easy to move without sound—it’s thrilling, the way people jump, the way their eyes go wide as they grow uncomfortable. 

Unconsciously they are aware that something is wrong, but humans have grown out of touch with their instincts. They push the feeling down because in this age, evil can be found in board games, books, and the wrong kind of love. 

Evil comes in human form—it needs no horns or teeth or claws. It comes in clever tongues, greedy hands, and an insatiable hunger for more, m ore, m ore—

When Eddie sees the boy, he thinks goodness may persist in equal measure. It gnaws at him, the familiarity of it, but he can’t allow himself to go there—not again. It’s a specific kind of anguish. A yearning he can’t mute.

He yearns for Steve before he even learns his name. 

And it sounds like a melody, the way his heart rate spikes when Eddie grabs his wrist; his scent a perfect blend of nervous curiosity and excitement, unpolluted by the stench of fear.

Eddie feels his mouth water as his nails dig into his flesh. He pulls back. He has indulged himself too much already. 

Not this one. Not yet.

Around 4 AM, Eddie orders room service, and some kid with freckles shows up at his door. 

Tommy

He smells like trouble—it radiates off him like perfume as his cheeks flush with expensive wine and stuffs his face with the food Eddie provides. 

Call it his last supper. Eddie does have some humanity. 

Eddie watches him with a lazy swirl of untouched wine in his hand. Tommy doesn’t notice he doesn’t drink. Tommy doesn’t notice much of anything. 

Tommy talks. 

He talks a lot and it’s all bullshit. But, fuck, if that isn’t the type of person Eddie enjoys toying with most—cocky and a little rude. They break so beautifully.

The guys have given him shit before, called his tastes fancy. And maybe they are right, just a little, because Eddie has a type. 

Tommy isn’t it, but he’s close enough. 

He’s sure the guys are fine with this one. Someone unreliable, who oversleeps and skips out on work. Someone who won’t be missed—not until it’s too late.

Yes, Tommy will do , Eddie reminds himself as he sinks his teeth into the boy’s neck. Tommy whimpers helplessly, somewhere between pain and pleasure. The initial resistance wears off fast as the venom fills his veins. Eddie feels his heat seep into his body and he moans against his skin; grabs the back of Tommy’s neck to pull him closer.

There’s nothing quite like blood. Nothing quite like the overwhelming pleasure of life on his tongue as Tommy’s pulse grows weaker and his skin pales. 

When Eddie feels Tommy’s heart hitch he knows it’s time to stop. He pushes himself away and creates some distance as he watches. Pupils blown and white-faced, Tommy’s jaw moves helplessly for a minute or so before Eddie sees him fade.

Eddie stands up then. He hates the final spasms—hates the actual dying part, no matter how often he does it. It reminds him of himself, and how he skirted death before he became what he is now.

He moves to his window and stands in front of it. The city is alive with lights, regardless of the hour.

Reflected in the window he sees Tommy’s body give a singular violent jerk.

Death throes.

“It won’t be like last time,” Eddie whispers as he thinks of the boy named Steve.

—

It is morning and Robin is seated at their little breakfast table with a slice of half-eaten toast and a newspaper in front of her. The kitchen smells of bread and coffee and it instantly makes Steve relax. It’s the scent of coming home, especially now that he works night shifts. He makes himself a cup of tea and sits down next to her. 

Robin takes another bite of her toast and looks at him. “Alright, spill it.”

“What?”

“You have something to tell me. I can see it in your face.”

Steve sends her a playful frown before pulling the two backstage passes from his breast pocket and sliding them toward her like they’re business cards.

Robin studies them a moment before looking back at Steve. “Remember when I said they were weirdos? That definitely extends to them backstage.” She pushes the passes back to Steve. “How did you even get this?” 

Steve steals her toast and takes a bite. “Their lead singer—”

Robin snatches her toast back and pulls a face. “Dude, swallow before you talk.”

“Sorry.” Steve swallows heavily, “As I was saying, their lead singer is staying at the hotel. Tommy didn’t show up tonight so I had to pitch in on room service duty. Kinda sucked balls, but hey, I got something good out of it I guess.”

“And you were so good at pushing a cart this guy just happened to give you backstage passes?” Robin gulps her coffee and eyes him over her mug.

“So what if I was?”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Okay, fine. He invited me into his room and made me have wine with him. Happy now?”

“Steve, that’s really weird.” She frowns into her mug.

Steve fiddles with the handle of his mug. Robin is eying him intensely and she’s probably right. It’s a little weird, but she’s also overly suspicious. “He was just being nice. It was nearly morning. Maybe he felt guilty about the food.”

“Food? He ordered food at what, 5 AM?”

“Hotel guests are always weird. You don’t know half of it. This actually only classifies as mildly unusual.”

“So, what say you? Will you join me tonight?”

“There’s no talking you out of this, is there?”

“No chance.”

Robin seems to be giving in and Steve feels strangely victorious. “Okay, I’m coming with you tonight, if only because I’m pretty sure this guy has some unbecoming intentions with my sweet Steve.”

Steve laughs and takes a sip of his tea. Robin smiles back at him, tentatively.

“Highly unlikely. I’m not a girl.”

“That means nothing, Steve. Believe me.” Robin flips the newspaper to the next page and they sit in silence for a moment.

It’s a rainy morning and Robin will have to leave for class soon. Steve hates how their schedules contradict each other now. He squeezes her hand affectionately and gives her a reassuring smile.

“It’ll be fun.”

Robin smiles back, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

—

“Are you really wearing that?” Robin asks him that evening.

Steve looks himself down. He’s wearing a polo and jeans. Hardly an offensive outfit. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Oh Steve, they’ll eat you alive,” she says affectionately. “Hold on.” 

Robin leaves the room and Steve moves to one of the mirrors to study himself. His outfit isn’t like Eddie’s on the pamphlet, nor like the people in the record shop, but he can’t see what’s wrong with it. 

“Catch.” Robin throws a black fabric ball at him and Steve turns around, just in time to get hit square in the face. He yanks it off his head and unfolds it. 

“ Heart ? Isn’t it a faux pas to wear shirts of other bands?”

“I didn’t know you spoke French, monsieur Steve. Did you pick that up at that fancy hotel of yours too?” Robin is smiling at him.

Steve rolls his eyes. “It’s the cross-words okay. Now answer the question.”

“It’s fine…ish. Besides, it’s the only thing I have close to your size. It’s better than your polo, believe me.”

Steve sighs. “Fine, I’ll be right back.” 

—

Robin is right, this isn’t his scene. Steve self-consciously tugs at the slightly too-tight shirt. He’s glad she made him change because people are indeed dressed differently here. 

Steve hasn’t attended many music events. Music has always been in the background, not something he consciously paid attention to.

Corroded Coffin hits differently.

It’s the darkness and heat of the small concert hall. People are dressed in black and leather, drenched in defiance and sweat. But the ambiance is magnetic and it lures Steve in. It makes him believe he can become one with this collection of misfits as the drums pound in his head with Robin at his side. Guitars cut through him and Eddie Munson’s voice stitches him back together.

Robin sticks to his side, hands on his arm. She’s wary and Steve doesn’t understand how she’s not taken by this, by the music that sounds so much like love feels.

Robin eyes him suspiciously. Her eyebrows are knit together as she holds his face and scans his eyes. “Did you slip in some alcohol while I wasn’t looking?”

Steve swats her hands away. “Of course not. Where would I even get that?” 

Steve isn’t drunk. He can’t be, but the atmosphere feels charged with it. “Just relax Rob, have fun,”

The music is loud and talking is hard. Bodies are squeezed against them from all sides as they make their way back into the crowd. 

When Eddie announces their last song his eyes briefly meet Steve’s in the darkness of the crowd. And surely Eddie can’t see him, not really—it’s too dark and the stage lights are too bright. But when he hits his guitar and runs his lips against the metal grid of his microphone, Steve thinks he looks like a god come to life. 

Steve is mesmerized by it. Can tear his eyes away from the way Eddie’s mouth moves over the microphone like a lover would. Steve hardly hears the music at this point. The world is faded at the edges and it feels like nothing exists except for Eddie and himself.

Eddie looks at him, and this time Steve is sure he sees him. Eddie’s eyes hold his, lips moving over the microphone as he sings his final note.

The crowd erupts in cheers and the spell is broken.

When the band moves off the podium, chaotic mumbling rises and fills the concert hall. The lights come back on and suddenly all intimacy seems gone.

Rob squeezes his arm, her eyes shooting towards the exit in signal for Steve. She pulls him along, making her way through the mass of bodies around him until she comes to a halt, so suddenly Steve almost crashes into her.

In front of her stands a bulky man dressed in a suit. 

“If you’ll follow me,” he says. He doesn’t wait for an answer, but briefly turns his back, walking towards the stage rather than the exit. 

Robin shoots Steve a wary look, but he ignores it, grabbing her by the wrist to pull her with him. She resists for a second before giving in.

The man leads them through the crowd to a door near the stage. He holds it open for them and beckons them to go through. The man steps past them until they arrive at another door. He holds it open again and when Steve walks through he is greeted by several other people lounging around. 

