#misery is the drug in your veins

[kentopedia]

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ WAS I SUCH A FOOL? — NANAMI KENTO

summary . . . two years after breaking up with nanami kento, he shows up at your concert

contents . . . 70s rock band, NSFW 18+, fem!reader, brief discussion of drug and alcohol addiction, exes, singer!reader x drummer!nanami, rival bands, secret relationships, infidelity, reader is in a relationship with toji, smut, piv, creampie, “angry” sex, angst, complicated relationships — 7.5k

notes . . . inspired by many things, including silver springs by fleetwood mac, daisy jones & the six and nana <3 so if you like any of those things and kento, this is for you!

It was the final stretch of your tour. 

A finale that led to the conclusion of months spent in nothing but a cloud, one where you lingered only on the outskirts of your memory. Hazy traces of drawn-out celebrations, sweaty sex in the bathrooms during a house party, camera flashes from paparazzi—they were the only glimpses that you got from the weeks that had gone by, images that weren’t quite cohesive. 

There had been days where you didn’t quite remember your name, stumbled over the recollections of the night before, the weeks before, but you didn’t mind so much. It would all be fine, as long as you never forgot your lyrics up on the stage, where millions of eyes watched your every move carefully, would judge you for even the most minor slip-up. 

You could forgive yourself for almost anything, but you’d rather die than embarrass yourself in front of them, your fans, the only ones whose love you had left. 

The list of people you’d disappointed in your life couldn’t be condensed; even those who spared their affection like it was a necessity held some shred of bitterness towards you. They couldn’t be blamed, really. Not when your life was one to scorn, and you were a dying star, burning bright and burning fast. 

Still, you couldn’t think of a better way to live life. The warmth of drugs and alcohol and the music spared you from surviving every day in misery. 

Of course, singing seemed to do the trick better than anything. It was more of a high than anything else had ever been, and the way you felt on stage was close to the same sort of love you’d felt two years ago. The adoration of fans was innocent enough to fill the void in your gaping heart. 

You clasped your hand around the microphone, closing your eyes as you leaned forward, sultrily singing the rhythm before you would come to the crescendo at the end of your song. 

Years of work had led up to this—the grandeur of singing to a venue filled to the brim with fans, each of them knowing the words to your creation. Every crack in the audience was taken by a body, one rank with sweat, contributing to the thick air, cloaked in smoke. A crowd of people that seemed undesirable, and yet, they tolerated the smell, the feeling of a stranger pressed up against their backside, just for a few moments of seeing their favorite album played live.

They were here for all of you. A band that was never supposed to make it this far, and yet, held the number one single in the country, a few gold records, and covers on magazines that some could only dream of being in. 

Yet, with your ego the size of the sun, and the dreamy haze that you put yourself in, you couldn’t help but feel like the crowd was always rooting for you. Hearts formed in their eyes as they watched you sway behind the microphone, and it brought a smile to your lips, one that always came with the rush of performing.

The words you wrote took you elsewhere, transported you to a place where you could truly spill your soul out, your ink on the page as permanent as the mark you’d leave on the world. You were important, weren’t you? Maybe not in the way you wanted to be, but still in a way that mattered. 

The bass played steadily behind you, strumming, deepening, sinking into your veins. Although you focused, it was easy to forget yourself and where you were. The lines and the chords were too familiar from all your late night practices, from the cigarettes you’d shared in bed with Toji Fushiguro, who played the bass like he bled honey.

The lyrics you’d penned from your very own hand, sang deeply from your diaphragm, always led to a flash of memories in your mind like a film screen, each word punctuating another moment in your life that had pushed you into a mess of a woman. 

Toji’s name might have been next to yours on the songwriting credits, but this song, the one you belted, belonged to you and you alone. It put you on display, stripped you bare; if anyone really bothered to search deep enough, they’d see you for what you were. 

They’d see that, contrary to the opinion of the public, these songs were not about Toji at all.

A tear dripped off your lashes, and you clenched your jaw, refusing to let sadness overpower the anger that you should’ve felt towards the man you’d left behind. For months, you’d blamed yourself—but it had taken two to weave the web of hurt that still ensnared you. 

Shaking off the despair, you stared out into the crowd, digging deep into your lungs for the breath that would sustain the powerful note, the punctuation of your song, the climax of the pain and fury you’d never get rid of. The lingering emotion that had you questioning if you’d been the one to ruin the best thing you’d ever had, or if, perhaps, you’d just been bad for each other all along. 

You traced your gaze through the faces, soaking in the love in their expressions, the praise that came with their reactions to your lyrics. How that sort of love didn’t make you feel whole, but it certainly put you back together in a way that made you believe you weren’t so broken anymore either. 

Then—the world stuttered, momentarily, halting to a screech as brown eyes, just as steadfast and tender as you remembered, stared over dark glasses. 

You fell behind in the song, just a note, a pause that lasted less than a second. Your lips turned dry as your heart fell down to the floor, dropping into your stomach, twisting your insides. You almost convinced yourself it was an illusion, until he blinked, shifting, though not uncomfortably, disguised just enough so that no one else in the crowd knew who he was but you. 

Nanami Kento, there, right before your very eyes. It was the first time you’d seen him in person since you’d split up two years ago—a breakup that would’ve made the headlines for weeks, if anyone had known about it. 

You squeezed the microphone harder, the sound in your voice dripping with emotion, raw and raspy, but in a way that was beautiful. You’d never sang like this before, but the muse of your song, the man you always wrote about, stood before you. 

Kento didn’t look much different—but you wouldn’t have noticed the changes anyways. You saw him in the papers constantly, unable to avoid him as much as you were certain he was unable to avoid you.

You sang the few notes of the song; Toji brought you to a crescendo, and your voice nearly cracked from rage, the breath ripped from your lungs as Kento dared to watch you with pity at the mess you’d made of yourself. After all this time, you couldn’t stand to see that sort of compassion on his face.

The lights suddenly seemed too bright, the crowd too wild, Kento’s eyes too deep and sad and unreflective of those around him. 

One of your other bandmates closed out your evening, and though the crowd demanded an encore, you refused to get back on the stage, couldn’t do it even if you tried. The contents of your stomach emptied out right as you stepped out of their sight. 

“Shit!” one of the stagehands shouted, jumping out of your way as you heaved again, wiping your eyes. There was another round of cursing, and sure, they were used to stars indulging too much in things they shouldn’t, but that wasn’t the only reason for you vomiting all over the floor. 

“Hey, hey,” a voice said, calming and steady as a hand traced up your spine, rubbing soothing circles. “Everything okay, baby? Need some water?” Toji was concerned, deep eyes scanning your face for any signs of weakness.

You shook him off, and Toji whispered to another one of the men over his shoulder, telling them to close the final curtain. Even though you wanted to protest, you wiped your mouth, and accepted the water that a dark-haired woman had rushed to you. 

“I’m fine, Toji,” you said, breathing heavily, wondering if there was any ounce of truth to your words. Nanami’s appearance had been the last thing you’d expected, and you didn’t want anyone to notice, out of the fear that someone would start digging into your past with him. 

You could only hope that your shared glimpse had gone unnoticed, a plethora of emotions spelled out there, ones that you’d been horrible at hiding. 

Toji directed the stagehands around, dragging your manager over, even as their conversation fell on your lifeless ears. Everything sounded like static, and you didn’t want to speak, sweaty and hot, a panic rising up in you. 

“I’m going to the dressing room,” you said, needing to get away from the shouting, the wave of anxiety that was arising. It was quickly becoming too much; even Toji’s presence was too much. “I’ll meet you back at the hotel.” 

“You want me to stay with you?” Toji asked, his eyes flashing with an emotion you couldn’t discern, perhaps possessiveness, perhaps something else. He’d always been more jealous than you would’ve liked, but his presence was a comfort from time to time. 

Not now, though.

Shaking your head, you drew away from him, Toji’s large palm falling off the small of your back. “I’m fine, really.” Nothing you said could’ve convinced him completely, and you didn’t bother. Instead, you left the stage without listening to the rest of his protests, climbing down the stairs and disappearing out of view. 

Surprisingly, he let you go. After nearly four years of sharing a band, it seemed Toji Fushiguro was starting to understand you. 

The truth was, with your shaky hands and the rampant nervousness that seemed to heighten only after a show, you knew you needed something. Toji had forced you to flush everything that you’d kept locked up, but you always kept a back-up, just in case, for times where the music wasn’t enough. 

You went to the dressing room, hands shaking at your sides as you tried to regain some control of your breathing, rid the rancid taste from your mouth. There was still a box of cigarettes in your pocket, and you lit one, the smoke easing some of the emotions that spun wild circles in your chest. 

As you returned backstage, your bodyguard, Itadori, a young man that you’d hired on the spot, smiled softly, falling away from the door to the dressing room. There had been too many close calls, too many incidents in recent years that you didn’t want a repeat of. Ever since you’d gotten enough money to hire proper security, you’d put it in Itadori’s pocket. 

“Anyone try to sneak back here?” you asked; you’d heard horror stories of fans trying to steal items, even trash, things like used tissues with snot dripping off it. It’d been a nightmare of yours since you first started going on tour.

Itadori shook his head, and let you in, released you into a room that wasn’t quite silent, but was better, worlds better, than the blaze of music that had followed you off the stage, bursting your eardrums. Sometimes, you forgot how loud it truly was out there. The ring in your ears and the deafening quiet were the sole reminders of the difference in sound after the shows. 

You smoked to the end of the cigarette, filling the room with a cloud as you calmed yourself, rummaging through your bag for the spare bottle of pills that you’d hidden away from Toji. For emergencies only, you’d promised yourself. 

And, well, this was certainly one of those times. 

Without any water, you swallowed it, feeling a lump in your throat before it slid down, dissolving into your stomach. You’d wait for it to take effect before you left, called a car. Perhaps, you’d be able to forget this evening had ever happened. You’d go back into the studio in a couple weeks, start on your next album, and this would all just be a dream. Surely, you convince yourself of that. 

There were just a few weeks left in the year anyways. You’d be able to put it all behind you, and maybe, you’d be a new person in the new year. A stupid idea, but a hopeful one, and one that would propel you through the holidays, the end of the tour, and the rest of your life.

A sound on the other side of the door caught your attention, a conversation taking place that you hadn’t heard at first. Hushed voices, under frustrated breaths. For a moment, you couldn’t register that it was Kento’s words that were rushing through the cracks in the plaster, the wood-paneled door, but it shouldn’t have come as any surprise to you.  

He’d been the one to seek you out. Why would he come all this way just to watch you play, without so much as a conversation? You’d been a fool to think otherwise, that you could escape the grasp that the blonde man always seemed to have around you.

“Please, Itadori. I know you remember me. Don’t treat me like a stranger.” Kento sighed heavily, the irritation leaking into his voice as he lowered the tone. “Just let me talk to her.” 

“You can’t be back here,” Yuuji answered, but the hesitation in his tone had you wondering if he was contemplating the opposite. 

After all, Yuuji had been the only one to know about you and Kento; it was hard to keep it a secret from someone who was around you almost always. It was why you trusted him so sincerely. He’d never spilled the truth to anyone, even when he could’ve made thousands with a story like that.

“I just need to see her.” Desperate, almost. The strain of the syllabus tugged at your chest, and though you willed him away, the other part of you, still rancid with sentimental emotions for your ex-lover, begged him to keep pushing. To stand out there until you couldn’t hide any longer. 

“I’m sorry, Nanami. I am, but you’re not authorized. I don’t want to let you in without her permission, and she hasn’t given me that.” 

Kento took a long breath, and didn’t say anything for a moment. His voice went even quieter, and you pressed your ear against the door, straining to hear it. Even the slight inflections of the sighs in his chest had something unfurling within your stomach, comforting and familiar. “Fine.” A shuffling, closer to the door, his shoes against the wood, before his words were nearer to your ear. “I’m sure she’s in there listening to every word anyways. Running as usual.” 

There was no response from Itadori. You could hear the self-satisfaction in Kento’s voice, and he could probably see your shadow under the door, sense you just inches away, somehow.  

You exhaled, and snuffed out the cigarette. Then, you threw the door open. 

Even knowing he’d be there, the sight of Kento still caught you off-guard, but this time, you anticipated it, and remained composed. He stood with his arms crossed, the corners of his lips pulling up smugly, like he’d know that snide remark would be enough, because he’d always known you better than anyone. 

“What the fuck do you want?” you said, narrowing your eyes, darting them all over his face. Still as handsome as you remembered. “You’re not supposed to be back here.”

“You should fire your security team,” Kento said simply, pushing past Yuuji to barge his way into the dressing room. With judgmental brown eyes, he glanced around it, even though you were certain he’d played at this venue before, knew exactly what secrets hid in this room. “They accepted my bribe way too quickly.” 

You stared at him, slammed the door behind you, hopeful that the sounds of the crowd that still rampaged would be enough to drown out your conversation. “Right.” A bitter laugh escaped you, the door rattling on its hinges. “You must feel pretty proud of yourself right now.” 

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far.” Kento’s eyebrows raised, and finally, he stopped perusing the room, crossing his arms over his chest to stare at you. “I know we haven’t seen each other in a while, but I haven’t changed much.” 

What he meant was that he was still an honest man, despite the backwards practices and corruption of the world the two of you lived in. Nanami Kento was a specimen in the scene of music, someone a bit too perfect, seemingly too straight-laced, serious almost to a fault in front of a crowd. He lost himself in the songs, just as you did, but he held himself with some sort of dignity.