They’re all girls. 

Pretty girls with dark clothes and drinks in their hands—champagne flutes and elegant wine glasses. Some seem a little buzzed; somewhere between the softness of alcohol-induced relaxation and nervous anticipation.

The door falls shut behind them and the girls look up at the sound. They greet them, some with a soft ‘hi’, others with a wave. Some of them ignore them altogether.

Steve doesn’t really care. He isn’t there for them. The girls don’t seem to care either—mostly focusing on themselves or the friends they brought.

“Let's get out of here Steve,” Robin whispers in his ear. She’s glued to his side, antsy to get away, and Steve has to admit the situation feels strange. Now he’s not engulfed by the crowd the high is starting to wear off, and the atmosphere unsettles him a little.

The room is pretty barebones and all the girls are wearing VIP tags around their necks, just like them. 

“Let's just get one drink, then we’ll go.” Steve offers. He makes his way over to a table with various drinks—mostly alcohol. Steve decides to be responsible and grabs a soda for Robin and himself. Robin seems nervous enough as is, she doesn’t need Steve’s drunk ass on top of everything.

A little while later the man who led them earlier is back and asks them to follow him once again. Muffled music sounds throughout the hall until a door opens and suddenly music is blasting. 

The room is dark with a few lights scattered around casting warm light and dark shadows. The room is hazy with smoke, walls lined with brick, and Persian rugs scattered on the hardwood floor. It must be one of the rooms for performers to relax before and after the show, Steve realizes. 

Loud cheering erupts as one of the band members downs a glass of red liquid in one go. Some of it runs past his stubbled chin and he wipes at it with his sleeve.

The large man clears his throat and the band members look up towards the door opening. 

“Come in, come in!” A guy with blond curly hair motions. They disperse and the members seem to gravitate towards their respective guests.

“Steve!”

Eddie walks towards him with open arms and Steve feels that familiar pull again. It tugs at his mind and swirls in his gut with a sense of unfounded longing.

Before Steve can react, Eddie has him engulfed in a tight hug and Steve can feel the buttons of his denim vest dig into his chest and the skin of his cold bare arms stick to his own sweat-slick skin.

“And you must be his friend.” Eddie releases him and turns to Robin. He doesn’t hug her.  Instead, he takes her hand with a cordial bow and introduces himself as ‘Edward Munson, but call me Eddie’.

The tension in Robin’s posture seems to relax a little then. “Robin,” she says.

Eddie’s attention turns back to Steve and he eyes him up and down.

“Dig the shirt,” he says, clicking his tongue. Steve looks down at the tight fabric stretched over his chest and pats at it self-consciously.

“What did you think of the show?” Eddie looks at Robin, then at Steve.

“It—it was great. I’ve never seen anything like it,” Steve says. Next to him, he sees Robin’s eyebrow move ever so slightly. It’s a tell, but Eddie won’t know that. Robin thinks Steve’s full of shit. Is probably judging his life choices at this very second. That’s fair. Maybe Robin is just having a bad day. 

“Great show,” Robin echoes, but there is little passion behind her words. She looks at her watch, and honestly, Steve thinks it’s a little rude with Eddie right in front of them, but Eddie doesn’t seem to notice. His eyes are glued to Steve. A handsome little smile growing on his face as he throws an arm around his shoulder.

“Say, we’re heading to a club after this. Afterparty kinda deal. Care to join us?”

Steve opens his mouth to answer, but Robin beats him to it.

“We have class tomorrow morning.”

We. Now that was a lie. Robin really wants to get him out of here.

“I don’t,” Steve corrects her, “An after-party sounds fun. Can’t sleep anyway—night shifts you know.” Steve shrugs.

Robin shoots him a desperate look. “Can I steal him for a moment?” She asks Eddie. He nods and releases his grip on Steve’s shoulder.

Robin leads him to one of the corners of the room. The music is loud, and the other band members are chattering with the girls. One of them has a girl on his lap as they engage in a very intimate conversation.

Once they’re out of earshot, Steve focuses his attention on Robin. “What the hell, Rob!”

“Steve, something about this is off. I swear.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Steve says, but it doesn’t sound convincing. Robin quirks a skeptical eyebrow as she folds her arms over her chest.

The thing is, Steve doesn’t really care. This is the most fun he’s had in a good while. Life has been boring these past few months. He is just finding his footing again after Nancy dumped him. He doesn’t understand why Robin can’t let him have this.

“Steve, I mean it. I’m going home. I really do have class in the morning. If you know what’s good for you, you will come as well.”

“I’m staying, Rob. I can take care of myself.” He crosses his arms over his chest and stares her down.

Finally, Robin relents. She sighs, pulls the VIP badge from her neck, and shoves it in his hand. 

“If you’re about to do something stupid, look at my name and maybe—don’t do that thing,” she says. She gives his arm an affectionate squeeze and makes her way to the door, looking back once with furrowed brows before closing it behind her.

Steve stares after her. His excitement tainted with a strange guilt as he stands there alone.

“You alright there?”

Steve turns around and sees Eddie looking at him with worried eyes.

“Yeah, I’m fine. My friend—” he looks at the door again and frowns, “she had to leave.”

“That’s too bad, man. Listen, we’re about to head out, yeah. I got us a taxi, we’re sharing with Gareth and his harem.” Eddie points a thumb over his shoulder towards the guy with curly blond hair. He’s surrounded by three girls.

Steve shoots him a smile, and when he stares into Eddie’s impossibly dark eyes, he feels all guilt wash off him and that strange sense of longing and anticipation return.

The taxi is a tight squeeze. One of the girls takes the passenger seat, which leaves Eddie, Gareth, and two additional girls in the backseat.

A blonde girl decides to share a seat with her friend by sitting on her lap and Gareth squeezes himself into the middle seat next to the girls. That only leaves one window seat.

“Not a bad idea,” Eddie says, staring at the girls, “you can sit on my lap,” he offers, sending him a little smile. Steve laughs sheepishly until he realizes Eddie meant what he said.

“Won’t you be uncomfortable? Maybe we should get another taxi—”

“It’s only ten minutes. It will be fine,” Eddie waves his hands. 

Steve relents and settles himself into Eddie’s lap. They’re both guys, it isn’t weird at all. He was on the basketball team in high school. He knows guys can be close without it having to mean something. Maybe if he were a girl, he would be worried.

Somewhere in the back of his head, he hears their morning conversation echo. 

‘That means nothing, Steve. Believe me.’

He shakes her off, even when he feels her VIP pass poke into his thigh from the pocket of his jeans.

The car ceiling is low, and he has to bend his neck a little with the added height of Eddie’s thighs beneath him. There’s no shifting or moving about. He sits planted firmly, full weight on Eddie’s lap. They can’t wear a seatbelt like this, which annoys him somewhat. It thrills him too, the edge of danger, however small.

Everything about tonight is strange and exciting.

The car ride is short indeed. He feels Eddie’s bones dig into the back of his legs, and Eddie holds him, arms wrapped around his waist, but it’s only to steady him. Steve tries not to move too much. He doesn’t want to make it more uncomfortable for Eddie than it has to be. It’s a tight squeeze as is, with all five of them on the backseat, and it doesn’t help that Gareth keeps messing with the girls on his side. His elbows poke into Steve’s side now and then, and it makes him shift in Eddie’s lap.

“We’re almost there,” Eddie breathes against his neck. Steve feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. His will is soft and pliant and he feels like he’s drunk again. He wonders how Eddie’s doing that; wonders why Eddie even invited him along when he could be surrounded by a cohort of girls as well, although he loses that train of thought quickly.

Steve stumbles out of the taxi once they arrive, and Eddie steadies him when he steps out behind him. There’s a large line in front of the building—so long that it cuts around the corner— and Steve can only imagine how long it will go on from there.

The red neon sign spells out ‘Candlelight’ and it casts a warm hue on the concrete sidewalk. It makes Eddie’s hair look a deep auburn and fire-red reflect in his black eyes.

Steve hasn’t been to many nightclubs in Indianapolis. Before, when he was dating Nancy, there was little reason to, and now that he has his job at the hotel, his nights are often otherwise preoccupied. Robin indulged him once after he and Nance broke up, but after getting hit on by several guys, she quickly decided she never wanted to do it again. 

Not that it matters. Steve liked spending whatever free night he had watching movies with Robin just fine. And he would like to meet his next girlfriend organically anyway, not in nightclubs through beer goggles or whatever.

Their entourage is moving towards the double doors of the nightclub and Eddie lays a heavy hand on his lower back. He feels his fingers grace his skin where his shirt rides up; feels Eddie’s sharp nails rest on his skin like talons. It sends a shiver down his spine. 

Once one of the other guys talked to the bouncer, they’re allowed in, and Steve is a little starstruck by the way they get to skip the line. 

As they walk through the double doors, Steve is engulfed by light and moving bodies to music that thumps so loudly he can feel it in his bones.

A strange night indeed, he thinks as Eddie guides him in.

---

@shunna

@bookworm0690

@stripey82

@sexymothmanincarnate

@gaydrieeen

@ilovecupcakesandtea

@hiscrimsonangel

@eddie-munson-addict

@limpingpenguin

@bloodrising

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@wheneverfeasible

@cryptid-syste

@lawrencebshoggoth

@scoops-aboy86

@ignoremyworld

Please leave a comment or send me a message if you wish to be included/removed from the taglist for this fic.

[mdzs-owns-my-ass-i-guess]

In loving memory

based off a heartbreaking dream I had last night about Hua Cheng and his mom

Near the old border of the Xianle kingdom, there used to be a burial ground. It was not a place for the lavish mausoleums of nobles and royalty, nor the resting place of great scholars or renowned artists. The many plaques that used to dot the grassy expanse of that field had long eroded, or been destroyed, the lands of Xianle having fallen to wars, ruin and reconstruction countless times over the hundreds of years since the kingdom had met its tragic fate.

The people buried there had followed the same fate that all living beings did, their bodies lost to decay and their souls following the reincarnation cycle until they completed it. Those left to remember them had dissipated just the same, and with them, so did the memories of their loved ones.

New homes were erected, new cities appeared, new kingdoms rose, new people lived and died and loved, clueless to those before.

But near the old border of Xianle, in a corner of the old burial ground, a small mound dotted with red flowers and a dark marble headstone remained. The writing on it seemed to have been engraved in a long lost language, the letters glittering silver, so it was hard to say who the grave belonged to. It bore an elegance like no other, simple though incredibly refined, and no matter the tempest it endured, be it human or natural catastrophes, it stood unmoved, shaded by two, beautiful willow trees.

Some believed it to have been a monument to some great warrior, perhaps a beloved benefactor - but nobody had been able to find out anything about the person that lay there or the life they lived. More importantly, nobody seemed to know who it was that lit incense there every day, or how it was kept n such pristine condition although nobody was ever seen visiting.

Legends and folktales circulated, some speculating that it must have been the work of evil spirits or some sort of supernatural being, though no cultivators had ever found any ghost or monster haunting those lands - in fact, the vicinity of the grave was mysteriously un-haunted, like something was keeping evil at bay to protect the small monument. It was even said that, should one find themselves in a dangerous situation, like being chased by thieves or frightened by demons, if they bowed three times by that grave, the danger would pass them by and their life would be spared.

Regardless, it seemed whoever rested there had been loved immensely - because even if it was unknown who tended to the grave, its appearance spoke of great affection and respect. It had been often that people that passed by marveled at it, wishing that they would also be loved so deeply after they pass that their resting place would be kept so beautiful many years after they pass.

Xie Lian had passed by the grave once, in his long, aimless travels in the mortal realm, and had also wondered what kind of person rested there and how kind they must have been to be remembered even long after their language had disappeared and their home had fallen to ruin.

Though, he could not allow himself the luxury to imagine being remembered so fondly or loved this much, knowing his memory had been tainted and his name cursed too much to even dream of such a thing. And death had long been forbidden for him as an escape as well, no matter how much he had wished for it.

So troubled had he been at that time that he had not stopped to look a second longer, and continued on his way, only hoping that, in time, people would at least forget him enough not to hate him any longer.

---

It was many hundreds of years later that Xie Lian saw the grave again, this time at his beloved's side. He had not explicitly asked Hua Cheng about his family, but it had been one night as they held one another that the topic came up, and Xie Lian had opened up about his parents, about his family, about how they died but more importantly, how they lived. It had not been something Xie Lian spoke of easily, but with Hua Cheng, he felt safe enough to share the burden of both his memories and his regrets.

Unlike him, Hua Cheng didn't have too many memories of his parents, as he had run away after his mother died. He could remember his father being a distant man, involved enough to provide basic necessities but absent enough to feel like he was never around. He'd had siblings, but they had never been close, as Hua Cheng had been born much later than them and so they were older and looked down on him, thinking him an accident born of their parents' negligence. There had been much bullying, to the point that he had learned it better to cover his mismatching eye to avoid the mockery of his peers, but that didn't help much either.

It had been unclear to Xie Lian whether that day when little Hong-er had fallen off the wall had been an accident or an intentional decision, and he had not pressed for answers. Part of him did not want to find out that the man that would become his beloved had consciously taken the dive back then, and another part of him knew Hua Cheng did not want him to know either.

So, Xie Lian instead asked about Hua Cheng's mother. She had been a kind woman from the fragments of memory Hua Cheng had of her, and she had loved him very much. She had come from foreign lands with many riches, but it was unclear what had happened to them - they had never been rich and Hua Cheng believed either his father spent recklessly or his siblings had taken advantage of their mother's kindness. Either way, Hua Cheng saw nothing of a comfortable life as a child, but he had not minded the poverty so long as he could take comfort in his mother's love.

But she had fallen ill unexpectedly and spent several months bedridden, and as such, Hua Cheng's father had left her, unwilling to care for his sick wife. Though he had been barely a teenager at the time, Hua Cheng had taken care of her to the best of his abilities - but when the money ran out, so did the medicine, and she wasted away in great pain and torment.

It was Hua Cheng alone that buried her, and her funeral ceremony had been incredibly modest. He visited her grave as much as he could when he was alive, and as a ghost as well. So, when he finally became Hua Cheng, Crimson Rain Sought Flower, and was not Hong-er any longer, he revisited the forgotten gravesite and sculpted a befitting headstone for his mother and made sure that her place of rest would be honored properly as long as he existed.

He had not been able to find her soul, and so he had taken solace in the knowledge that, somewhere in the world, in a different form, his mother's soul had, perhaps, found happiness. But as a dutiful, loving son, he honored her the best way he still could.

Xie Lian gazed at the masterfully carved gravestone and couldn't help a sad, remorseful smile tugging at his lips. He imagined little Hua Cheng crying for his mother, left alone in a cruel world, he imagined Crimson Rain Sought Flower carving her headstone with the same loving care he carved all of Xie Lian's statues.

He lit up four sticks of incense, and bowed to the grave alongside his husband, distantly remembering the tales he'd heard of the peaceful atmosphere that seemed to surround the mysterious grave at the border of the old Xianle kingdom. Perhaps some of it had been Hua Cheng's power and reputation keeping evil at bay. But, though her soul must have reincarnated, Xie Lian wondered whether some of the love remained.

Thank you. Thank you for having loved and cared for the one I love today. And for entrusting him to me, though I have not made it easy for him. Wherever you are, I hope that you can somehow feel that he is loved and he is happy. I will do the best I can for him to always be.

---

"Thank you for bringing me here today, San Lang." Xie Lian spoke after a poignant silence, on their way back home.

"I thought it was time gege met my mother... however, I must ask, had you been here before?"

Xie Lian huffed fondly, Hua Cheng's observant eye having not missed the familiarity in Xie Lian's eyes at the sight.

"A long time ago. I was in passing."

"Gege did not stop."

"No, I didn't... I was... troubled."

It was Hua Cheng's turn to huff. "If you had, I would have found you sooner."

"Such is fate, San Lang." Xie Lian laughed softly, taking his husband's hand in his.

Hua Cheng smiled, sincere and loving. "Then I am glad I could subdue fate enough to finally be able to meet you."

[seikkoi]

ꜱᴜɢᴀʀ | dom!tony stark x sugarbaby!reader ( ᴄʀɪᴍᴇ!ᴀᴜ )

ᴘᴀʀᴛ ꜰᴏᴜʀ [1, 2, 3, 5] | ʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴏɴ ᴀᴏ3

There was nothing that could keep Tony from having exactly what he wanted—and he deserved a little sweetness in his life. All he had to do was keep from ruining you in the process.

content/warnings: 18+ minors do not interact. non-canon, non-superhero au, sub/dom undertones, slight emotional/verbal manipulation, obsessive + possessive behavior, age gap (reader described as mid-twenties, t.s as mid-forties), mildly dubious consensual situations, explicit mentions of alcohol and drug use, generally not for the light of heart, rough sexual content, reader described as petite word count: 10k

“I have not been meeting with Steve.” you scowled behind gritted teeth. Balled fists return to your side. Pin-point daggers shoot back, unphased.

It’s an absurd notion on its own, that you betray him in the slightest. You also know you’ve had sneezes last longer than that conversation–how the hell did Tony know about it?

“Try again.” He doesn’t return your heat in his voice, leaving that to be felt through his grasp. 

“Fine, I ran into Steve, but come on, you seriously think I would–”

“Not sure what to think given how easy it just was for you to lie to me.” 

“You’ve been lying to me from the start!” 

You pulled yourself from his grasp, tossing the bag onto the island. Cream marble and translucency make for wonderful camouflage, almost losing itself in the light entirely.

“I’d hardly call my personal habits comparable to sneaking around.” 

Adrenaline does what it knows best, keeping you pliant and pissed. Two things that erode rationalism like rust. The iron spreads to whatever argument you would’ve made had there been more time to prepare. Or sense to see the mosaic pattern here. Time stills for no more than a few seconds–and that’s all Tony needs.

“So, go ahead, please. Tell me more about what I should think .”