Maybe, for that reason, it never made sense for you to be together, anyways. Not when you were an endearing mess, and he was the leader of your band’s closest competition. The group that Toji hated almost as much as the family he’d run away from.

It should’ve been obvious that the two of you were doomed from the start. 

“You can’t just show up, Kento, and demand a conversation. I haven’t talked to you in two years for a reason. Do you really think I want to see you?” 

“I don’t know.” His eyes narrowed, matching your anger. “You let me in, didn’t you?” 

“Because you’re pissing me off, and you’re a stubborn asshole who won’t leave until you get what you want.” Stalking towards him, you poked your finger in the middle of his chest, the touch doing nothing to move him, so strong and statuesque. “Jesus. Nanami fucking Kento, bribing security members, just to talk to me.” You laughed bitterly, a snort leaving you. “After two years, you really must be desperate.” 

There wasn’t any sincerity, and the laugh he returned was hard and mirthless. “I see time has made you kinder.” 

“Fuck off.” You were dangerously close to him, your hand splaying across his broad chest, the scent of him as familiar as ever, his mouth so near your own. It was infuriating how comfortable this felt, how you could slip back into time with him in a way you’d never been able to with Toji. “I never wanted to see you again. Don’t come back to ruin my life. I don’t deserve that.” 

You shoved at him again, and again he didn’t move, his frame hard beneath your palm. 

Kento grabbed your wrist as you tried to pull away, his already deep irises darkening. “Funny. That’s funny.” He searched you for something, and he was sure to find it, even as you schooled your expression into something neutral. It was too hard to hide from him—that’s why you’d run in the first place. “I remember being the one that was left with no explanation. I wanted to marry you, but you disappeared without even a word. Did I deserve that?” 

Though his words didn’t crack, they came close to breaking at the end of the sentence. The silence was sharp, deadly, almost as if you could reach out and touch it. But you didn’t. Kento’s soul-searching gaze dissuaded you from any movement. 

“That’s what you think?” You shook your head, yanking your wrist free as you took a step back. Laughter bubbled out of you, and the anger made it sound crazed, like something that wasn’t quite your own. “You think it was my fault.” 

“Wasn’t it?”

You scoffed once more. “Please. You never would’ve married me. All our time and work would’ve been wasted. Your band means everything to you, and I refused to let either of us drown for something as stupid as love.” 

A beat passed as Kento faltered, conflict twisting his expression before the frustration pulled back, tied up with a fiery bow. “Stupid?” He was cornering you, crowding you to the side of the room. You hadn’t registered your feet moving, but in just a few, quick steps, your back had hit the wall with a thump, his breath fanning across your nose. “That’s what you thought it was? Just a waste of time?” 

“Maybe.” you spat, raising your voice, pushing at his shoulders. “Maybe I just wanted someone better than you.” 

“Well, then, I hope you’ve fucking found it,” Kento’s hands shook at his sides, his eyes twitching with anger. “I hope you’re happy.” 

“I am.”

“Good.” Heavy breaths left him. Somehow, he seemed relieved, as if he thought you’d be the one still holding on, when it was him that had shown up unannounced, staring at you with stars in his eyes. “That’s good. You can hate me all you want, but I want you to be happy. I want you to move on.” 

“God, Kento,” you said, rolling your eyes. “It’s been two years—”

“I’m getting married.” 

The remark slammed against you, the guarded expression dropping from your face to reveal one of utter bewilderment. For a moment, fleeting as it was, you had no protection against Nanami Kento, who caught it smoothly, the stricken glaze of your eyes, the way your lips had parted without any words to dispel. 

Semi-satisfaction reflected in his own, finally stripping you bare, allowing him to see the truth for what it was—and it was a truth you weren’t sure you’d even accepted yourself. 

“You’re right,” you finally said, and though only a second had passed before you schooled your features back into an impassive position, a second was too long for a man who knew you so sincerely. “I don’t care, Nanami.” 

Kento blinked. 

Gaining the upper hand, you tried to skirt around him, cowering away from his knowing glare, but you couldn’t go anywhere. Kento pinned his hands to the wall beside your head, looking at you through his lower lashes, as if he’d known you would try to escape him. 

Heat bounced between your bodies, the space boiling, passion and rage and a hundred scarlet emotions twisting up in the air you exhaled. Would Toji have been able to read the conflict that manifested between your brows, the way your irises had changed colors, fading into a gradient of listless melancholy?

“You’re a real piece of work, you know that.” Kento said, harsh, cruel, but nothing less than the truth. 

“Is that so?” Your face was forced dangerously close to his own once more, inches between you. “You wanted a different reaction?” A glimpse in his guarded features, and you wondered how anyone could say Nanami was stoic man, when he wore a thousand different emotions on his sleeve. “I’m sorry you deluded yourself into thinking I’d still be in love with you.”

“Right.” Kento’s nose brushed against your own, his eyes so dark. Still, there were flecks of gold visible, just barely, only when you were this close. “All those songs on the radio, all those lyrics you’re getting paid millions for… Those aren’t about me?” he demanded, shaking his head, his expression pinched. “You think I’m an idiot? I know. I know, and you can pretend all you want, but you can’t pretend like you’re not the one who fucked it all up.” 

You scowled, but neither of you moved. “Get out of here, Kento.” 

“No,” he said, breathing heavily, the movement of his tongue over his lip short-circuiting your competence. “Tell me why.” 

“Get out,” you said through gritted teeth.

His face was more severe than you’d ever seen it before, cheekbones sharper from his pinched jaw. “No,” he repeated, glowering down at you, speaking slower, punctuating his words. “Tell me why.” 

“I—” but you couldn’t think straight with his mouth that close to yours, his eyes penetrating your soul, so angry, but not without their usual sweetness. No one had ever loved you the way Nanami had, and you were a fool, but he deserved better than you. He deserved the love he’d wanted, to not settle for someone who wanted fame more than she wanted him. “I hate you.” 

“Funny how, even now, hate still feels a lot like love.” 

You blinked up at him, your expression twitching, lips parting with more poisonous words, fingers shaking with the need to slap him away. Yet, when you moved, planning to push him out of your orbit, Kento moved quicker; the strategy sketched in your mind didn’t quite match the one enacted by your hands. 

“You’re so naive, Kento.” 

His lips were on your own, and you melted instantly, tugging him hard by the lapels in a bruising kiss. It tasted like a familiarity that couldn’t be replicated, tainted by the heavy heat that soaked into you. 

Kento’s hands wrapped around your waist, jerking you forward, fingers easily finding the space between your hipbones, tracing them with a tenderness that was equally filled of devastating need. He tasted strongly of alcohol, like he’d drowned in it hours before, if only to fill himself with the bravery he’d need to speak with you after so long. 

And you were equally a coward; walking naked into a crowd would be easy compared to the feeling of vulnerability that came from Kento’s sweet mouth on your skin. The way he shoved you further into the wall, fingers brushing along your waist, hateful and loving all at once. 

“Stop, Kento,” you said, but it was weak to your own ears, not an ounce of honesty there. His mouth flitted across your neck, warm and tender, and it was different. It was nothing like Toji, who cared about you, maybe even loved you, but had never understood you. 

Not like Kento did. 

“Say it with a little more conviction.” Kento kissed beneath your jaw, hopefully with enough sense not to leave any marks there. “Tell me you want me to leave. That you never wanted to marry me.”

“I do,” you insisted, but it was breathless, your eyes fluttering closed as his hand drifted up your stomach. “I didn’t.” Kento’s palm was warm, burning a hole though the thin material of your top. Before you could protest further, his fingers traced across your breast, thumb dragging across your nipple. 

You shivered, but made no move to push his hand back down.

“Convincing.” Kento smiled. His eyes were melted chocolate, the sort of unmatched comfort you’d never again receive. “Tell me you never loved me.” 

A burning itch started in your nose, foreboding the wave of emotions that would succumb you. You sorted through the hostile regret, forcing yourself not to feel such nostalgia from his embrace. 

Things were better now, weren’t they? You never would’ve made it as a star, had you not escaped the desperate hold of your love for the blonde drummer.

“It’d be a lie. I loved you once.”

“But not anymore?” 

You didn’t let him get much further than that, kissing him without thinking—needing to stop thinking, before you spiraled into the endless cycle of wondering why you’d ever left him at all. The feelings were never-ending, latching on and holding tight, reminding you at inopportune moments of all the mistakes you’d made: him, the worst of all. 

Kento groaned into your mouth as you parted his lips, remembering what he tasted like. His hair was longer now, thick between your fingers, bangs falling in straighter strands over his forehead. Had there ever been a place where you felt safer, than when his arms were warm and secured around your waist?

“You didn’t answer my question,” Kento panted into your mouth, his cheeks flushed, skin warmed from the way that your hands roamed all over his chest. 

“No more talking.” You pushed him backwards towards the sofa, this one a deep, velvety green, a contrast to the orange hues of the rest of the room. “I’m tired of talking.” 

Kento seemed like he wanted to protest, but his anger had melted, and his eyes were soaked in lust, pupils blown wide. Objections about how you never talked, always beat around the bush, erupted, then died. For once, he relented. “Fine.” Kento’s voice had deepened, the irritation coated by whatever semblance of affection he still held for you. “If that’s what you want.” 

You tugged at his belt buckle, wishing you could move faster, even as Kento undid the ties that held your loose top together. It fell off your shoulders, and you finally ripped the belt from the loops, unzipping the tight slacks that had paired well with his worn jacket. 

His skin was hot beneath the garments, and Kento’s muscles were even more defined from all his years of playing the drums. He’d kept himself healthy as the time had passed, never indulging in anything as often as his bandmates. 

You felt sick with need for him, confused as you sorted through how much of your aching chest was love, and how much was a desire that you could’ve felt for anyone. 

“Fuck,” Kento muttered against your mouth as you slipped a hand under his shirt, feeling your way across his abdomen. “It’s been so fucking long.” 

He was so perfect. How could you ever have forgotten? Not even the magazines with their fancy cameras could do him justice. Kento was a work of art, a masterful creation, and you were jealous of anyone else who had gotten close enough to see it. 

“I—” you opened your mouth to say you missed him, or maybe something else, but you bit it back down, not wishing to showcase yourself so openly. Instead, you pulled at the hem of his shirt, frustrated when it wouldn’t come off. 

Kento’s knees hit the back of the sofa, and he fell, pulling you onto his lap, gazing up at you with an affection you didn’t deserve. His fingers covered your own, and he helped you jerk the tight shirt off his chest, the material doing little to cover his marbled figure. 

“God, you’re so beautiful,” he said into your ear, low and husky, his hands slipping down your jeans, shifting you up to ease the material off your thighs. “The whole word knows it; you’re an angel on the covers of all those magazines. Can’t stand it when Satoru and Suguru talk about you,” he grumbled against your mouth, throwing your jeans to the ground as you wiggled out of them. 

You laughed, wondering why it was always so easy with Kento, to smile, to shift your palpable anger into something less fragile.

“Yeah?” you muttered against his mouth, his fingers dipping into the waistband of your panties, so cold against your bare skin. “I bet you go home and jerk off to the covers of me, don’t you, Kento?” 

Kento grinned against your lips as you traced your fingers against his jaw, somewhat tenderly, and with a possessiveness you’d always struggled to reign in. The bulge in his pants was more than obvious, straining against the tight cloth. “What gave you that idea, sweetheart?” 

Your eyes fluttered shut, mouth drifting across his own, tasting the air between you as you tugged his cock free. It was warm and familiar in your palm, and though it wasn’t like fucking Toji, you’d never forget exactly how to touch Nanami Kento.

“I know,” you said, stroking him, feeling the length in your hand, the vein running along it, “because that’s exactly what I do.” 

The admittance left you before you could think to refute it, and Kento didn’t let you, kissed you harder, realizing that no matter how far you strayed from one another, there would always be a cord attaching you together. 

“Shit,” Kento rasped, his head falling backwards as your thumb grazed over the tip of his cock, your thighs straddling his own. “That sweet mouth of yours always knows just what to say.” 

Your cheeks warmed, a smile gracing your expression as you dragged your hips across his thigh, leaning forward to kiss him. It’d been a while since you’d wanted anyone so badly, a craving soaking into every vein of your body, buzzing with desire. Need settled deep in your stomach; your kisses grew sloppy. Your lips were coated and glossed with Kento’s own saliva, puffy from how hard he pressed his hand to the back of your neck. 

“Do you think of me when you fuck your fiancée too?” you asked, stroking him without even looking, the movements from memory, his pre-cum glistening on your palm. “Do you look at her and wish it was me instead?” 

Kento groaned deeply in the back of his throat, his face flashing with the anger you’d intentionally put back there. Quicker than you’d anticipated, he’d flipped you onto your back, towering over you. His face was pinched as he kissed down your neck, across your collarbones, down your stomach.

You wanted him to regret this, to feel every ounce of the infidelity he was committing. To make him admit to himself that whatever pretty woman was waiting at home would never compare to the one he had never stopped wanting. 

“I could ask you the same question,” Kento said, his mouth on your thighs, squeezing his fingertips into the soft skin of your knees. “Fucking Fushiguro. He always wanted you so bad, and I couldn’t stand it.” Genuine hatred dripped off his words as he leaned back over you, his fingers hovering over your clothed cunt, contrasted with the satisfaction of his expression. “Now he has you,” Kento said, dropping his fingertips over your panties, feeling the spot where you were already soaking through the material, “but I still own this pretty pussy.” 