He says it so permissively, you might have obliged if his jaw loosened even a bit to do so. That tiny breadth of space is stalked through by shiny leather oxfords. You’re given a not so pleasant reminder of his stature when he's in front of you again, more overwhelming than before. The cool stone island digs into your back. 

“Here I was actually worried something could have happened to you–turn’s out you’re searching for, what , exactly?” 

The reversal almost worked, really. The reminiscent guilt came back as it always does. You felt the same way for wanting to leave back in California months ago. Even all that time ago in that dimly lit boutique. Tony showed you time and time again how much he loved you– wanted you, and here you were, finding another reason to push him away.

You were so close to giving in. The marble’s nearly swallowed the powdery bag whole by now, for it takes you longer to see the plastic outline bouncing back at you. 

Tony waits, hands tucked into the pocket of his suit pants (in a very deliberate attempt to hide his own unease). His eyes still bore back into you like a hawk, and you wanted to surrender to them until their pin-point, reddened nature dawned on you. Then, the subtle rise and fall of his chest, the tempo beating fast your own. The shake in his hands when he held you in place.

To Tony, you meet his eyes with something far more heart-piercing than anger, and he gets a sick feeling of deja vu. You wouldn’t know–his face stone cold from years of practice. But this close, you can see something worse. 

“You’re wasted right now .” 

You don’t bother making it a question (it’s a quiet scoff). Nor do you bother to wait for the response he’s struggling to muster. Decades of life yet he lacked a great deal of experience in getting called on his shit.  All the air seems to leave the room, saving just the few breaths you have remaining in your lungs. 

“We’re done.” 

You use them wisely, calmly , even, to head for the elevator and as far away from this as possible. Despite the fact your ears are ringing. Don’t ask where you find the willpower. You push past him, rather easily because Tony moves for the sanctity of his shoulder and knee. 

Your fingers go to grace the brass buttons, but Tony crosses the threshold with far fewer steps and positions himself between you and the opening door. 

“ Move , Tony.” you say sternly, though it feels ridiculous raising your voice at someone whose gaze you have to look up to meet. 

“Don’t want to keep Mr. America waiting, of course.”

“Seriously?” you scoff, eyes rolling. “You’re still on that?”

“I don’t know, you still wanna lie to me?” 

“How many times do I need to tell you–”

“I know you were with him, so you can cut the bullshit.”

“I told you, I ran into Steve. That’s . It. ” you respond, making another move for the button just for Tony to shift an inch to the left. 

“You two looked very cozy outside that bar. Let me guess, he ordered a Manhattan and you just couldn’t say no.” 

“For god’s sake, no . He came out while I was waiting and asked me not to tell you–end of story.” You’d hoped that added details would be enough to assuage him–at least to move out of your way.

“So, you decided all on your own to rummage through the bathroom?” 

As many of his questions tend to be, he already knows the answer. Even still, the look you give is telling on its own. 

“I mean, really–” he chuckles dryly, “Please tell me what is so special about him that you keep trusting him over me.” 

“He, for one, isn’t controlling or watching my every move–out of the way, Tony.” you repeat, exhausted. 

Tony’s eyes dart down to the elevator panel he’d done such a phenomenal job of blocking, before glancing back at your pleading face. That seems to do the trick, because he presses the call button himself and gestures open arms into the small space. 

“By all means, knock yourself out.”

Shocked, but without another word, you enter. As you turn and press L for the lobby, you expect Tony’s irate face staring back at you.

Instead, you catch the patterned fabric lining the back of his suit vest as he walks away.

Once the elevator doors shut, Tony loses his last semblance of composure. 

A sheer crystal serving tray by the stove behind him, topped with an array of ornate glasses, is thrown straight across the kitchen where it crashes to a million pieces at the plush living room rug. 

He truly does not enjoy your penchant for storming off today or any other day.

Today is the worst, though, for two reasons. One, he’s not certain that letting you leave was the best move in the long-term. Two, you promised never to do this in the first place–you fucking promised. 

Another innocent bystander (this time a glass pitcher) joins the pile in the living room. 

Stuttery hands brace the counter. It’s of little effort for him to keep a hardened facade in the face of anger, but now that you’re not here to see it, the stone mask cracks. Shame, guilt, anger and that sneaky trickster known as self-righteousness blend up into something new entirely. There’s no pride in this for him, truly. 

The billionaire was so certain when he saw the photos. You and fucking Rogers of all people, talking so close. Paranoia and a lack of reasonable perspective means his first thoughts are not pleasant in any shape or form. He wasn’t controlling , everything he did was preventative. This was self-confirmation (and a shit ton of jealousy). You’d simply done the thing he was most afraid of. 

Or it was the thing he was most afraid of. 

The counter stays tight under his grasp until his hands sport two fresh indentations, cursing himself and trying not to think about how breakable the chandelier is. 

Just as he was sure of the photos, he was sure of you . You wouldn’t leave him, you were here to stay, you wanted him–right? 

Only now under the cool touch of marble does he realize those ideas could never possibly co-exist. 

No one as good to him as you would betray him, you wouldn’t. But you could reach the breaking point he sought so heavily to avoid in the beginning.

All alone in his tower built atop money and bad habits, the chandelier is spared as the great Tony Stark starts to break instead.

That is until he remembers he isn’t alone.

“Jarvis.” he calls out, and the older man emerges from the hallway no louder than a mouse.

Don’t feel embarrassed, the walls and loyal ears have certainly heard worse. Discretion is 90% of his job after all. In fact, right now he’s pretending not to notice the tears running down Tony’s face.

“Find out where she went.”

Tony keeps his head trained to the countertop anyway, just in case. Jarvis turns to follow through his instructions, but stops as soon as he starts. Decades of serving the Stark family is enough to know he’s probably better off holding his tongue. He speaks for your sake.

“Sir, I suspect she went home.” 

At this, the wetness is dried by his shirt sleeve, already grabbing his coat to follow you. 

“Sir,” Jarvis quickly interjects, Tony’s fingers on the call button. “Might I suggest…waiting until the morning?” 

He doesn’t need to say why. Tony can guess well enough.

You actually had no destination in mind. The thought of home felt disgustingly empty, and the reminder that you only still had it because of Tony would definitely stay persistent. You couldn’t bear to think about what you might've done to pay for it otherwise. Going to a friend’s would require an explanation you absolutely could not give. For a while, you wander just as before. You must look insane to the people passing by–makeup definitely stained and running.

A rudimentary pros and cons list is drafted, revised, deleted, and drafted once more. Sure, you didn’t have a slew of loves to compare it to, but you knew the one you had for Tony was irreplaceable. No one ever made you feel this wanted , this loved , this special .  No ex of yours left a dozen roses by your door–or waited in the car for hours while you slept. They didn’t fill their lacquer kitchen cabinets with herbal teas just because you mentioned liking them once . Hibiscus and rooibos flooded Tony’s kitchen so long as it kept you happy . Every other relationship was a caustic whirlpool. Tony was a dizzying fantasia. You gleefully closed your eyes so many times that the thought of opening them made you nauseous. 

You swallow stale bile and keep walking. 

The dusky hue in the sky grows to a fine oceanic blue above you until you gain enough sense to go home. Out of spite (and totally not because you have no other way), you take the subway home, cheeks raw from the night’s sharp wind on your tears. 

Your heels clank awkwardly on the metal descent, echoing on the platform. It’s empty, sharply different from the vamping nightlife outside. It’s not long before your train hustles down the track, stepping on to an disturbingly, equally empty train car. 

You slump into the first empty seat you see. In a calmer mood, you might’ve bothered with your phone, instead staring into your reflection on the glass pane. The gentle rocking starts soon after, and you work on putting your mind somewhere besides bergamot and red. 

Tony does not like waiting.

He would be working, if he could find even a shadow of concentration. All he can think about is you– the grit in your voice. 

At some point in his marathon around the penthouse, the small pile of glass is quietly cleaned away. Out of sheer boredom (and latent regrets), he considers creating a new one.

Why would you leave him– how could you leave him? 

In the idle night hours, pacing from room to room, Tony almost wishes you had cheated on him. Then, he could be right. He could skip past silly little thought pieces over his vices addiction and fly straight to indignity. It wouldn’t be his fault, would it? He wouldn’t have to explain a damn thing to a world that didn’t care for him.

Everyone betrayed him in the end, even you. 

With enough clarity, he might be able to see the shame hiding under all that self-righteousness, but alas. Years of practice and all. 

The best he can do for now is scalding admonishment. 

And a pinch of paranoia that his own actions caused Steve to seek you out–again. Tony knew the soldier was stupid, but that would be moronic . He made himself perfectly clear this morning, no shot Steve chose this as the method for exacting his revenge. It wasn’t a well-guarded secret amongst Tony’s circle that you were to be left ignorant, you weren’t like them . Really, he’d purposefully (and harshly) informed this as much. If Steve wanted to embarrass him then he failed succeeded miserably. The fact he would even attempt such a thing is the greater offense. 