You gripped his biceps as his fingers rubbed small circles into your clit, a sideways grin forming onto his dark lips. “Kento,” you breathed, nails digging into his arms. “I want you to fuck me.” 

“You make it too easy, baby,” he said softly, even when his cock was painfully hard, leaking between the two of you. “Just have to say a few words and you’re already soaking wet for me.”

Your lips parted as Kento slipped his fingers underneath your panties, and the contact of his hands on your cunt, after so much time, had a sharp exhale leaving your chest. 

“N-no, wait—” you stuttered, pushing his hands away as you slipped the lacy material off your hips. “Just fuck me, Ken, I can take it.” You reached for his cock, but his eyes flashed, annoyance sparking in his eyes. “I just want you inside.” 

“I’ve got you all to myself finally, and now you want to rush it?” Kento glared, forcing your hands back down beside you. He was so much stronger than you, and though you needed him to touch you, he spread your legs further instead, let nothing but the cool air kiss your bare cunt. “Don’t.” 

You whimpered as he released your wrists, leaned down to brush his tongue through your folds. Your eyes fluttered closed, and he gathered the slick up into his lips, tasting you, his nose brushing against your clit. 

A deep sigh reverberated in the room as you felt your love for him wash over you, a love that was once hidden away, but not eradicated. It coated you, made your lust only double, and sentimental blabber began to leave your mouth, as Kento forced his tongue deeper into your aching hole.

“I missed you, Ken,” you said, tears pricking at the corner of your eyes as your gripped his blonde hair, hatred for yourself just as strong as adoration for him. You weren’t supposed to be crying, not now, not when this wasn’t supposed to be sex at all, but some sort of hateful fucking that was slowly turning into desperate lovemaking. “I missed you.” 

Kento smiled softly against you before pulling away, his mouth soaked from your arousal. “I know, sweetheart,” he said, looking at you tenderly; it made you sick to think that there would be a ring on his finger soon. You’d go back to your hotel room with Toji, and he’d go back to the fiancee that deserved him more than you did. “My pretty girl.” 

“Don’t say things, like that.” You steadied your emotions, as, finally Kento pressed the head of his cock against your entrance, the wrinkle between his brow forming as he watched you carefully. “Don’t be sweet to me.” 

You’d gotten used to fucking Toji, who was thicker and longer than Kento; and Kento slid right into you like he was meant to be there, your body relaxed and willing. A groan left him, and he laced his fingers with your own, squeezed your hands together against the armrest of the sofa. 

“Why?” Kento asked, emotions guarded by curiosity. You swallowed, leaned your head back with a heavy breath as he inched inside of you. “Don’t want to admit you’re still in love with me?”

“I’m not—” But you were cut off, your objections falling flat as Kento’s eyes fluttered closed.

“Fuck, fuck,” he said, drawing out the word like it was more than one syllable, his deep, throaty tone parting your lips. There was a flush on his cheeks, pink, his forehead sweaty as the blonde strands stuck to it. 

You’d always loved his hair down—maybe, it was because of you that it became his signature. 

“You feel so good,” he said, drawing himself out of you, thrusting back in, pushing further and further until he had bottomed out completely. “God, I don’t remember you ever squeezing me so tight before.”

He sounded drunk on the feeling of you; you couldn’t help the start of a smile that formed on your face as he fucked you, losing his sanity while he succumbed to pleasure. There were sinful sounds between you, and you felt a little outside of yourself, knowing that you still had a hold on one of the most famous drummers in the entire world. 

Kento kissed you all over your face, and you lifted your hips to meet him, wishing you could take him deeper, let him soak into your entire body.

“Do you regret it?” Kento whispered, his thrusts growing faster, cock throbbing inside of you. “Or do you just regret me?”

You opened your eyes to meet his dark, sweet irises. A man like him shouldn’t have fallen for someone like you, should never have stooped down to love you. The truth rested on your tongue, but when Kento hit deep a spot within you, dizziness sparked at the back of your mind, and a lie slipped out instead. 

“I don’t regret anything, Kento,” you said, smiling lazily, like you didn’t have a care in the world. “Least of all, leaving you.” 

To your surprise, Kento laughed, light and carefree, even though it was stuttered, raspy from his need. “You always were a good liar,” he reached between you, brushing his thumb over your clit with a hazy expression. “Much better than me.” 

Once again, Kento saw right through you, reminding you of why you’d gone your separate ways. It was dangerous to have someone around that you couldn’t hide from. 

“Ken,” you whimpered, gripping his wrists when you realized how close you were. There was anguish interlaced with your arousal, but your orgasm was approaching all the same. You clenched around him a little harder, swallowing, and Kento smirked, his voice husky. 

“I know, sweetheart,” he said, his tone dropping, almost commanding, in a way that he knew always had you writhing helpless under him. “Pussy’s clenching me so tight. You gonna cum for me, baby?” he said into your skin, fucking deeper into you. “Let go.” 

The instant relief washed over you, and you groaned, loud into the room, coming hard around Kento’s cock, your body shaking as he worked you through the orgasm. 

A smile formed as he kissed your mouth, forcing words down your throat. “That’s it,” he hummed. “Always so perfect for me. I missed you, I love you so much,” and his words turned desperate while he dragged himself out of you, forcefully, trying hard not to let himself go.

“It’s okay, Kento,” you said, stupidly, crazily, running your hands all over him. “You can come inside me.” 

Kento's mind drew a blank, and he groaned deeply, nearly collapsing on top of you as he came, spilling his thick, hot cum into your cunt. And you were an idiot, a fool, because you’d never let Toji do that, never let him fuck you without a condom, but Toji wasn’t Kento—

and you would’ve let Nanami Kento do anything to you. 

Kento held you close to him, squeezing you to his chest as you both breathed heavily, remembering what it was like to be in each other’s arms. His cock grew soft, and his cum spilled out of you, soaking your thighs, ruining the sofa beneath you. 

“Did you mean it?” you asked, running your fingers through his blonde hair as he rested his head on your chest, arms warm around your body. “Do you love me?” 

The air grew stale, thick with the sins committed in the room. Kento smiled, kissed your neck, and said nothing. 

“Do you love her?” you asked, begging for an answer, not knowing who she even was. Not knowing if you cared.

“I do.” 

“But not as much as you love me.” 

He tipped his chin up on your chest, looking at you with sad, dark eyes. “I don’t know,” he admitted, tracing his fingertips across your stomach. “But I love you enough to do this to her. That must mean something.” 

Maybe, you thought, running an analog through your mind of all the reasons that could lead anywhere but affection. You’d both been under a lot of stress recently, times changing as you reached fame. It was nice to think back to a life before all that, when all you’d had was some cash in your pocket, and a dingy nightclub to play to. 

Perhaps you reminded each other of that.

You craned your neck, looking up at the ceiling, your hand stilling against his scalp. “What does it mean, Kento?” 

The moment passed between you, where things were hollow and empty. You could see a lifetime stretched out in front of you, but it was all in shades of grey, nothing sketched in a thick, black outline. Nothing concrete.

What you knew for sure was that you would break his heart again.

Maybe not soon, but eventually. Toji would hate you when he found out, your bandmates would hate you for lying to them. You and Kento would never live in peace, and instead, you'd spend the rest of your life stalked by the press, flashes blinding you, tabloids written about you, paranoia spiking in your chest as they tried to convince you that he was cheating on you with his bandmate.

It would be a disaster. 

It would be even more heartbreaking than saying goodbye. 

“It means that if you say you want me, I’ll break it off.” Kento sat up, bringing you with him, suddenly serious. “I can live without you, but I don’t want to. I love you, I’ve always loved you. Just say the words.” He kissed you softly, pleading with you, lips all over your face. “Say that you still love me, and we can get through anything.”

You exhaled a breathy laugh, tracing his features, wondering why that made you feel so sad. It was a good thing, wasn’t it? Kento could live without you, and you wanted him to. 

Even if you couldn’t live without him. 

“It was good to see you,” you said, letting his hands fall off your face as you slipped away, begging the tears to just stay put, to stay gone until you could get Kento out of the room. “Hard to believe I’ve made a cheater out of you, Nanami Kento.” 

His face fell, smile dropping as he stared back, like that was the last thing he’d expected you to say. You turned your back to him, slinking away as you picked your clothes up off the floor, tugging your jeans back on. “Why—”

“Don’t let me ruin your marriage,” you continued, ruffling your hair to put it back into position, plaster a grin on your face despite the agony you felt. “I know I’m pretty, but I’m just not worth it.” 

“Stop that,” Kento stood, taking two strides to you, his eyes desperate, wild, but you stopped him, your arm outstretched, keeping your distance. "Don't stay that."

“I meant what I said, Kento. I’m happy with Toji, I’m happy with the band, and you’re happy with your fiancée. I’m not going to let you fuck any of that up.” You pushed him away, and this time he stumbled, didn’t bother to chase after you. “I missed you, but I don’t want to be with you.”

Kento searched your eyes, but you kept your face neutral, hard, emotionless. He couldn’t doubt your sincerity, and for once, he couldn’t spot your lie.

Finally, he sunk back in on himself. Nodded once. “I should go, then.” 

"You should," you said firmly. “Take care of yourself.” 

Kento licked his lips. He sorted himself back out, jeans zipped, shirt tucked. His hair looked every bit as perfect as it had when he walked in, even if he looked twice as sad.

“I love you,” he tried, once more, pausing with his hand on the door handle.

Sometimes, though, love wasn’t enough. 

You smiled, and wrapped an arm around yourself, knowing that, people could call you a lot of things, but they could never call you selfish.

“Please don’t send me an invitation to your wedding, Kento.”

[cum-a-calla]

i went a little insane on this Jack Delroy tidbit (is it still a tidbit if it’s 4800 words? get back to me on that)

Jack Delroy visits a diner in the middle of the night to wind down. He has very little in the way of expectations in the midst of fighting his own demons, but one thing he doesn’t expect is meeting a starstruck waitress that forces him to truly reckon with his urges.

under the cut: the lightest touch of dubcon, rough PIV fucking, fingerfucking, oral sex, public fucking, internal misery, and the suggestion of possession.

…

The late-night circuit is taking its toll on Jack.

It’s not so much the show - he lives to host, lives to act and react, lives to hype up his guests, to engage the audience. Genuinely enjoys the silly little skits they do. It’s living a dream, being in front of the camera and feeling that very specific, special feeling - not quite acting, not quite being himself. It’s less a façade and more a specific side of him - just a sliver of Jack, a flavor. A taste.

It’s not even really the late-night circuit, is it?

Ever since - …since, Jack’s been off. And why wouldn’t he be? The loss, the never-ending grind, the… the events that precluded this loss. The carving out of something inside of him, and to that end, when did that start? When the ratings fell? When Minnie did? When everything between those two massive events in his life took place? That secret in-between time, the woods, the eerie hooting in the trees, the costumes; God, the costumes had been so hack. He’d come so willingly, veins sluiced with booze, laughing, jeering with the rest of them. Until… until they weren’t.

Until he was kneeling in the pine needles, feeling them crunch under his knees, and had he ever paid so much attention to his surroundings? Had he ever stopped and noticed how it smelled in the forest? Perhaps not until then. Green, thick, heady. The sound of flapping wings, the whispers of his cohorts in the night. The metallic taste in the cup. Feeling something so unlike anything else, coursing through him, and wasn’t it so easy to chalk it up to nothing? It was easier. It was easier.

And then… and then.

It had been a time between sweet Minnie’s passing and his almost-reluctant return. But how long can tragedy keep you from your ultimate calling? There can only be so many mornings, noons and nights spent in a stupor, crying, vomiting, drinking, drugging. Only so much time avoiding every single part of your life, your livelihood. And what an unfair thing, to neglect one love of your life for the loss of another; Minnie’s face, her voice, she still lives in the back of his brain like an aneurysm. Capable of taking him completely out at any given moment.

And so the meetings in the Grove certainly helped, and perhaps did not at all. Before, after - what difference does time make, anyway? Minnie’s passing feels at once a hundred years in the past as well as five minutes ago. Time. Distortion is the only thing Jack knows anymore. There is only his life as the leading Night Owl and his life as Jack, and what in the fuck does that mean anymore unless he masks it with whatever else he can get his hands on?

His hands.

They tremble a little on the table, slid into a booth at a local diner. It’s a perfect imagining of a fifties spot, the plush, scuffed seats, the ridiculous outfits the largely female staff are wearing - the modest skirts, the aprons. The little notebook balanced against his waitress’s arm as she glides dutifully to his table.

“Evening,” she begins, glancing at him for barely a second before flipping a page. “Or - well, I guess it’s more like… good morning, right?” She laughs a gentle little laugh and it tugs at him, somehow. He watches her as he sweats, resisting the urge to wipe at his damp hairline. It’s been a fucking night.

“Evening and good morning to you, young lady,” he responds. Always genteel, always On.

She glances at him again and it’s a classic double-take. Eyes a little wider, she shifts in place and stares at her notebook, making every effort to conceal her recognition. Jack’s seen this look hundreds, thousands of times, so used to it that he can only smile warmly in return. The price of fame, but also the pleasure. She’s turning pink in the cheeks and it’s endearing, the way it lights her freckles up, the way it makes her squirm in place. Jack is charmed. He’s used to all ranges of attention - clamoring women, shy women, forward men. He takes it all in stride, but it’s the shy ones that get him. Demure, unsure. Something in his gut twists, and he waits politely for her to organize her thoughts before he says anything else.