Tony’s self-indulgent, not an idiot. Even under watered layers of complexes, he knows the greatest offense lies ten feet away on his kitchen counter. In fact, it’s what keeps him awake through the night. Awake and thinking–thinking about how fucking flawlessly he was keeping everything under wraps. This infallible image he crafted for you was gone. No longer could he hide behind a glass barrier of false separation. Foolish Tony–believing a second chance would come so freely. 

He made the same mistake twice. The odds he’d get a third chance were slim to none. At the time, he felt lucky to even have Pepper. Clearly he’s doing something worth rewarding on this Earth, because then he found you. Or, alternatively, God realized what a disservice he’d done by walking missile Tony’s way in the first place. 

You were invaluable. Nothing like his playboy flings or one-night stands. From the moment he laid eyes on you he knew his life would never be the same without you.

You promised , and he intends to make good on it even if you won’t. 

Tony can’t recall the last time he waited for a damn thing in his adult life (much less to sober up), and he doesn’t care much for starting something new today. Then, he remembers just how much patience he has for you. He waits for you patiently as you oggle every mural, piece of street art, or weird boutique. He waits as quietly as can be while you sleep, and he waited months for you to feel comfortable enough to spend consecutive nights at his home. 

There’s a pit growing in his chest–one screaming that his hard work might be swirling down the drain. How stupid he was for letting you storm off. With each passing second, you were sinking further from his grasp.

To hell with waiting. 

After all, he’s Tony Stark –he’d deny himself of nothing he desired. He didn’t work this hard to settle for less than that. 

In his defense, he does attempt to do the courteous thing of calling before showing up randomly in the middle of the night. Your phone, hopelessly abandoned deep in your purse, rings to no answer. It totally doesn’t make him more irate. 

One extremely lonely, and infuriating train ride later, you make it home. You jump when a knock vibrates through your apartment–though you know there’s only one person who’d show up in the middle of the night. Still, you tiptoe across the living to peer through the peephole anyway. While you were not super enthusiastic about seeing him outside your door this soon, the defeated slump in his shoulders gives you some satisfaction. 

A very brief, stereotypical through-the-door conversation ensues. You shout for him to leave, to which Tony provides the usual platitudes to just open the door and you respond further with a stout fuck no .  You roll your eyes at his continued pleas, and turn for your bedroom. He could sit out there and talk to the door all night like a madman if it suited him, but you weren’t going to spend a precious second on this earth listening to it. 

You don’t even make it past your couch before you hear what you swear to god cannot be your lock turning. God, Buddha, and everything else divine must have been busy, because Tony stands in the entryway, illuminated by the kitchen stove light. 

“Have you lost your mind ? Where the hell did you get a key?” 

He shrugs and looks around like it’s obvious. 

“The lease holder is usually given a key, especially if they’re paying.” 

The aghast scoff can’t wait to leap from your throat. 

“You know what, fuck you .” you spat, flying past him to the door. “No good deed , huh?” 

Somewhere between you storming out earlier in the night and his decision to come here (or maybe walking up the creaking stairs) he seems to have gotten the impression you were in a joking mood. There’s nothing but sweetness in his voice now, yet you still can’t trust that you know where his head’s at. Your night had been tumultuous enough without him showing up. 

Your fingers just barely wrap around a cool metal knob, the hall light leaving a thin warm line on your face. Tony braces a heavy palm above your head the second it does, closing it shut with a frame wobbling thud . 

“A bit rude to run out on me twice, don’t ya think?” he smirks, looking down at you. 

“A bit rude to force your dirty money on someone then hold it over their head, don’t you think?” you mock, stupidly trying to pull the handle open a second time, unbudging against Tony’s palm, biceps testing the elasticity of his silk shirt. You were getting tired of constantly feeling trapped. 

You wish you’d stay far away, in the safety of the living room where citrus didn’t take you over. Where that hopeless little part of your brain could stay quiet and not scream to wrap your arms around his torso. Also because the door doesn’t move a fucking centimeter, so it was a waste of energy regardless. 

“If you wanted someone who’d let you work yourself to death or end up on the street, you should’ve called that guy from your high school reunion back. You know–the real handsy one with the mohawk.”

“I’ll get right on that if you move out of the fucking way.” 

“Please, like I’d ever allow that.” Tony laughs, and you’re wondering why you appear as some sort of one-woman comedy act by every man in this city.

“What the hell do you want? I told you–I’m done with this.” 

He ends his chuckle with a tsk , leaving you in the living room to sit at your kitchen table. The feet of the metal chair make a discordant screech across the linoleum and he turns the seat towards you before sitting. 

“You don’t mean that, honey.” Tony smiles, tapping his shoes against the floor.

“I meant it.”

He gestures back towards the entryway.

“Nothing but space and opportunity to run away again, what’s stopping you?”

“You just said you wouldn’t let me.” You’re giving it your all not to shout, to scream at him for how insane this is. If you were still at the tower, you might not have bothered–far away from neighbors with loose lips and thin walls. 

“I’d never allow you to waste your time with someone else. Storm off as much as you like–that won’t keep you from me.” 

It’s all cool words and charisma, with a sickeningly violet weight that flips your stomach. He’s far across the space, and the door is still within inches of your grasp. 

“Find literally anyone else to sit here and play this game with you.”

“What part of ‘ I want you, and only you ’ do you not understand?” 

The kitchen stove light still illuminates his figure, casting a dim shadow over his back to shadow his figure across the floor. His feet continue to tap idly, head resting on his palms as if confused to why such a statement even needed to be told to you (again).

“You were getting along just fine before you met me, go back to that–I don’t want any part of whatever the hell else it is you’ve been lying about–”

“I’m not letting you go.”

That sweetness is his voice is pushed out to make room for pure desperation. The words waiver as they leave him, clearly fighting against whatever instinct wanted to hold it in, though you can’t help wondering if that’s all that caused the shake. An air of silence falls, where he watches you from the kitchen with stabbing eyes. Walking away is logical, but something unnatural freezes you in place. Plus, you’re not certain he wouldn’t fly to the door again the moment you touch it. 

“Why me?”

Another short silence and this time you’re the one to take advantage of it, louder than you needed to be.

“And why accuse me of sneaking around? I barely even spoke to him how the hell did you know–”

“Were you not?”

Your nostrils flare, nails digging into tight wound palms.  Water droplets leave the kitchen faucet in out of time drips. This is why your fingers shook and bore a million typos to correct. Lying to Tony Stark was one of the stupidest riskiest things you could do. 

“I just needed time to think–”

“To play Nancy Drew..” He corrects. It’s not tempered, just matter-of-factly–like a lawyer pointing out bad evidence.  

“I needed to see for myself–” 

“ Asking totally wasn’t an option.” Tony meets your volume with too much ease.

“Like you would have told me the truth !”

“I’ve never lied to you–”

“Oh, right , you only speak in half-truths, or say it’s nothing to ‘concern myself with ’!” Your anger pulls you across the creaky floors of the entryway, feet tethering on the wood boundary lining off the tile of the kitchen. 

“You’re not–”

“That’s the real reason Pepper left you, isn’t it? Not any of that bullshit you tried to sell me L.A–she left because you play like some larger-than-life billionaire and not the shady piece of shit you are.” 

You don’t have to continue your slow stampede into the kitchen, as the chair makes another unsettling screech on the tile when Tony suddenly stands. An indignation only complimentary to your own is expected, but it isn’t what you get.

“I didn’t come here to be judged by you.” His mouth barely moves to say it–as even the slightest parting would cause him to shout back and have the fight you seem to be dying to have.

“Why the hell are you here?” A better phrased, more favored question in your opinion would have been ‘ why did you break into my apartment after I dumped you? ’, but the answer’s surely the same.

Tony can glare down lasers at you as much as he likes, he’s not getting his way (for once)–you aren’t crumbling (for once).

“I need you.”

That disgusting, heart-string tugging desperation comes back and it turns out you still haven’t built your defense strong enough. You’re taken aback, because you had prepped for a full blown argument. You had enough ammo loaded up to keep this going all night. But somehow, it’s a heavier three-word declaration than I love you .  It’s not a murmur or with a racing chest. 

And it is wholly true. Life had him placed on a giant, constant stage. Where he needed to be someone else–someone stronger and with rougher edges. It kept him enclosed. Where everything he hated about himself was reflected in everyone and everything around him. That kind of cycle is self-feeding. A snake gnawing at its exhausted tail for eternity. It was a spur of the moment decision to stop for a drink that night. Truthfully, he had more than enough already coursing through his veins, but the tower felt emptier than usual in his mind, and this career warrants you very few friends. 

Maybe it was the flickering neon signs–glowing brand names across the sidewalk. The bustling noise flooded the rest of the quiet street like an overflowing bucket. It was a grimy, crowded hole in the wall–small, and cut away from the sprawling residential neighborhood around it. It reminded him of his life before he fucked it up. When no one knew his name or where he came from.

You were just an added bonus. He had planned to relish in the chaos of everyone around as he drank for inebriation instead of taste for once. But dark red nails pass him the glass, and he finds himself stuck watching them for the rest of the night. Despite the man Tony was, he wasn't anyone to you, and a woman like you shouldn’t have been anything to him.

He comes back simply out of craving. That anonymity , that freedom. From responsibility, from judgment. Tony realizes he’s befriended the snake too long. He accepted everything around him as a product of fate and piss-poor luck.You changed that. You made him remember a long forgotten fact–that everything he wanted was within arms reach. 

Suddenly, your eyes take great interest in grout speckling the tile below. There wasn’t enough room for disbelief in the quaint walls of your apartment.

“You’re the only person who doesn’t see me, as–I don’t know, me?” he exhales, running over his face as he re-takes his seat.

“You,” you trail off, shoulders loosening just to earn a small tremble. “--actually mean that.” 

“Why wouldn’t I?” 

You’re gathering the bravado to say something along the lines of ‘ well asshole you were high as a kite when you told me you loved me and never said it again ’. Maybe without the asshole part. A difficult act indeed.

"I didn’t sign up for any of this." you murmur, trying to quench any further questions and avoid a very stern ‘ I told you so ’. But Tony's gaze remains fixed on your arm, making your nerves spike. “–if I had known everything, your work–”

“You wouldn't have agreed to see me, really ?” Tony grins and cocks an eyebrow that you miss in your deep inspection of the tile. “You weren’t clueless when we met.” 

“I wasn’t but–”

“But what?” He sharply interjects. He can’t stand how your eyes land anywhere but him. This conversation is giving him deja vu, and not the whimsical kind. It’s the kind that wraps around the body and stops the flow of blood.  “All of sudden you wanna have a ‘ come to Jesus ’ moment and find some moral high ground?”

Tony’s, unsurprisingly, not wrong. You had good enough sense the moment he slipped into that barstool, asking for a whiskey list as if the knife-shaped tear in the cushion couldn’t tell him that was pointless. A brief glance and finger of Jack Daniels was all he got from you. You spent the rest of the hour catering to the usual Friday night crowd of drunks, only thinking of him again when the shiny green bills made a funny reflection underneath his empty glass. 

Honestly, you were more surprised no one took it for themselves.

It’s when he shows up a second night that you bother with conversation (purely out of gratitude and nothing else, right?). It’s the second night when you stay so, so much later than you should have, talking to someone you knew you shouldn’t be. You ignored it all then, just as you have for the last eight months. Burying your worries under a mountain of attachment and clouds of insecurity. 

You were lucky. Shit, you feel that same gratuitous pang right now. Grateful that he still wanted you. Actually, to put it in his words– needed you. You’re not certain how much longer you could’ve kept it buried if you hadn’t asked Steve directly. You didn’t want him to be right, but all he did was validate every worry and order a swift excavation of everything you hoped wasn’t true. 

“I kept telling myself that it was nothing, but–”” you trail off quietly.

“ But ?” he repeats.

You definitely can’t meet his gaze now, waiting for him to call you naive or tell you that this is somehow some huge misunderstanding. He doesn’t speak, though, and you can’t stop your mouth from opening under the weight of everything spinning in your head.

“But Steve says you’ve been doing this since you were in college.”

“That’s how Steve tells that story?” He scoffs.

“Come on, what else? Lay it on me, doll.” You watch a misshapen shadow stretch the length of the kitchen as Tony makes a dramatic beckoning of the hand.

“Why? So you can figure out what you don’t have to admit to?”

He takes a deep sigh that shifts into a short chuckle.

“You’ve been told a very half-cocked story, my apologies for trying to fix that. Trust me, Steve’s had it out for me for a while now.”

“I trust him a lot more than you right now.” 

“That would be a bad choice.” 

You snap your head up at the scorn. Where you gained this inclination to shoot back at everything with fire–you don’t know. You swear it’s just Tony, where sometimes you just want to match his arrogance tenfold.

“Oh, yeah? Why’s that? I’ve learned more about you from him and so far, he hasn’t been wrong.”

“You know more about me than anyone, without running around behind my back.” 

“Yeah, there's just the woman you’re still married to, the cocaine in your bathroom, your company, whatever the hell it is you do while I’m sleeping because you surely aren’t–”

“Alright, alright, okay,” he interrupts, tossing his hands up in defeat and leaning back. “Would you just sit down for a sec–humor me, will you?”

Sullenly, you pull out the matching metal chair across from him. As you sit, folding your arms over your chest, you wonder how fate has aligned that you’ve met such an infuriating and intoxicating person. And why you were even giving this hail mary display the time of day. 

“Let me tell you a story, it’s a good one, swear.” Tony flashes a diamond grin and it takes everything in you not to return it. It does cool your nerves somewhat.

“Better be a good one.” you respond, and Tony promises it’s worth hearing. 

“I’m in my last year at MIT taking this exam for this real stick-up-his-ass professor–I’m talking this guy doesn’t have the muscles required to smile, just all nonsense. It’s my last godforsaken test before winter break and I’ve gotta pass this to be done with this soul-sucking school–”

“You? Stressing about school? Already this story’s got holes in it.” 

“Did you miss the part about this guy being a hardass? Because I could’ve sworn I mentioned it.”

“The test was all about theory and it didn’t matter how much you knew, you had to answer it the way he would. I actually had to focus for once and I’m on this question about integrating quantum computing with electrical grid systems, you know how the ions might–”

“Totally, right.” you remark once you realize a science lecture is inbound. Tony’s ramblings often came late and always flew completely over your head. Tonight, you’re just finding it hard to care. 

“You are a really bad listener, you know that?” 

That earns an instinctive smirk from you, but you sigh and let him continue.

“I’m ten equations and at least five paragraphs into this question and my pager starts going off. I don’t even bother checking what it is–I just hit silence and keep going.” he tells it like it’s a true epic, the sort you swap at tailgates or weddings to try to one-up someone else’s, but you get the sense it’s not. 

“An hour later with like, the worst cramp in my hand and 500% certainty I failed, no big deal, I finally check the message–call Jarvis back and he tells me my parents were in an accident. The weirdest thing was I didn’t even think they were dead–” 

“Tony–” you start, though you weren’t even sure what to say. 

“Honestly,” he chuckles dryly, the bravado in his voice silking away. “I was kinda relieved, for a second. The old man would’ve ripped me a new one for failing that test and I just thought he was a little banged up–too busy nursing a broken arm or something to check my grades.”

Tony’s laugh fades off into a somber sigh, shifting in the wobbling chair. The count of drips in the sink to your right tells you it’s been silent too long. You still don’t have the words to fill it. What kind of words would they even be? Of comfort? Humor to dispel his sadness? If he even was , that is. You gave up on trying to read him. 

“Anyway, my point is . I wasn’t ready to do this– I was 21, getting an electrical engineering degree, notice how that has nothing to do with medicine or biotech. So I did the cowardly thing–let someone else take the wheel and I’m still paying for it twenty years later. Believe me, I’m not loving this either.”

“Then why don’t you stop? I mean you still have a legitimate company, stop using it to make things you don’t want to make.” 

“It sounds so incredibly simple when you put it like that. Gee, wonder why I didn’t think of that earlier.” He makes an exaggerated face of amazement. “Look, I didn’t want you to know because I don’t need someone else telling me how to handle things–it’s my company, it’s my job to sort this out.”

“Does your job require you to test the product yourself?” It’s a lot ruder than you mean it to be, but it’s the real issue corroding your mind. 

“That’s one of the benefits we offer at Stark Industries.” he laughs. 

You still aren’t feeling humorous, scoffing and standing the moment you realize he isn’t taking a word you say seriously. Tony’s fast behind you, stepping between you and the arch into the living room. 

“Okay, okay. But you’re worrying yourself over nothing, doll. I’ve got it handled.” he assures you (poorly), bracing your shoulders with his hands. 

“Yeah, from here it looks totally handled.”

Contrary to the snare in your words, you weren’t a heartless monster. You weren’t playing moral adjudicator like Tony might think. You can recognize this as one of his rare moments of emotional theater, but you can’t be bothered to care knowing what comes after if you fall for it. Especially when you can tell from how not-serious he’s taking this that there’s not a chance he’d stop using anytime soon. You were just tired of being lied to. And you weren’t going to keep watching him self-destruct. All you needed right now was your bed and hot, long shower to put this day behind you.

Tony sighs, abandoning your shoulders to pinch his nose.

“It’s just…You experience things and then they're over and you still can't explain 'em. This business, Pepper, things I can’t even put into words. I...I'm just trying to make sense of it all. The only reason I haven't cracked up is probably because you’re around a lot more. Which is great. I do love you, I'm lucky. But, honey, I can't sleep, not when there's so much to be done to get out of this.”

You’re stunned into silence again. Because Tony speaks a thousand miles a minute and you’re still getting used to hearing ‘ I love you ’ from a sober mouth.

“Tony, this isn’t–” you stammer.

“I know, I know, you’re gonna say this doesn’t change anything but I can’t do that without you, I won’t.” 

Calloused hands brace your sides instead. Warm and loose instead of strict and holding. You can feel the static though. There’s an electric heat jumping between fingertips and white fabric that wants to hold you tight until you can’t tell the difference between his skin and yours. You’ll never see it another time so clearly, but the glaze in Tony’s eyes is desperate– unyielding . You’re scared to give in and only slightly less worried about what it means if you don’t.