“Th-thank you,” she stammers, blushing. “I… I know you must uh, get this a lot, but… you look like somebody,” she hints. She flicks her eyes from her notepad to Jack’s own eyes, guarded, giddily scared.

“I do get that a lot,” he says warmly. He drops her a quick, clever wink. “You’re clearly up late enough to know for sure, considering.”

She lifts the pad and covers her mouth with it, making an adorable, almost-silent squeal of excitement. The tips of her ears are burning, she’s so flustered. Jack can’t help but grin, laughing at her genuine and unbridled reaction.

“Oh my God. I’m so sorry, I’m being so dumb! I just - I love you,” she gushes, and the words tumbling from her lips embarrass her even further as she cringes at herself. Absolutely gorgeous - Jack can’t help but run his eyes quickly along the line of her body, noting the curve of her waist, the length of her legs. The hint of bare thigh under her skirt. “I’m such a fan. I know everybody must say that, I.. wow, I’ve never met somebody famous before. Especially not somebody I’m such a big fan of.”

“That’s incredibly sweet. Must be my lucky night, being waited on by such a lovely fan,” he flirts. The dark twist in his pelvis keeps him eyeing her, and he’s forced to take the linen napkin on the table and blot at his forehead. “Excuse me - been a long, long night.”

“I bet,” she says. “I imagine you’re constantly busy. Mister Delroy, I’m so sorry for keeping you waiting - what can I get you?”

“Oh, don’t you worry about that. Just a… a black coffee will do me for now.”

She nods and the woman scurries away, glowing with excitement. It’s just one of the many perks, the hoards of beautiful women that lose themselves in his presence. The power there. Jack is easy, kind - hearted. He has no need for applause, not in the way you’d assume - he lives to be enjoyed, lives to be an entertainment, sure. But the drive isn’t for the droves of people begging to worship him - and isn’t that cliché? Isn’t that just something a famous, rich asshole would say, or convince himself of?

But it rings true. All he wanted - all he wants, all he sacrificed for -

All he sacrificed for… is to be needed.

The girl comes back with his coffee, placing it down on top of a napkin in an oversized, chipped mug. Jack smiles warmly at her and winks again, watching her thighs under her skirt as she hurries away again. It’s cute, really. It’s heartening in a way, but mostly… it stirs. Jack forcibly turns his head and stares down at the scratched formica tabletop, coffee steaming. A single drop trails its way down the cup and stains the napkin, bleeding through to the table. In the low of his gut, in the back of his brain, a whisper begins. He sweats - he’s always sweating these days. The cocaine, the alcohol, the various other substances he blinds himself with… and -

And…

The… thing. The thing that makes his belly hot, the thing that turns his cock hard even when he least expects it. It’s like a black, swirling possession over him; it’s the only thing that he doesn’t need a substance for, but a substance against. It’s not a drunkenness, not a high - it’s something else entirely, a tingling, pervasive kind of darkness.

It’s been easy to overcome it most of the time…

Most of the time.

It gets harder every day, little by little. What makes it really hard is when he finds a person, a thing, a place, a situation - something that makes his fucking balls ache, something that fills him to the throat with blackness, with need, and he follows. It’s all part of it. Resisting makes him… not himself. Giving in makes him not himself. Where the line between who he thinks he is and who he is now has been blurred, irrevocably lost in the dust of things, impossible to decipher. The ruins of his life have been buried so many ways in such a short amount of time. He looks in the mirror and it’s a miracle to recognize himself anymore. He rakes his fingers through his hair, straightens the lapels on his suit jacket. It’s hot. He takes the napkin, blots his sweat once more.

He stares serenely out the window at the darkened sky. Stars are out, now, piercing through all that velvety blue-black, like freckles, like pinholes embedded in some luxurious cloth. He checks his watch - just about a quarter to three in the morning, and not even a wink of an urge to sleep. Nothing satiates, nothing helps him rest. Constantly on the hamster wheel, doing his little dance.

“Mister Delroy - I, uh - well - I know you just ordered the coffee, but… we had some extra things, so… I just thought - in case you were hungry… On the house, of course.”

Jack turns to the waitress as she carries a plate to him, steaming with all kinds of fixings - hashbrowns, eggs, bacon, toast. She toes her shoe on the floor, and again he steals a look at the little bit of exposed thigh, the way she nervously straightens the apron affixed to the front of her uniform dress. He smiles up at her and there’s a whisper in the back of his mind - he watches her struggle to try to look away, but she can’t. He indulges her in her sweet gaze, refusing to break eye contact just to see what she does. She squirms a little, pleasantly so - her pupils dilate, flicker from his mouth back to his eyes. Trying not to be obvious. It makes him laugh a little, a hum under his breath as he takes a sip of his coffee.

“Thank you very much, dear. You sure know how to take care of a tired man.”

She looks at the floor, smiles so big. She ducks under the length of her hair but it does nothing to dull the sheer delight making her face glow so. Jack wants to grab her by the hips - a line of racing thoughts boil his blood, stir his cock as he sits. Thinking about her lips on him, the warmth of her mouth, his fingers digging into her. Stop. Not now. Please. Fighting the urges, the impulses.

“Anything for you, Mister Delroy.”

He almost winces, dick jumping in his slacks. God, she’s adorable. There’s an almost coquettish quality to the way she looks up at him again, under her lashes, hands clasped chastely behind her back. She licks her lips and he feels suddenly so, so feral. He can almost taste her by power of thought alone.

“Jack is fine… I insist.” He reaches out and takes her hand. Her fingers tremble the slightest bit and it sets his soul on fucking fire. He brings her soft hand to his lips and kisses her tenderly on the knuckles, resisting the urge to take her fingers into his mouth, to gently bite on the tips of them. He imagines pushing his own fingers between her pink lips and feeling her tongue, reaching back toward her throat until she’s teary-eyed. He watches her as she exhales, shaky. Uncertain. Absolutely excited.

“Jack,” she parrots under her soft breath. “Jack it is, then.”

As she hurries back behind the counter, fielding some of the other late night owls in the restaurant, he contemplates what exactly brought him here. Why the cocaine never jumps him the way it used to, at the beginning. Before the - the… gathering. Why the booze doesn’t calm him the way it used to. Why nothing works, why nothing can settle the hot, despicable urges, the constant crawling underneath his own flesh.

He spends the better part of the next hour switching between gazing out the window, sipping his coffee (and then another, and then another) and picking at his plate, forcing himself to chew the food, to taste it, to appreciate his server’s gift. It does nothing to satiate him. He can barely feel hunger these days - it’s just going through the motions.

Minnie used to make a killer breakfast. On lazy weekends, while he slept off a hangover, and -

He pushes those thoughts away.

3:55 A.M.

The cute waitress comes around again and seems pleasantly surprised to keep finding him here, alone, lingering. Is he lingering? Why is he still here? He should be trying to sleep everything off, getting at least a snatch of shut-eye before another busy day tomorrow trying to up his ratings. There’s a very special show in the works - still in the idea phase, still scouting for a story, but… it’s shaping. Things are rolling, building up. The smart thing to do would be to pay his bill and catch a cab to his hotel room so he can rest fitfully for a few hours.

He asks for the bill and she swallows her own crestfallen feelings as she turns to retrieve it for him. He glances at it, pulls bills from his cracked leather bifold and tips her so generously that her eyes almost bug out of her head. She begins to refuse his tip and he rises from his seat, shushing her. He towers over here and she has no choice but to gaze up at him, like the very length of him is hypnotizing. The shared hunger. He can feel it like electricity, and for a split second they’re so close to each other that he could hook his hand behind the curve of her skull and pull her into a kiss. There’s zero doubt she would give it to him.

Instead, he grasps her shoulder and gives her a light squeeze.

“Thank you for a delightful breakfast - or dinner. Whatever is appropriate for this time of night,” he jokes.

She smiles, beaming at him like he’s the sun and she can do nothing more but bask in his light. “Of course, Mister Del - er, of course, Jack. It was such a pleasure to meet you. A dream.”

“I’m flattered,” he says, and he means it. That’s one thing about his job, and about protecting the shreds of humility he still has left - he always means it. There is nothing more intoxicating, nothing more rewarding than meeting a person who lights up at his very presence. Isn’t that what it’s all about? Touching somebody in such a profound way that brings a little joy, a little entertainment? “The pleasure’s all mine.”

“Oh, I’m sure that’s not true.” Her voice is low, quiet and sweet. He stoops just slightly to catch it, that dark little voice tickles the back of his brain as he finds himself just a touch closer to her, and he swallows against the urge again to crush her against him, to sip her breath into his lungs and feel her tongue against his. Her eyes glitter in the old, yellowed lights of the diner. He, the Jack Delroy, finds himself utterly speechless and hanging on to her silence like a life raft, awash in his own deafening desire. “I’ll never forget this night, Jack.”

He’s the one basking, now, wondering what her feverish cheek might feel like against his, what other parts of her might feel just as hot, just as deliriously pink and warm against his own flesh. He summons a graceful smile, but it comes out as more of a gentle smirk, a huff of a laugh. Since when does Jack get nervous?

She waits and he regains control of himself, running his fingers through his hair and swiping the back of his hand across his damp hairline, straightening up, taking a deep breath.

“I’m sure I won’t be forgetting this night any time soon, myself,” he jokes. She’s delighted, practically vibrating in place. He can almost smell her, her sweat. Some delicate kind of perfume or soap.

He makes his way outside and waves at her as she returns behind the counter, scurrying into the kitchens - he imagines her in there pressing her hands to her own cheeks, shaking out her adrenaline and excitement. It’s endearing. It sets him on fire.

There are a line of pay phones outside of the restaurant, and he steps into one and lights a cigarette, flipping through the pages to find a cab service. He finds himself eyeing the building, seeing if he can see her through the windows as she continues serving. Mere glimpses - he sees her flit back and forth a little, remaining largely out of his view.

He closes the abused phone book and drops it to hang on its heavy chain, the pages nearly in tatters by years and years of use. He exits the booth without having so much as put any coins into the slot, opting instead to walk across the parking lot. He glances at his watch - 4:14 A.M. He seats himself on a cement block at the edge of the lot, finishing his cigarette just to light up another one directly after. God, he could really use a scotch or two - not that it would help any.

Minutes tick by and he waits. He rubs his sweaty palms down his thighs, constantly checking his watch. 4:21 A.M.

By the time 4:45 A.M. rolls around, he spots her. The lot is dark, the flickering neon sign of the diner doing little to expose him to her. She has a purse slung over her shoulder and not much else. Jack rises to his feet, wincing at the pop of his knees, the stiffness in his back. He flicks the butt of his cigarette to the ground and smashes the lit end with the toe of his shoe.

He approaches her and the gravel crunching under his feet has her suddenly alert, jerking her attention toward him. He watches her tense up, eyes wide, clutching the strap of her bag. Her features distort with fear, confusion. She can’t seem to decide how to feel, expression blurring and resetting, blurring again.

“Jack…? What are you - what are you doing here?”

“I was, uh… well, I suppose I was waiting.”

“Waiting for…?”

“For you.”

A hint of delight seems to ease her tension, but not enough for her to relax. She shifts from one foot to the other. Jack aches. He feels the heat pooling in his pelvis, feels that pull. His cock is already half-hard, pulsing with his heartbeat as he comes closer. She’s frozen to the spot, unable to do much else but watch him.

“For me? Wh-why?”

“There is something very special about you, I think. I couldn’t stop thinking about you, if I’m being honest.”

He’s nearly touching her, and he slowly brings his finger to her chin, lifting her face to his. He leans down until he can feel her shuddering little breaths against his mouth. She licks her lips, anticipating him, and he finally bridges that gap. Her lips are so soft, her kiss so submissive, inviting. It’s even better than he’d been fantasizing about, and inky black tendrils of desire creep up through his spine, dripping behind his ribs like ichor. Roiling down from his belly to his balls, stiffening his cock. The violence. The utter, blind, salivating need as he pulls her close, buries his fingers in the fabric of her cheap uniform as he does so. She resists for a moment and seems to melt into him, moaning into his mouth.

He could eat her alive.

They stumble together across the gravel, her hands on his face, skating over his sharp cheekbones to muss his hair. He grabs at her ass, squeezing the generous flesh there. He imagines biting her, leaving a mark that she’ll feel for days to come, imagines her craning to look into a mirror and running her fingers along bruises, bite marks. God, how he wants to mark her.

He guides her clumsily into the mouth of an alley behind the diner. Pressed against the wall, he has the freedom to roam further under her skirt. He tucks his thumbs into the band of her sheer, nylon tights, pulling them down to her calves. Kneeling before her, he watches her flushed expression as he rips her panties off her body with his strong hands, relishing the way she squeals his name. Like a trapped animal. A lamb trembling in the jaws of a wolf. He dips his fingers between her thighs, sliding them into the tight heat of her cunt. She gasps as he fills her this way, stroking, thrusting until she’s practically panting. He ducks under her dress and a growl rumbles up his throat as he tastes her. He wants her dripping down his face. He wants her to beg him to stop, to feel her tighten exquisitely around his fingers as he fucks her with them.

She’s alternating between gently pulling his hair and petting it, thumb slipping occasionally down to trace the bridge of his nose. She does this many times, and it’s so unexpectedly intimate it catches him off guard. Feeling him, painting the image of his profile on the inside of her mind’s eye like a tattoo - it’s not enough to be able to look at him, touch him, kiss him, watch him on TV. She traces him. She memorizes the shape of his nose, the gentle slope of his brow, fingers tickling over his cheekbones. It has him leaking in his trousers.