You were pissed that he kept something from you– again . You still were. The whole world seemed privy to exactly who Tony Stark was, except you. You were an outsider looking in through frosted window panes. Like the new kid watching everyone else giggle at an inside joke you couldn't possibly understand. 

But you couldn’t say he didn’t care for you. The most damning part was that you loved him . Whether it was truly reciprocated was another question, but you couldn’t think of any other reason he’s standing in your kitchen at three in the morning, letting the stained brown walls wash out the blue details in his suit vest. 

So, you rather than blindly submit, you place a wager. 

“Then promise me you’ll get help.” You force your voice to be stable, confident. You meet his eyes with the same bravado, stepping back from his grasp. If done properly, and he needed you as much as he so claimed, then you win your self-made bet.

You notice he doesn’t reach out to hold you close, instead staring pensively into you for a moment longer than you would like.

 “Okay, done.” he answers, shrugging nonchalantly. “That all?”

“Really? That simple?” you ask, baffled

Tony shrugs again, the crisp folds of his vest giving way to a stout laugh then a sigh.

“If that’s what it takes.”

Afterwards, you’re able to easily separate your life into three segments. There’s life before you started dating billionaire Anthony Edward Stark, life after, and life when you started dating Tony . They are too separate individuals, afterall. You learn that in due time. 

Anthony Edward Stark is a wealthy businessman, arrogant, withholding, charming, and a few notches above dedicated to you. He hates vegan food and wasting time.He's utterly hopeless in the kitchen, with a preference for iron red and a penchant for dry martinis (always dry, you learned this from serving him a classic out of habit on night two). There’s a collection of Black Sabbath albums hiding under his office desk, and there’s a slightly larger collection of ballpoint pens in the trash can nearby–caps gnawed to uselessness in one too many spirals of concentration.

Tony is much the same, in all respects. Eeeeexcept there’s that ex-wife he seemingly abhors. And the designer powdered death he proliferates through the city. And the addiction he promises to hold at bay. He keeps his end of the bargain, though and vicariously becomes someone new once he sleeps a whole lot more. Okay, okay so there's a lot. Overall, he is calmer. The fiery temper is dulled, replaced with an occasional unwarranted annoyance at the most mundane of things. At first, it’s concerning to you–watching his face screw at tailgating cars or broken zippers. Then, you find it pretty amusing, seeing someone so perfectly sewn together furrow their brows at long lines instead of losing it altogether at moments of chaos. Though you quickly figure out why he avoided sleep in the first place. 

It doesn’t happen until your third night back at the tower. A drizzle coats the high windows of the bedroom, the moonlight barely enough to see the rise and fall of his chest beside you. You’re deep into sleep, curled into Tony when you’re jolted awake by a sudden movement. Your eyes flicker open, confused and scanning the silk sheets before he twitches again, muttering in his sleep.

Barely awake, you shifted onto your side, planting a hand on his chest. With his arms no longer wrapped around your side, another twitch sends them flying to his chest.  His skin was warm, damp, mutterings continuing to fall from his lips–angry broken pleas for someone or something to stop. You’d think the windows were open with how bad he shivered.

“Tony,” you called out softly, rocking his shoulder. “Wake up.” 

It takes a few more attempts, each shake growing stronger as you gain more clarity. One of them must have woken him, arms leaving his chest to push your arms away. Fresh off a nightmare and no more awake than you were, he used much more force than needed, completely overshooting your hands to inadvertently strike your cheek.

You winced at the unexpected blow, your hand instinctively flying to your slight sting. Swearing softly, you met his wide-eyed gaze. He moves away from you in the same instant, breathing heavily at the edge of the bed

“Shit–I’m sorry– Fuck,” His hands ran across his face and through his hair more times than you can count, still struggling to catch his breath. “I didn’t know you–”

“It’s okay-Are you okay?” you interrupted, far more concerned about the way how terrified he sounded in his sleep and barely feeling it anymore regardless.

“Yeah, all good, bad dream.” Tony swung his legs over the edge, head resting in his hands. “Shit, that shouldn’t have happened.”

You wanted to press him about it, but decided against it while his voice is this shaky. 

Instead, you move to sit behind him and run a hand over the soft skin of his back until his breath returns to normal. You don’t say anything when the shakes turn to muffled sobs. Instead, you move to sit behind him and run a hand over the soft skin of his back until his breath returns to normal.

Neither of you speak about it. Not then, the next morning, or ever again. It just becomes a new part of reality. Anthony Edward Stark doesn’t sleep. Tony has nightmares that can turn into full panic attacks and render him a tremoring mess. Afterwards, he takes a cold shower and returns to bed without a word. Not that you know what to say anyway.

This is somehow harder. To watch him lose control. You were, as most lovers are, impeccably biased. Tony’s life was enviable to anyone with a brain, and yet he was as fractured as anyone.

“Honey, you plan on eating?” he asks, tapping the rim of your porcelain plate with his fork. 

You’re brought out of your deep thoughts and back into the present where roasted lemon fills your nostrils from the salmon below. You blame the restaurant–far too quiet to keep from drifting off. The candlelight flickers gently over the small table, creating small dancing shadows of you and Tony on the white linen. 

You met his inquisitive brown eyes, giving a small apology before grabbing the cold metal fork. Despite its mouth-watering smell, the taste is anything but. You attempt to hide your displeasure, but such an act is useless this close. 

“What’s wrong?” Tony abandons his own meal to question you. 

"Nothing, it's just... a little overcooked for my taste," you reply, trying to sound lighthearted. You were never the kind of person to send a meal back, and certainly weren't about to start at a place with a Michelin star.

“Could have sworn you ordered medium.” His posture stiffens, eyebrows raised. 

“Simple mistake, it happens.” you shrugged, preparing for a second attempt. 

You don’t get the chance, as Tony stands abruptly, grabbing the plate before your fork could make an impression. 

“Be right back." he assures you, a cold detachment in his voice. 

Without waiting for a response, he strides away from the table, towards the back of the restaurant, leaving you confused. 

After a few moments of waiting, a sense of unease begins to gnaw at you. You rise from your seat and, with hesitant steps, vaguely follow the path he took to a set of wide swinging doors. The soft glow of the overhead lights illuminates the narrow hallway, casting long shadows against the walls.

As you approach the kitchen, a waiter hurriedly scurries out, giving you a glimpse of Tony inside, one hand typing away idly at his phone and the other resting on a prep table, wrapped tightly in a blue rag. 

Blood stains the pristine white of the chef's uniform, his nose crimson and dripping onto his graying beard as he flips a fresh piece of salmon. He spares you a brief timid glance when the doors swing. One hand dabs poorly at the splotches while the other white-knuckles a metal spatula. With a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach, you step cautiously into the kitchen, abandoning the warm lights of the hallway for the fluorescent kitchen overheads.

"Oh, hey there," Tony says casually, an icy smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

 “He’s remaking your salmon.” he explains enthusiastically, returning his attention to his phone.

You stand frozen, watching crimson bleed through the rag. You guessed the chef didn’t take too kindly to criticism, and you know Tony doesn’t take no for an answer. 

Maybe you didn’t know what calm looked on Tony after all. 

You assume you should be grateful. Grateful that he did as you asked and stopped hiding behind his own layers. You got exactly what you wanted after, Tony, wholly and entirely bare for you to see. No more paranoia that you weren’t enough or that this would all come crashing you both down into murky waters. Well, there was still a chance of that. Only now the waves are crystal clear, revealing everything you begged to see. 

At least he got more sleep this way. 

You relished in waking up next to him–when it wasn’t from night tremors, of course. You could watch the sun streak through the curtains and glow around his features, calm and peaceful. It’s a moment of absolute solitude you look forward to each night. Listening to nothing but the faint calls of birds and muffled rumblings as the city woke up 93 floors. You bide the time hill wakes by running your fingers along his chest and shoulder, memorizing scars by feeling alone.

This morning you awake too early, daybreak barely starting and an inability to fall back asleep. Quietly, you pull yourself from Tony’s tight embrace and tiptoe your way downstairs for a cup of tea. You forgo bothering with the lights, getting enough light from the shy horizon to make your way around. You open the kitchen fridge in the hopes of finding a lemon, only to jump nearly out of your skin when a sound comes from the island behind you. 

“ Christ !” you yelped, slamming the door shut and turning to the source.

Harley laughs and takes another bite of his apple, making the same loud crunch as a moment ago. “Aw, did I scare you?”

“What is with you people and sitting in the damn dark?” you question rhetorically, walking to the end of the kitchen to turn on the lights. You tighten the short silk robe around your pajamas, standing across from him. “I was trying to surprise the old man for his birthday, which you are ruining, by the way.” he remarks, pointing a wagging finger. 

“Tony’s birthday?” you ask, confused. “I didn’t know–”

The young man interrupts with a dismissive wave as he swallows another bite. “He doesn’t like to make a ‘ thing ’ of it, don’t sweat.” He gives complimentary air quotes, sitting back in the barstool.

“Fair enough.” You turn back to the cabinets to complete your original task. Behind you, Harley’s teeth piercing the fruit fills the early morning silence, interrupted by the flicker of the stove as you heat the kettle. You feel him eyeing you the entire time but decide not to feed into this time for your own peace. 

“Thanks, by the way.” Hot water is making its way into a lilac mug when he speaks again. 

“For, y’know.” he adds when you pivot with a puzzled face.

“No, I don’t know.” you respond exasperatedly, feeling a dig coming your way. You dip the tea bag into the water, stirring as he just stares back at you. You roll your eyes and head towards the stairs, deciding for certain that conversation with that kid was pointless.

“Were you not the one who got him clean?” He waits until your feet touch the first step to say it, forcing you to pivot.

“I’m not taking credit for his life choices.”

“Fair enough.” he mimics your tone from earlier with a gentle shrug. 

With that, you leave and retreat back upstairs.

The lukewarm tea slides down your throat with better ease in the bedroom. Tony continues to sleep beside you as the sun greets the sky, until you're drifting off too.. 

When you rise again, the chaotic rumbling of the city drifts up and through the windows in full force. You stretch out slowly, tuning into the sound of Tony’s voice and staticky music from the bathroom. You flip over to the source, seeing Tony at the sink fixing a slender graphite tie to his neck. Quiet as a mouse and far too comfortable to leave the silk sheets, you simply observe through the open door. Unaware to his spectator, he continues half-singing half-muttering  verse after verse of Back in Black . You have to stifle a giggle–not in judgment but in adoration. You didn’t think Tony Stark would belt rock lyrics as he cursed his hair for not blow drying exactly how he wanted. 

Eventually, he spots your watchful eyes, after he secures chrome cufflinks and stoops down to straighten his pants. You smile when you realize you're caught. 

“Hopefully you’re enjoying the show.” he grins, exiting the bathroom as he loops a thick leather belt around his waist. 

“It’s alright, could have better acoustics.” you taunt. 

Tony feigns offense as he kneels on the bed beside you. The soft mattress doesn’t make a sound for his weight to settle over top of you. Suddenly beneath him, cypress aftershave and evergreen shampoo drown out your senses. You know he’s not doing this to turn you on, it’s a byproduct of his nature–but now you just want to ruin the hair you watched him spend five minutes perfecting.

“Anyone else would be appreciative to AC/DC , or is that beyond your generation?” Tony asks, bracing an arm beside your head to fiddle with a free strand of hair. 

“I worked in a dive bar–think I know dad rock when I hear it.”

“Ouch.” he winces, a short chuckle following after. 

“Hey, never said it was bad.” you add, and he gives you a questionable hmm in response.

You’re fixated on the way his body compresses your own–the texture of his thumb on your face.

 “Happy birthday, by the way.” you say after a moment of silence. To this he stiffens, his gentle expression changing in the same way. 

“Hmm, guess that is today.” he muses. 

“I take it you haven’t been downstairs yet, then.” you say, thinking of Harley. Tony groans you curse the loss of his weight as he stands. 

“Nope, and I already know the kid’s down there raiding my refrigerator and getting crumbs everywhere.” There’s a strong disdain in his voice, reminding you of the phone call a few weeks ago.

He disappears back to the bathroom, swiping a watch from the granite sink. You stay silent in the airy cloud of sheets, tongue dancing behind your teeth. Clearly, a moment of silence is too telling for Tony. While you're fixated on the ceiling, he creeps back into the room, startling you when he hits the bed once more.

“You want him gone, say the word.” he declares, playfully. You’re barely listening, or really even bothered to think about Harley. It’s hard to concentrate on anything other than the fact that he’s  just hovering over you and not crushing you into the mattress or kissing you or –

Your train of thought is derailed when a hand laces behind your neck, fingers settling at your nape and a thumb below your chin. Tony smirks when your eyes flicker to his, increasing the pressure with his thumb until your lips part for air.

“I believe I asked you a question, doll.” He relents for a moment, only enough for your throat to strain as you answer.

“I don’t mind.” you whisper, letting your legs graze his suit pants. There was a small hope the cool fabric would soothe the warmth breaking out on your skin, but the itch just drives you insane.

“Good.” Tony releases his grip to plant a kiss on your forehead. In the next breath, his feet touch the floor again and you contemplate if the lost pride is worth begging him to touch you. 

You don’t get a chance to decide, as he gives some short winded promise about returning before the afternoon and exits the bedroom.

After a frustrating shower, and against both Harley and Jarvis’ better judgment (and very stern insistences), you decide to do something nice for Tony’s birthday. Well, as nice as you can without spending his own money.

It takes the better half of the day, and you have to ban a persistently nosy frat kid from the studio the entire time. You feel guilty about not knowing sooner. Then, you maybe would’ve pulled off something more his style. And then maybe like the finished product. It feels, and honestly, looks rushed (because it is), but in the end you feel worse about giving him nothing after all he’s done for you. 

It’s a small canvas–easy enough for you to carry down the spiral stairs without breaking an ankle. It’s a quarter to three when you make the final stroke. Once you’ve managed to get the stained ink from your fingers, voices start to flood from downstairs. You manage to do a half-decent job wrapping, which gets you way too excited to gift it. Sure, you’d given art as presents to friends before, but not since you were 10 and those were C-tier cards at best. This wasn’t your best work, though it still gave you the same sense of love. 

You call out Tony’s name as you head downstairs, hearing his and Harley’s voices echo from the living room. The muffled words are sharp and tense. You don’t notice the third voice over theirs, or the thud of the feet. You don’t even see her until you enter the space. 

“Well, who do we have here, Tone’?” Two rows of perfect porcelain teeth gleam at you over Tony’s shoulder.

He turns to you the moment she speaks, brows tighter than a steel drum and fists tight by his side. Harley stifles his chuckle behind the kitchen island. 

Silence pulls new red heat to your cheeks. The living embodiment of every insecurity you’d forgotten stood ten feet away in Louboutin heels. Tony’s stories painted enough of a picture of a flawless woman. Actually seeing her, now that was new territory. Her strawberry blonde locks were meticulously curled, in a mauve dress without a single wrinkle in sight. You felt embarrassed with your undone hair,  in stained clothes and matching ink-ridden hands. 

You start an equally embarrassing stammer of your name, to which Tony interrupts.

“Nope, not a chance.” He meets your eyes with fire before turning back to Pepper. “How the hell did you get up here–Actually, I don’t even want to know. Leave now.” 

Pepper grins like they're old friends catching up. You feel like you shouldn’t be witness to whatever this is, awkwardly holding the canvas.

“Aw, Tony ,” she drags out with a click of her tongue. A slender hand reaches down into a thin leather briefcase, placing an envelope on the island. “Just thought I’d give you your present in person.”

“An email would have sufficed.” He grits.

“Well that wouldn’t be very polite, hm?” She cocks her head like it’s a serious question. 

“Exit is directly behind you.” 

Some quippy remark brews and dies on her tongue. A small glance is spared your way again, before she leaves.

Tony doesn’t move until the whir of the elevator starts. Harley clears his throat and retreats to the back hallway without another word.

“Tony–” you call out as he passes you for the stairs. He grants you a dismissive wave that cuts you short and swells your throat. All but stomping he makes his way up the stairs, leaving you alone with all the tension they left behind.

The white envelope goes unattended. Tony didn’t bother with it, but you do. Setting your gift against the stair railing, you tiptoe over to it. It’s unsealed–a solitary white letter tucked away. The ornate New York State emblem is a pale distraction for the words below. 

ᴜɴᴄᴏɴᴛᴇꜱᴛᴇᴅ ᴘᴇᴛɪᴛɪᴏɴ ꜰᴏʀ ᴅɪᴠᴏʀᴄᴇ 

An agreement for complete dissolution separation of any and all assets for both parties.

Signed by Pepper Potts in midnight ink.

[sorceresssundries]

The Hero of the Gate

It had been years since the defeat of the Elder Brain, and life had carried on as it was always bound to.

The heroes of the gate stood as stone sentinels in the main square, the once alabaster marble now etched by the claws of perching birds and eroded by the touches of grateful hands.

The statues had blended quietly into the backdrop of the city, but despite the dwindled offerings and attention, they were still a focus of the city's children who would clamber on them in unburdened play. Their laughter rang through the square in total, sweet oblivion as to how their silent playmates came to be there.

You had fallen into the habit of making sure there was always at least one bunch of fresh heliotrope or autumncrocus laying at the inscription of the largest, central statue:

Gale Dekarios, Who gave his life for Faerûn. The bravest of wizards, and greatest of men.

Tides and currents stop for no-one, and inevitably you had been swept along to new shores. You now had children of your own, who would spend sunny afternoons playing around the statue of your past love.

But still, there were nights like this, when the sky was clear and your grief was sharp. You would escape to sit on the bank of the river and with soft, crinkled eyes, gaze at the dancing glow of the purple aurora, which seemed to appear whenever you needed it most.

Here you would let the light wash over you, and lose yourself for a few quiet moments - to the most beautiful of fantasies.