Her breath catches in her throat and his name is on her lips, sweet and soft as silk, thighs shaking, and there it is - she climaxes. He pulls his fingers out of her and stoops even lower, tongue pushing as far as he can into her folds, nosing her clit. This seems to do something animalistic to her; she nearly screams, covering her own mouth as she grinds against him. He wonders idly if she’ll buck hard enough to break his nose (and so be it, he decides).

Jack can’t wait any longer. He wipes his face off on his sleeve, spins her in place and yanks her hips back. She’s still catching her breath, face so red in the shadows of the alleyway. Eyes half-lidded and dreamy, lips swollen. She glances back at him and watches him struggle to unbuckle and unzip himself, pulling his hard cock out to rub between her wet thighs.

“Jack - please,” she whines. “Please, please.”

“Please what?” God, she’s so fucking slippery. He could swoon on the spot. She makes a soft, whimpering sound and he pulls the head of his cock away, teasing. “Come on. Say what you want.”

“Please… make it hurt.”

For a moment, he stares into her eyes in surprise, and she offers him a coy smile. It changes her features into something a little more sinister than he’d expected. It sets him on fire. Without another word, Jack lines himself up to her plush, slick, waiting cunt and fills her in one brutal thrust. She stiffens on the spot and screams, and now it’s his turn to clap a hand over her mouth.

“Oh, but you wanted this, little dove,” he coos in her ear between grunts. He fucks her hard, fast, feeling all that silken flesh rippling around him. “I had no idea you��d be so filthy. Are you like this for other men? Older men? Spreading your legs in an alley for them to fuck you open?”

The sounds she makes against his hand are probably words - surely they are, but all he hears is her desperate mewling, her high-pitched moans and near-shrieks, the feeling of her breath and drool, her teeth as she considers biting into the flesh of his palm.

“Just me, then? How long have you wanted this, how long have you fantasized about Jack-fucking-Delroy pounding into your little pussy? Do you think of me when you try to sleep? Do you touch yourself thinking of it? Is it what you expected, darling?”

He can barely control himself. There’s a special place between heaven and hell, some secret universe they’ve created with all the heat and pressure of their bodies, with the whispering darkness coursing through him, clouding him, transforming him. There’s nothing else but the urge to rip her in half. To make her scream, to fill her so violently that she feels it for days, for weeks even. He releases her mouth in order to grab her hips, hooking his fingers around the soft flesh there to yank her back against his brutal thrusts. He no longer cares how loud she screams. He likes the way her hands flutter back, grabbing at his wrists, reaching for this thighs in a poor attempt to escape his violence, to temper the way he hammers into her. But he’s too far gone - the smack of his hips into her ass, the way their bodies make the most infernally wet sounds… it’s all there is.

Jack hears a sound, something that nags him in the back of his mind. A rhythmic, gentle noise in the distance, something familiar but unable to breach the ferocity of his current focus. As the pressure builds in his balls, cock harder and more rigid than ever before, he recognizes it. Delirious, he recognizes the sound of an owl somewhere among these buildings, the gentle, almost mocking call of it every couple minutes.

Something about it pushes him over the edge, sweat rolling down his forehead in hot, fat drops, tickling the tip of his nose. He holds her flush as release frees him from all that pressure, muscles tightening and relaxing and waves of molten-hot pleasure surge all through his belly, between his thighs. She’s nearly sobbing at this point, and who can blame her? Each throb of his cock has him grunting against her, draped over her body, teeth bared.

Jack’s easing up, now. He rocks through his orgasm and fills her with his cum, pushing himself as deeply as he can as if a slave to his biological urge. Coating her, marking her with his seed. Mine. I did this.

As he’s emptied himself into her, so empties his mind. No more owl sounds, no more swirling thoughts, the darkness dissipating. He pulls his softening cock from her body and tucks himself away, doing his best to help the poor woman straighten up. Tear tracks shine on her cheeks, little sniffles accompanying her embarrassed smile. There’s fear there, just a little. It hides beneath the veneer of guilty satisfaction, of still being starstruck by her company. It seems that she can barely believe everything that’s just happened. He puts an arm slowly around her shoulders and guides her out from the alley, taking a secret and perverse satisfaction in the way she has to limp a little at first.

“Hey - that was… well, that was something, wasn’t it?” He laughs nervously, searching her to make sure she’s okay. “Are you all right? Do you need a cab? I’d be happy to get one for you, to share?”

“That would be great, actually, if - if it isn’t a pain, Mister Delroy.”

“Jack,” he corrects her gently. He turns her toward the phone book and she waits beside it as he makes the call, staring into the night sky and hugging herself warm. He reemerges, and the way she looks up at him fills him with something he can’t quite name. Some kind of near-familiarity. He’s suddenly struck with his need for the affection, to hold her, to lean own and kiss her lips and be tender to her after all of that. He shrugs out of his suit jacket and drapes it over her shoulders, drinks in her warm little smile as she tugs it around her. They wait in a comfortable silence, occasionally smiling at each other until a car pulls into the lot. It doesn’t take very long at all. He escorts her to it and slides into the back with her once she’s seated, resting his heavy hand on her knee.

“Would you like to… do you need a place to stay the night?” The nip of loneliness. The need, poking its head restlessly into his mind, his body. So different than what they’d done against the wall, so much scarier. “If you’d like to join me…”

She tries unsuccessfully to hide a grin, turning to stare out the window at nothing at all. Hiding her delight, her own need. “I’d love to, Jack.”

[eddiemadmunson]

Chase

And here is a second birthday gift for my bestie @hamatoanne​​​ 😏😏😈😁 Happy birthday babe, I hope you will enjoy this dark filthy fic 😏😏😈💕 I love you 😘😘

Paring: Aemond x fem!reader Word count: 5, 200 Warnings: dirty talk, kidnapping, chasing, dagger play, blood play, choking, oral sex (female receiving), non-con, dub-con

You woke up shivering and with a pouncing headache. You slowly opened your eyes and noticed that you were definitely not inside your chambers. You quickly opened your eyes and groaned when you felt the sharp pain in your head. What the hell is going on? You didn’t get drunk last night. The last think you remembered was a calm evening with your husband, dinner with his annoying family and then you peacefully fell asleep in his arms. You slowly sat up and waited until the world stopped spinning around you. You hesitantly opened your eyes again and looked around you. You were in the dungeon that was for sure. Did someone drugged you and kidnap you right under your husband’s nose? It sounded impossible. Of course he had many enemies, he was an important man, but he would have never let anyone take you away from him, at least not without a fight. Oh no, did anything happened to him? You shivered in fear.  “Look, Berryck, sleeping beauty is finally awake,” someone chuckled mockingly and you realized that you were not alone. You turned your head to the left and spotted two men sitting in the cells next to yours. “Where am I?” you asked them, your voice raspy and weak. “You are in the dungeons under the Red Keep,” one of them said and looked at you like if you were stupid. “I am still in King’s Landing?” you asked and felt relieved that you were not far away from your home.  “I wouldn’t sound so happy, little one,” the other man chuckled cruelly. “You were captured by Prince Aemond Targaryen. And if you are from here, you know what kind of sick, dangerous games he likes to play with his prisoners. Especially with female prisoners,” he added and you shivered, this time with pure terror. Of course you heard a lot of stories about the young Prince. Half of them weren’t truth you were more that sure about it, but some of them had to be truth and he was terrifying. Everything about King’s younger brother was making your blood running cold in your veins. He lost his eye when he was a small boy, one of his own nephews maimed him like that. Most people would fall into misery and self pity and depression, but it seemed that the lost of his eye made the young Prince more determined to become the best fighter in the seven kingdoms. He trained with the sword every day and bacame the fiercest swordsman in the Kingdom. Men were trembling at the mentioning of his name and women trembled with desire to catch Prince's eye. But they didn't know about his dark desires. He liked kidnapping women and playing dangerous games with them, he liked to make them his prey and chase them through the castle, fucking them in the various chambers and halls.  You closed your eyes to try to collect your own thoughts and try to find out a way out of this mess. You hoped that your husband would try to save you, but now when you knew that it’s Prince Aemond who imprisoned you, you lost hope. Your husband couldn’t win a fight against the Prince. You need to get out of here on your own. You looked around yourself desperately, but you were sitting in a very simple prison cell, there was only an uncomfortable bed and bucket in the corner, nothing more. Suddenly you heard someone coming to you. You feared that it will be Prince Aemond, but it was only some male servant. He tossed you a piece of bread and cheese and a water skin and left without a word. “Look at it, Berryck. They gave her something to eat and drink, I guess the Prince wants her well fed and hydrated for his wicked plans for her,” the man in the next cell said and you gulped uncomfortably. “You are right, Meylos. He needs her strong, so he can fuck her all night. I heard that he is into some really dark kinky shit... his servants get rid of the bodies in the morning,” the other one added and you really hoped that they are just trying to mess with your head. You spent rest of the day trying to figure out how to get out of this situation or how to inform your husband that you are down here, but you couldn’t think about anything that would help you. In the evening the same male servant came to you and this time he didn’t serve you food but he brought you a green dress. “Prince Aemond demands you wear this dress,” he said without any emotion in his voice. “I don’t care what he wants, I won’t wear it,” you said stubbornly and the man looked at you with tired expression. “If you won’t put on this dress yourself, I have permission to let those two out of their cells and help you to get dressed,” he threatened you with calm voice. “Listen, my husband has money and power, just send him a word that I am here and you will be rewarded, he will rescue you from this terrible duty,” you tried to bribe him, but he kept his face neutral. “You have to get dressed. So, will you do it alone, or do you need some help?” he insisted and you sighed desperately. “All right. I will do it myself,” you replied and you could hear Berryck and Meylos grunt in disappointment.  “Can you please turn around?” you asked him and he raised his eyebrow. “Please, at least let me have some privacy,” you begged him and he hesitated. “Please, I beg you,” you tried again and looked at him in desperation. “Ok, but be quick, my Prince Aemond hates when he is left to wait,” he turned around and you quickly grabbed the still empty bucket and hit him across the back of his head. He let out a soft “huh” and fell on the ground unconscious. You quickly stepped over him and raced to the door. “Hey, beautiful! What about us? Let us out, we can help you escape!” Berryck shouted. “How stupid do you think I am?” you laughed. “You two would kill me or try to sell me to my husband. You can rot here and keep telling each other horror stories about the One-eyed Prince,” you showed them your middle finger and continued running towards the entrance, completely ignoring them shouting obscenities at you. You quickly found your way out of the dungeons, carefully looking around yourself, if anyone is following you or not. For a second you thought that someone is hiding behind the statue of a dragon, but it was only a shadow casted by the flaming torches. You quietly walked through the crowded streets and slipped out of the gates into the dark woods. They won’t look for you here. They would think that noble lady like you would never ran into the scary, dangerous woods. You slowed down after few minutes. You made sure that no one is following you and if you keep running you will soon exhaust yourself and you will probably start going in circles. You tried to remember what your husband taught you about how to keep a direction in the woods but you couldn’t remember any of his advices. You didn’t listen to him carefully, thinking that you would never need such information. You decided to choose a direction and keep walking that way. You walked for few moments when you felt the small hair on your neck rose. You felt someone’s presence behind you. It’s only my imagination playing tricks on me, you tried to convince yourself. But the feeling was stronger with every step you took. You stopped walking and listened carefully to your surroundings. You heard the natural sounds of the forest, you could hear the leaves whispering in the tree crowns, you heard owl hooting on the branches, somewhere in the distance a wolf started howling, but other than that there was silence. You relaxed and started walking again, when you sensed it again that creeping feeling that you have been watched. You looked around you, trying to see better in the dark. Is there someone standing next to that giant oak tree over there? It looked a little like a male figure, but your eyes could play tricks on you. You started walking in the opposite direction and nothing happened, your hesitant steps slowly turned into light jog and after that you started running. You just knew that there was someone watching your every move, waiting for you to drop your defenses and attack you. You were running more quickly than you have ever ran in your life. You were tripping over roots and branches on the ground, by some miracle you didn’t fall down on the ground and got impaled by a branch. You could hear the long strides behind you, someone was definitely chasing you. You started running faster but you knew that you can’t run like this for a long time, you weren’t trained for this. The muscles of your legs were already burning and you were breathing heavily. You could hear your pursuer getting closer. You quickly hid behind a huge tree, trying to catch your breath and stay as quiet as possible. There was silence again, but you knew that somewhere close behind you is lurking a dangerous predator. “Who would have said that you can run this fast, little bunny,” a smooth voice said very close to you, much closer than you expected. His voice was cultivated and he was barely out of breath, he was obviously better trained than you were. “Are you already exhausted? I expected this chase to be little bit longer and more challenging,” he mocked you and you felt your heart beating fast. You peaked out from behind the tree trunk and you finally spotted your pursuer. He was dressed in black leathers, his long sword strapped to his hip, his long silver blonde hair shinning in the moon light and his signature eye patch covering his eye. You were hunted by the dark Prince Aemond Targaryen himself and you knew that you are doomed because this man was wicked and merciless. “Come on little bunny, I know that you have more energy in that pretty body of yours,” he continued mocking you. You had two chances, you could surrender and hope that your death will be quick and painless, which you doubted or you could try to escape him and keep running through the woods. Your whole life you have been a fighter so you decided to keep fighting for your life. You took few light steps, staying hidden behind the tree for few seconds. “I can see you, little bunny,” he smirked and your eyes met for few seconds. There was no mercy or kindness in them, just a darkness and thrill from a hunt. You started running again, trying to escape your killer. You heard him laughing behind you. It was terrifying, his laughter was almost genuine but there was a hint of darkness and madness in it. He gave you few moments to give you the illusion that you have a chance to escape him. But when he stopped laughing like a maniac you knew that he started chasing you again. You kept running without looking back and he was silent that you didn’t hear his approaching steps. You thought that maybe you were lucky and you outrun him but than a strong hand wrapped around your ankle, you fell on your stomach on the roots and dirt on the ground and a hard body flattened yours to the surface, crushing you with his weight. “Got you,” he growled and flipped you over. You started fighting against him. You were kicking and screaming, trying to push him off your body. You fists were hitting his chest violently but you might as well be hitting a wall. “Did you get lost, little bunny?” he teased you, smiling cruelly at you. “Get off me, my husband will kill you for treating me like this,” you shouted, still desperately trying to get out from his grasp, you tried to wiggle, to set yourself free but it was impossible. He was gripping you with utter ease while you were using all your strength against him. “I would like to see him try,” he chuckled darkly. You tried to attack him with your fists but he easily caught your hands and pinned them above your head with one of his strong arms. “Did you really think that you could escape me so easily? I thought that you are smarter than this,” he said, his voice smooth like a velvet. “Did you really think that my servant would be so stupid to turn his back to you and let you escape like this?” he tsked, his tone disappointing. “You did it on purpose?” you asked him, your voice slightly trembling. “Yes, bunny. I love chasing my prey,” he ran one of his long, delicate fingers over your heated cheek. “You look so much prettier when you are scared, the terror in your eyes is very arousing,” he continued and you felt disgusted by him, so you did the only thing you could in this position and spit on him. You wanted to hit his good eye, but he turned his head, so your saliva was now running down his pale cheek. You noticed the flash of anger in his eye before he wrapped his long fingers around your throat and pulled you closer to him, so now you were face to face. You looked deep into his violet eyes and wondered how someone so cruel and wicked can be so beautiful.  “You are a wild little thing, aren’t you? But don’t worry, I will tame you soon enough,” he promised and pressed his thumb over your pulse point, making it difficult for you to breath. “Lick it from my face,” he commanded and you frowned in confusion. “You spat on me, so now you will lick my face clean,” he repeated, his eye never leaving yours. “No,” you struggled against his grip, but the lack of oxygen made you weak. “You need to learn a lesson, little bunny. "No" is not a word I want to hear from your pretty lips. Lick it off,” he growled and his grip on your throat tightened, you had no other choice than to obey him if you didn’t want him to choke you to death. You hesitantly licked your spit from his cheek, tasting his skin on your tongue, you could swear you tasted fire and sulfur on it, but maybe it was just your imagination since you knew that he is riding a dragon every day. “Good girl, it wasn’t so hard, wasn’t it?” he purred and you couldn’t help yourself but his praise made you shiver, and this time it wasn’t with fear. He watched you closely, drinking your every reaction to him, so of course he noticed the sudden change in your behavior. “What is it, bunny? You like to be called a good girl?” he asked and you squirmed uncomfortably under him.  “But you don’t deserve to be called a good girl, bunny. You have been very, very bad girl... running away from me like this,” he finally let go of your throat and you took a deep breath. He reached towards his waist and pulled out his silver dagger with Targaryen crest on the hilt. He twirled it in his skilled fingers and you tried to ignore the rush of excitement you felt at the movement. But this man was very observing and of course he noticed your flushed cheeks. “Oh, little bunny, I think you will be my favorite fuck toy,” he groaned darkly and your eyes followed the dagger in his hand with caution. “Please, just kill me, don’t dishonor me like this,” you begged him with shameful tears in your eyes. “Kill you? That’s a possibility, yes. But you are my new toy, pet. And I take a good care about my pets,” he smirked darkly. You felt the tip of his dagger at the top of your dress. The thought that the sharp blade could nip at your skin kept you still as he slashed your dress in half and it fell off your body. Your exposed nipples were hard in the cold night. You gasped in shock and he took the opportunity of your distraction and kissed you. Hard. He didn’t give you any space or time for escaping his demanding kiss. You fought against him, you refused to open your lips for him, but he bit your bottom lip hard, you felt the coppery taste of your own blood on your tongue and you gasped in pain, he slipped his tongue into your mouth and at the same time you felt the tip of his dagger making circles around your areola. You felt a zap of pleasure at that action and you immediately felt a rush of shame. You body should not react like this to such an assault. You could taste your own blood on his lips and it shouldn’t be so erotic, but it made your heart beat faster. He smirked against your lips, reading your body like a book. He pressed the tip of his dagger against your nipple and cut it lightly. It didn’t really hurt, it was just a little sting, but your body totally betrayed you and you moaned into the kiss. He deepened the kiss and this time you didn’t fight him, but you kissed him back with a lot of anger and frustration. The kiss became hungry and possessive. You felt like if he will never let you breathe again. When he finally pulled away from your swollen lips you were both panting.  “Your are kinky little bunny, aren’t you, love?” he licked your blood from his lips and dragged the dagger down the valley between your breasts, lower to your belly button and with one powerful move tore through your panties. You let out a shriek that sounded dangerously like a whimper, you were soaked and you didn’t know how it happened. He slid the blunt side of the dagger against your wet pussy. He lifted it under the moonlight and you watched as it glistened with your arousal. “You are so wet for me, bunny. And we barely started. Tell me, little one, does your husband satisfy you at all?” he mocked you and wanted to smack him for such an insult. “How dare you, my husband is very skilled in bedroom, he make me scream his name every night, you sick bastard,” you shouted at him and you noticed something flinch in his eye at the word >>bastard<<. “It might be the true, but you still want this bastard, to fuck your wet pussy, little bunny,” he said darkly and you watched in fascination as he licked your arousal from the blade. “You taste so sweet for such a wild thing, little bunny,” he groaned and you felt your pussy throb at the sight. He twirled the dagger again and placed it against the soft skin of your belly. “I will let go of your hands now, bunny. But try to escape or hit me and will stab you with it, do you understand me?” he asked you firmly and you nodded. You didn’t give up yet, but right now you had no other chance than to obey him. He let go of your hands and lowered himself between your legs. “Spread them for me, show me how wet this pussy truly is,” he demanded but you refused to do it. He nudged your side with the dagger, cutting your skin slightly. “I won’t ask you twice, bunny!” he warned you and you reluctantly parted your legs, exposing your cunt to his hungry eyes. “Hmm, you can keep struggling against me all you want, but your cunt speaks differently,” he looked at you from between your legs, his eye almost dark with desire. He kept looking into your eyes, as he licked your wet slit, his long nose nudged your clit. You wanted to resist, you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction, but it felt too good. He knew what he was doing with his skillful tongue. “S-s-s-stop!” you moaned when he slid two of his long fingers inside you and at the same time his mouth attacked your clit. “Don’t lie to yourself, bunny. You don’t want me to stop,” he said between flicking your clit with his tongue. “You don’t want me to stop, you want to cum on my tongue, filthy little bunny,” he chuckled and dragged his teeth over your abused clit. You moaned again, your body no longer listening to your foggy brain. He curled his fingers inside you, hitting the spot that made your knees go weak. “Come on, give it to me. Don’t be shy. You are so close, little one,” he taunted you and you fought against your own body but  the look in his eye and the constant pressure against your g-spot got you closer and closer to your orgasm. He didn’t break the eye contact as his sinful lips sucked your clit into his mouth again and this time you couldn’t hold it and you came on his tongue, trembling and breathing deeply. He lapped all of your juices and licked your pussy clean, you tried to escape his tongue, your sensitive pussy protesting against the continuous assault but he kept you still with his strong hand. “See, bunny, you can be a little girl when you want,” he smirked and you noticed that the dagger was no longer pressed to your side. You quickly kicked him off your body and started running again, naked and tired but you fought for your life. But he quickly caught you, he slammed you against the tree trunk, the remains of your dress protecting your back, but you could still feel the harsh bark digging into your skin. “Bad bunny, don’t run away from me,” he pressed you harder against the trunk, his fingers wrraped around your throat. “I am not done with you, little one,” he smiled cruelly. “Fuck you,” you shouted at him, wiggling, trying to get out of his grasp. He picked you up and wrapped your legs around his waist and slammed you back against the tree. He pinned your hands above your head. “Oh, you will, bunny. Soon enough,” he captured your lips in another aggressive kiss. His free hand roamed your body, pinching your nipples harshly. You whimpered into the kiss and he smiled in triumph. “I can see, your husband might love you, but he can’t satisfy your dark tendencies, you were not made for gentle love making. You just want someone to chase you in the woods and fuck you hard against the tree,” he murmured into your ear while he pinched your nipple harder, earning even louder whimpers from your lips. “That’s not a true, you monster!!” you shouted and his hand found your clit again and he slapped it harshly. You didn’t recognize the sound that left your lips after that.   “Good bunnies don’t lie, Y/N,” he said angrily and you were so ashamed of yourself. You were in very dangerous situation, he will probably fuck you and then kill you, but you felt more aroused than ever before. Since the moment he twirled that dagger in his fingers you pussy was throbbing with need. Aemond was pure darkness that was calling to your deepest and most hidden urges and needs.   “Your pussy is soaked for me, bunny. Don’t try to pretend that you don’t like this,” he whispered darkly into your ear, biting your earlobe. “No, I don’t want this,” you said but your protests were weak. He started suckling at your neck and collar bones, leaving dark purple bruises behind him, if you will survive this your body will be full of his marks. He bit down on your neck and you let out a choked whimper, he licking the spot with his tongue, soothing the pain a little. He pushed you higher on the tree, so your breasts were right in front of his face. His long arms were still able to hold your hands pinned above your head. “Admit it, bunny. You like this,” he demanded and pulled out his dagger again. You watched his hand with mixture of fear and arousal. “Aemond, please,” you begged him not knowing what are you begging him for exactly at this point. Did you want him to let you go and never chase you again or if you begged him to continue and give you what your dark soul wanted. “What do you want, bunny?” he placed the dagger on the soft skin of your breast right above your nipple. “Stop fighting me, I will make you feel things you have never felt before,” he promised and cut your skin lightly. It wasn’t a deep cut, but you felt few drops of blood running down from the wound. Aemond watched your expression closely and smirked in satisfaction, when he saw the desire in your eyes. He sucked your nipple into his mouth, tasting your blood and you moaned loudly at the sight. You would never admit to your husband that you have a knife kink, that you always wanted to try something like this, most ladies at the court would think that you are a freak for having a fantasy like this. And this blonde haired demon read you like an opened book and gave you what you wanted. He bit your hard nipple and you screamed, your voice echoing through the woods. “That’s it bunny, scream for me, don’t hold back,” he encouraged you and moved to your other breast. He teased your hard peak for few moments and you groaned with impatience. “Already needy for me, look at you, bunny. How easily you turned into my little slut,” he mocked you and your protests were silenced by another possessive kiss. You kissed him back fiercely, your brain too foggy to think straight. He let go of your hands and they went around his strong shoulders and into his silver hair. He unlaced his breeches and you heard the soft thud when it hit the ground. He kept kissing you, his tongue dancing with yours in furious tango, he was almost suffocating you, he lifted your lips and entered you in one swift thrust. He groaned into the kiss and you bit his lip again, feeling overwhelmed by the way how his thick cock stretched your pussy. “Fuck bunny, you are so fucking tight and wet for me,” he grunted and started thrusting into you, not giving you any time to adjust to his size. He was big, too big, it was painful but you liked the pain, it was soon mixed with the wave after wave of pleasure. You wrapped your legs more tightly around him, pulling him even closer to you, he pushed you little bit higher and the new angle allowed him to go even deeper into you. He rut into you grinding as if he needed to get deeper, as deep inside you as he could to stake his claim and never leave. His hand went around your throat, cutting out your air supplies. “You are fucking mine now, little bunny! You belong to me!” he announced and you wanted to protest, you wanted to tell him, that you belong to your husband, but you weren’t able to form a coherent words, he saw it on your face and smirked darkly, laughing like he laughed when he chased you through the woods, like an evil maniac who enjoys to ruin you like this. And you shouldn’t feel attracted to it, but Gods damn you, that laughter made you even more horny. “Fuck, your cunt is squeezing me so tightly, are you close, little one?” he growled and you cried out as the head of his cock brushed against your g-spot. The young dragon knew that he hit the right spot, he groaned breathily as he increased his speed, deliberately angling his strokes to abuse the spot. You loud screames filled the cold night air. “Will you be a good little bunny and cum on my cock, Y/N?” he asked you and kept hitting the spot inside you that made your brain mushy. “Yes, I, please!! Don’t stop,” you begged him, completely lost at this point. All you wanted was to cum with him deep inside you. Your vision blurred as Aemond's grip on your neck tightened, strained moans somehow escaping your throat even from the strong grip he had. You could hear the lewd squelching noises from Aemond's pounding as well as his breathy grunts and moans. Your moans started getting louder and more strained as you could feel your orgasm coming up. “So cum for me, bunny, squeeze my cock so I will cum hard inside your tight cunt, filling you up with my baby,” he grunted into your ear and you exploded around him, screaming his name loudly, crying tears of shame and overwhelming pleasure. Your velvet walls squeezed his cock tightly and his orgasm hit him hard, he bucked into you so hard that the bark bit painfully into your back and he bit down on your shoulder leaving a neat row of teeth marks. He cum deep inside you, filling you up with his warm seed. You were both panting heavily, looking at each other in the silence of the night. He gently placed you back on the ground and captured your lips in deep, loving kiss. “Are you happy, satisfied?” he asked you and you smiled at him stupidly. “That was amazing, Aemond, thank you,” you hugged him and he chuckled. “Anything for you, my dear wife,” he pulled out of you, his cum dripping out of you on the ground. “Tell me all of your dark fantasies and will make them come true,” he promised and you shivered at all the possibilities. “My mind is a dark place, Aemond,” you warned him. “You married a dragon Prince, my love. You can’t scare me,” he smirked at you. “Let’s go home, my love. I don’t want you to get sick because of running naked in the woods, even though I like the view,” he smiled warmly at you and gently pushed you back towards the castle. “I am sorry that I called you bastard, and spit into your eye, I got too much into the role,” you stopped him and looked at him sincerely. “That’s OK, my love. I am sorry for cutting you,” he stroked the small cut on your chest and you shivered with need. “Don’t worry about that, I loved it,” you winked at him and he groaned. “OK, bunny. Let’s go home before I will have my way with you again here,” he swept you off your feet and carried you back in his strong arms. “But it will be my fantasy that we will role play next time, my dear wife,” he promised you darkly and you shivered with anticipation. You loved Aemond Targaryen with all of your heart and you couldn’t wait to hear about all of his fantasies and wishes.  

[eleventeeny]

An Analysis on the New Manson Era

Marilyn Manson is holding his first headlining show since 2019 tonight. The past few days have been pure bliss for Manson fans everywhere. We've gotten a new single, new music video, first stage appearance in 5 years, and soon the first headlining performance in 5 years.

In this post, I want to analyze what we've seen so far. I spoke on the new single a bit in my previous post. I spoke on the new single in my previous post, please check that out if you're interested.

Starting with the MM x NB teaser from May 2024, the costume designer has apparently confirmed that this video is part of a full music video that will be released at a later date.

Within this video, we see a ton of symbolism. In the opening alone, he holds or presents a few items that could have a specific meaning.

He first holds a book, however I'm not sure what this could represent, and I don't know what the book he's holding is either.

After, he holds a key which represents knowledge, strength and contempt, as well as having control.

The throne shown represents authority and the sword in front of the throne represents justice, but in Greek mythology it can also be a sign of vengeance.

The apple he holds represents wisdom or the forbidden fruit.

I noticed a lot of symbolism relating to the human body as well, for example the glass oxygen mask he holds to his face, or the costume he wears that represents the veins in the body.

Throughout this whole era, we've seen a lot of imagery with flowers. When we see this full image of Manson, we can see calla lilies. These flowers are poisonous if eaten and represent resurrection and rebirth. Behind him, we see a structure covered with white flowers which could be these same flowers, roses, and yellow birds.

At the end of the teaser, we hear the outro to As Sick as the Secrets Within: "Keep sleeping, I'll make you dream of me"

In the lyrics for As Sick as the Secrets Within, we get a bit of a reflection of the past few years for Manson, which is why the cover is an image of his reflection in a piece of a broken mirror.

"I built this cage we've been trapped in together, can't remember where I hid the keys" -- This could be about Manson starting problems and dragging others into it and then struggling to get them out of the mess he created. He is realizing that his actions have negatively affected himself and those around him.

"A reason for me, for me to get by became a need, a need to get high" -- Manson first started using drugs, like he says, to get by, but it became a need, an addiction.

"Then into a life that was no life at all" -- In his addiction, he was alive he wasn't truly living.

The chorus, to me, is about how your trauma and hurt can only control you as much as you let it. You can become your full self when you stop letting your problems take over you. The beast he mentions can be a representation of misery or the struggle to break pattern, and it tries to pull us back in and control us.

"Keep sleeping, I'll make you dream of me" -- Manson saying that even if you ignore him or turn a blind eye, he'll make you notice and hear him. He's always said that he doesn't care what you think of him as long as you think of him.

In the music video for As Sick as the Secrets Within, we see a lot of imagery with tentacles. This could just be a reference to Evan Rachel Wood's documentary, Phoenix Rising, which depicts Manson as a creature that uses his tentacles to bring her down. But these images could also serve as a very literal metaphor, symbolizing a strong, threatening force. He is a force to be reckoned with.

I noticed in the first image we see with the tentacles, it appears as the white part is the body of a woman and the black tentacles are reaching around the legs to get inside.

We see a lot of black and white imagery in this video, similar to the Say10 music video. Black represents evil and dark, white represents the good and purity. This picture could be an image of evil infiltrating good.

We also see a lot of red poppies in the opening. These signify hope for the future, but also remembrance. We also see a car in a field of these same poppies. It looks similar to the car JFK was assassinated in.

We see a skin-like sack entrapping Manson through the music video. It's covered in purple and red lines that look like veins. This could be a nod to his "wormboy" image he's used throughout his career. His arms are folded over his chest and he breathes through his mouth in an apparent struggle. He lays on a metal-like table, like an experiment.

Maybe this is the "skin" he refers to when saying there's a trick to get out of your skin. He's telling you that you can only be reborn by letting go of your trauma and secrets.

There's an image of a cross in front of a cross in front of a symbol on the wall made up by different papers with writings of suspected lyrics for the new album and a sort of spiral drawing. The papers appear to make up the shape of the image we see in the stage of his recent performance as well as other promotions.

An image of a triangle with a horizontal line through it flashes on the screen with a foggy background. This sign is the symbol for air in alchemy.

Manson waves around a key while saying "you're only as sick as the secrets within", he'sa saying he is no longer controlled by his secrets, he now has the key to break free.

The cup he drinks from causes a shift in the video. As he drinks, blood pours into the background. This may represent the wrath he will bring onto those who have hurt him.

He then breaks out of the yolk sac containing him, the birth of a new version of himself.

These last few years have been hard on him, but he came out on top, and he wants to show us that with this video and with this song.

[dirtbra1n]

another day of Getting hirakagi injected into my veins like real drugs first thing in the. precisely noon when I wake up.

like okay immediately you open the chapter and the. strong start It’s a fucking date hirano. and then you get the chapter page where we’re framed in hirano’s place holding the umbrella for kagi and as such get the look in kagi’s eyes head-on. The gap between givers and takers. Slowly but surely. Ha ha ha haa ha.

like Man. big bolded OH. over kagi’s arm looped into hirano’s with the dynamic action zooming in mindpalace ass framing hirano’s curiosity about how long kagi’s liked him and kagi’s coy reply about it.

the fact that I missed tashiro and shirahama going down the stairs hirano was coming up until I saw everyone else mention it.

EVERYTHING about niibashi here. You need to get your shit together! and jolting on-edge like he got caught in the headlights and ngh… misery at seeing kagiura and his ‘hirano-san’ being Themselves literally right in front of him and

kagi’s blush here.

and then niibashi’s tactical retreat incredibly abrupt clutching his hair and covering his ears. whoever the hell just passed him in the hall going ? not knowing what sort of shit he just put up with. I’ll have to remember to thank Niibashi later. sweet boy I’m pretty sure niibashi needs like a week’s time to recover from the psychic damage

then the fucking. stairwell. I’m like twitching even still hirano stubborn as all hell about this his hands trembling his face spelling doom. There’s nothing I can’t do if I put my mind to it. kagi’s face as he watches on. like genuinely what if I killed myself. like THIS PAGE WITHOUT ANY WORDS.

kagi slowly lowering his phone screen kagi’s focus on hirano’s hands clumsily doing something for kagi. his resolve on the next page. hirano’s brows furrowed, incredibly stubborn and mildly frustrated,

until kagi puts his head on his shoulder.

and THEN it’s all kagi like trying to absorb himself into hirano’s bony shoulder while whining about it. this, hirano’s bony shoulder, being something that makes his heart race. anatomy! objective fact! a part of the hirano-san he’s been in love with for a very long time.

hirano’s palpable disappointment …It doesn’t make mine race, though. followed by It’s still not bad at all. what is it by the way with these two and just looking at each other Oh… was that 10 seconds already? can you hear me god

also noticing belatedly that kagi was wearing another jacket that entire time in the stairwell, with an A on the front, and it’s the same one from the title page in the rain.

him. trying to foist his burden onto miyano this time, laughing at the immediate rejection. and actually the entire conversation happening in the background that hirano staunchly refuses to engage with.

—What manga is it?

I-I can’t tell you, Mr. President…

—Wow, you really are just one of the guys, huh, Miyano?

What are you imagining right now?!

also hirano’s Sasaki, you aren’t even a Committee member!! I’m standing in the corner facing the wall

him! a little dejected at miyano being busy a little flustered from having been able to talk with him. I love you sasaki shuumei.

and now. miyano being a little petri dish dwelling freak. Closely and intimately?? threats of violence Have I said lately how much I love the hirano miyano dynamic. watching both of them exchanging words shouting Get his ass!!! but like. Actually there’s a tangent I could go on here and I think I’ll refrain. at least this once. honesty of character is all.

I’m going to the sea to disappear mysteriously. I’m going to kill hirano before I do.

like For fucks sake hirano (cutely) continuing to grasp onto anything that even vaguely supports his belief (confirmation bias) that hirano’s heart palpitations from the nurses office were so totally from surprise he was just surprised while also a) thinking to himself I guess I really can’t feel that way about Kagi-kun, huh… (disappointed) (for some reason.) and b) not hearing the part of miyano’s bl fanboy lecture that actually directly correlates to the fact that HIRANO AND KAGI HAVE ESSENTIALLY BEEN MARRIED SINCE THEY MET. ‘like family’ hirano thinks, ‘that sounds so familiar for some reason. or it would, if I was listening to miyano right now. disregard.’ count your days hirano taiga I’m on my way

I’m not even gonna say anything to th I lied delayed reaction violent flush and violent Slamming the damn window as if to recalibrate his thoughts. his heart POUNDING now, making up for lost time. and then he gets SO pissed off about his own confusion at HIMSELF that he TEXTS KAGI.

But… it is a fucking date, hirano. and ONCE AGAIN frustration written all over his face until he gets a reply from kagi and it’s gone, a little Heh. something to hold him over til kagi gets here.

violence! killing and violence! get in this unmarked car with me hirano we’re just going around the block

[i-eat-worlds]

Whumpcember Day 15-Hallucinating

@whumpcember

cw: noncon drug use, lab whump, gore-esque imagery in a hallucination, needles

From its place on the table, B127 watched as Dr. Glassener prepared the medication. It wasn’t nervous, because it wasn’t allowed to be. Whatever she was going to inject it with, it didn’t matter. It didn’t get a choice.

She’d already sunk the cannula into its arm. Everytime it was a little harder, because of all the scar tissue. Every time she needed to to inject something into a vein, she talked about getting a central line in, but she hadn’t done it yet. B127 was nervous about that. Something about her needle near its heart made it scared, even though it wasn’t supposed to be.

“This one I’m rather excited about,” she said as she flicked the syringe. “It’s supposed to be a sedative, but I’ve heard rather interesting things about its hallucinogenic properties.” It remained quiet and still as she placed the syringe in the port. “Do try to remain cognizant of your experiences. You’ll be quizzed after the drug has left your system.”

With her instructions complete, she pushed the plunger down, then turned away.

It felt cold rush up his arm as the drug spread through its system. An articial calm overtook it, brain lling with fog as it detached from its body. Reality was weird and shimmery, sterile white walls of the lab glittering just a little bit too much to be real.

A gloved hand hovered over its face. It didn’t belong to Dr. Glassener. Instead, it revealed the surgical masked face of B127’s facility handler.

The hand moved towards its face, reaching out to caress its chin and cradle its cheeks. A brief second before it made contact, the world glitched, and the hand danced away.

There was a piercing laugh in the distance, echoing even though the lab was too small for that. B127 could feel its skin becoming slick with blood. Old wounds fell open, gushing out blood in massive volumes.

Copper burned its nose as its vision blurred, blood still pouring out of its body. It was absolutely horrible. The world splintered and shattered, then went black.

“B127…”

There was the painful feeling of latex covered knuckles digging into its sternum, and B127 pulled its eyes open.

Dr. Glassener was standing over it, clipboard in her other arm. “Are you awake?” “Yes, doctor,” it said, suppressing a sniffle.

“Good,” she said, clicking on a pen light. “Let’s begin with the post medication exam.”

B127 laid there numbly, letting her flash a light in its eyes. If it was lucky, she’d grow bored and only do it once. Judging from the smile on her face, though, there was no luck left for it.

Taglist: @stabby-nunchucks@wolfeyedwitch @pigeonwhumps @suffering-and-misery@rainbowsandwhumperflies@octopus-reactivated

[silvercap]

🔮 for the whump ask game! <3

🔮 - What's a favorite whump trope of yours?

There are many, but one I consistently come back to is drugging, of almost any kind, really. Love it when a character is a little wild and confused, doing their best to survive despite whatever's in their veins as they stumble along and do their best to idk. Escape? I'm imagining some kind of 'running from something after being poisoned' scenario. I just like all the fun mental fog and disconnected thoughts that come along with it, something I've realized I write a LOT??

I also like it when they're drugged to ease the suffering/keep them calm while they heal, from fantasy-style potions to modern-day medicine. Both while they're still in danger/being treated, put out of their misery and made to sleep, or just a little fuzzy and out-of-it while they recover. So good when caretaker coaxes them to drink it, especially in the former scenario! I really like that sort of brink-of-consciousness vibe 🤷‍♀️ I don't remember what book it was, but the phrase "the heavy sleep of the drugged and healing" is just. ugh. stuck with me for so long haha

Thanks Cerul!! <3

[back2bluesidex]

Broken Glock 03 - JHS (M)

Pairing: Mafia King!Hoseok X Assistant!Reader (ft. other members)

Summary: 

Hoseok is cold hearted, that's what everyone says. He is made of stone, no emotion runs through his veins, everyone believes it. Everyone but you. Because you have seen concern in his eyes and felt warmth in his touches. You have seen the real him, someone he doesn't acknowledge to be. And that's what has made you fall for him even though you believe you are nothing but a paid employee to him. But the reality is different. You're the only one that makes Hoseok a sane human being, he loves you with all of his heart, so much so that now he has started pushing you away from him to keep you protected from any harm. But will you two survive without each other? What if you can't? And what if you won't? 

Theme: Angst, mutual pining, fluff and eventual smut. 

Word count: 3,958

Warnings: Strong language, mentions of alcohol consumption, mentions of blood and violence, 18+ content (minors DNI) 

Series Masterlist

Previous chapter

A/N: This chapter majorly contains the past of the mc and Hoseok. Then back to the present with a little confrontation.

-------------------

Currently you are laying down on your bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. Your eyes sting so bad from all the crying that you have been initiating for a good 6 hours now. It's past midnight and you suddenly started to contemplate your entire existence, questioning it again and again. You have never been lucky when it came to love, and by love I mean from every aspect.

Your father was a drug addict, he was intoxicated 24X7, too out of his head to "love" his children. Your mother couldn't take him anymore. She indeed loved you but she loved herself even more and as a result, she ran off with someone you don't even know. You and Whojoon were left alone, totally alone. You couldn't give up your studies but you compromised it as much as possible. You wanted to be a doctor but your fate wanted otherwise. You ended up studying to be an HR and finally got a job. But did your miseries end? No. Your father died leaving you under a pile of debt. You had Whojoon to take care of as well. The job was your only anchor so you didn't think about yourself twice before working overtime. You managed it somehow, but you barely breathed.

However, the man called god enjoys your miseries much more than he should. One day during your overtime, your manager grabbed your ass calling it way too sexy, especially when you wear those pencil skirts (this is actually why you hate pencil skirts). You somehow managed to live through the sexual abusive behaviours, fighting against it wisely, but at a point water went above your head. You complained to the higher authority and lost your job (which was very natural for an easily replaceable employee like you). For several months you were unemployed. You had no money to pay the loan sharks, rent, water bills, electricity bills, Whojoon's academy fees and every other goddamn bill that exists.

Taking up random part-time jobs didn't help much. You kept on trying for jobs but nothing worked out as you already tainted your resume by being kicked out from the previous one. You were depressed to the point that you even considered committing suicide but Whojoon became the biggest and only obstacle. Your landlady was a nice person, who couldn't really see your misery anymore. She said his son faced similar issues since he was a convict of a burglary and nobody gives a job to an ex-prisoner but his current boss is a kind person. She promised you that she would be talking to her son if there's any opening at their organisation. And just like this you landed in the astonishingly scary yet beautiful office of Hoseok.

He skimmed through your documents and locked his gaze on you. You felt small under his eyes but you couldn't help admitting his good looks. Only if your situation was normal would you already have a huge crush on him just with the first glance. He only asked one question, "So Ms. Y/N, why are you unemployed right now and why are you so desperate for this job?" You told him everything, not leaving anything out. As much as you needed the job, you needed someone to share your story with as well. You were astonished to see him listening to you without any interruption without any sign of irritation. After you were done, he started, "let me tell you one thing very clearly. This is not an average organization. I am a mafia leader and this is a mafia empire. We do all sorts of illegal activities here. Starting from illegal transportation to taking lives if necessary, I do everything. Now you tell me, will you still be wanting to fill up the position for my assistant?" He already had your respect and after he told you everything without hiding any bit as if you were someone important even when he hardly knew anything other than your name, your heart was warmed. You said yes without thinking twice.

Within these two years you have seen him in his every shade. You have seen him angry, happy, vulnerable, hurt. He didn't show those emotions openly but then again who understands him better than you? No one. You were very easily successful to see what's underneath that cold hard exterior of him, and once you witnessed it, you fell in love with him. His subtle care towards his members, his anonymous donations to the orphanages along with a threat note to the wardens for treating the kids right, his not-so-apparent affection, kindness and affection towards you, made it hard for you to hold back. You were happy finally for the first time in your life, everything started to get into tracks but then Hoseok sent you an excel shit full of numbers of girls. And again, you were in misery but this time it was from a broken heart.

You can read him and his actions but you could never understand what he feels for you. You swear at times you felt your feelings are mutual. When his gaze rested on you longer than it should, when his shoulders brushed with yours unexpectedly, when he scolded his men for staring at you, when he would always offer to drop you when he wasn't busy, you felt like he had this mutual thing. But then again he never made a move so you were not sure. Moreover, his whores only increased with time. Then he reassigned you. So you buried all of your hope deep in your heart. But today, today he kissed you back with the same urgency and in the next moment he rejected you. It clearly tells you of his disgust for you.

You understand that kissing you back was the decision of his hormones not his but then again what were there in those eyes? Wasn't it longing and yearning? You know it well because your eyes had the same thing pouring out way too much. But whatever it is, you decide to belive the clear cut-throat words that came out of his mouth rather than the abstract feelings that you have witnessed in his eyes. You try to push the thoughts away and silently vow to try to cross paths with him as little as possible.

—-----------------

Hoseok stares at nothing particular. His big office seems bigger than ever. His eyes get stuck at the doorway, from when you exited a few hours back. He takes a sip of his whisky as he recalls the moment you two shared just right here. Only if he was a normal guy doing a 9 to 5 job, he would have been the happiest person on earth right now. You, the only woman to win his stone cold heart, has just confessed to him in her own way. You are so brave, unlike him. Only if he was a normal guy, he would be braver and he would claim you in front of the world.

But fate has always been so cruel to Hoseok. Fate had been cruel when he saw his parents die in front of his eyes. The house burnt to ashes and eleven years old Hoseok couldn't do anything other than crying. Fate had been cruel to him when none of his so-called relatives took his responsibility and he had to settle for an orphanage. The orphanage was a nightmare itself, so as soon as he graduated, he moved out. Fate was cruel when he struggled with his house rents as the part-time payment wasn't enough. Fate was cruel when he couldn't find a job with his seemingly low grades. Fate was cruel when he sat at the police station not knowing what to do when police arrested him and his roommate for selling drugs, which was discovered from their shared apartment.

Fate only seemed to shine when Mr. Bang walked into the police station and everyone seemed to get stiffened with his arrival. At once, Hoseok knew he wanted to be like Mr. Bang. The man had an aura that scared everyone and the same fear got Hoseok and his roommate out of the police station with just a small talk.

He tailed the man in order to thank him for helping them out. However the man replied in a way Hoseok didn't expect, "if you want to thank me, join your roommate and don't get caught." That night Hoseok got to know who Mr. Bang is, and what Bangtan is. It's not that his conscience didn't knock him twice but he was too aimless at that time. His life had no meaning, no direction, nowhere to head. He was just existing, somehow managing to live. Living a life of thrill didn't seem to be a bad idea. Moreover, if power comes free with it then he could step over those who have disregarded him in the past, his so-called uncles and aunts who never thought twice before receiving expensive gifts from his parents.

He rose to power soon enough. His loyalty towards Mr. Bang and his exceptional fighting and leadership skills made him the second in command and eventually the king. Mr. Bang had no successors and Hoseok had all of his faith. When the man died, he asked Hoseok to promise him that he will lead Bangtan even better than Bang himself, that he will never entertain any weakness, that he would be invincible. Hoseok made sure to act upon each and every promise.

But then you stepped into his life. He still remembers the day you walked into his office. A pale, discoloured blue blouse paired with some formal dress pants, you looked too depressed for your own good. The eye bags under your eyes and the desperation dancing inside them didn't skip Hoseok's observation. He took pity on you, he took pity until you started talking. While you were sharing your story, he couldn't help but to associate himself with you. You two shared the same ill fate, the same kind of misery. The only thing that was different was the desperation. Hoseok was desperate for power but you were desperate for your brother. At that moment, he envied you. You had something to hold onto but he had none.

When he told you everything about the organisation and you lifted your face looking directly in his eyes saying "yes" without any hesitation, something in his heart shifted. And that happened for the first time in a while since Mr. Bang's death. The rest is history.

It was impossible for Hoseok not to fall for a woman like you. You are so strong, but not extravagant. You are so soft but not delicate. You are so determined but not desperate. You are so beautiful but not artificial. And the way you have treated him, it's something his human side has always craved. You didn't even hesitate to make scolding eyes for him when it was needed, that warmed him every time. For the first time in his life he wanted to spend his entire life with a woman and not just a single night.

And now that want is stronger than ever but now the situation is worse than ever as well.

Hoseok's mind reels back to the earlier events for one more time, his eyes shot open when he realises the way he behaved with you. "Ugh" he grones. He doesn't know what to do next but the first thing he decides to do is to apologise to you. No matter whatever the reason behind pushing you away is, his behaviour is not justified. A woman like you, who has never tried to throw herself at him, doesn't deserve to be treated so harshly. He promises himself and he will apologise to you tomorrow.

—-------------

You didn't sleep a blink for the entire night and as a result you feel so tired, so worn out. Moreover, you need some time to prepare yourself mentally. So, you dial Jimin's number, he receives the call after two rings. You tell him that you are not fit for working today and you would like to take the day off. Jimin asks you to take care of yourself and it's okay if you would like to drop tomorrow as well but you say it will be alright within a day. You decide to spend the rest of the day eating to your heart's content, crying till your eyes run dry, occasionally watching Hoseok's photos that you took at last year's party, and then crying again.

—-----------------

The elevator dinged, signalling that it is the 11th floor, the door opens and Hoseok feels like nausea just hit him hard. Fuck, had he ever been this nervous before? How the hell is he going to face you after the way he screamed at you yesterday. What words should he use for crafting a perfect apology? No, he doesn't expect you to forgive him. Neither does he want it. But it's his responsibility to apologise, also, it's a chance to see you again, talking to you again, maybe for the last time before you cut him out of your life totally.

He enters the lobby and his heart drops to his stomach. Your desk is right outside of Jimin's personal office but it's empty today. It's 11 am already, so there's no chance that you are running 1.5 hours late. He stares at your desk for any sign of you, what if you are probably in Jimin's office or in the washroom but everything is neatly placed, way too neat to assure your presence.

He knocks on Jimin's office door and Jimin permits for enter.

"Ah hyung?" Jimin says being a bit surprised.

"Hmm. Where's Y/N?" Hoseok asks, stepping towards Jimin's table. He doesn't sit down but stands right opposite of Jimin.

"She called in sick. She sounded really sick actually. I'm quite worried for her." Jimin answers, a small sigh escapes his lips.

"She's sick?" Hoseok's eyes go wide. Did you somehow manage to let you migraine win over your body again? He knows very well how your migraine troubles you from time to time. And he also knows this time, it's him who triggered it.

Jimin nods his head as an answer. Hoseok looks at the younger and then leaves in a haste without wasting any extra second.

Hoseok is now contemplating whether to tap the call button on your contact or not. However, before he could decide anything his phone's screen changes and now he's getting a call. Thanks to heaven, it's not from you. "Kim Seokjin" that's what the caller ID says. He sighs heavily and then takes the call.

"Yes?" Hoseok says.

"I need to meet you now." Seokjin replies.

"Why? Is it urgent?" A frown takes over Hoseok's pretty forehead.

"If your money isn't dear to you then it's not urgent. You can go back to doing whatever the fuck you were doing." Seokjin raps on the other line and Hoseok has to pull his ears away from the phone as an impact.

Seokjin is the treasury head of Bangtan. He manages and monitors every single property that the organisation owns. He was in the organisation even before Hoseok came. Hoseok respects him a ton and almost never skips any of his advices.

"You see? This is what I am talking about." Seokjin says pointing at the paperwork.

"But I never received any letter or mail or any fucking news about the land being taken over." Hoseok says with a frown.

"You should have. The land is in your name! All the preparations for the construction have already started and now when I'm reviewing it, it's not even Bangtan's land anymore!" Seokjin sighs, "we need to do something. Within today. Ask Y/N about letters and mails. She is your assistant. She should know."

"She's not in the office today. And…" Hoseok pauses for a while, "she's not my assistant anymore." Hoseok replies.

"What? What are you saying? You fired her?" Seokjin asks, surprised.

"Well no. I did not. I kinda promoted her and now she's Jimin's assistant."

"What? What kind of promotion removes you from the leader's side and makes you the lawyer's assistant?" Seokjin chuckles in pure amusement.

"It's complicated. I don't owe you an explanation hyung, it's my decision." Hoseok rolls his eyes.

"What's complicated? Your feelings for her? Then yes, I already know that much." Seokjin counter attacks, "and about the explanation part, yes you do owe me an explanation. You can be the leader here but I am your senior, don't forget that. How can you just remove her from the position when she already knows too much about you? Did you make her sign any bond on privacy? Are you keeping tabs on her? I know you are doing none of this. How can you be so careless? What if she actually didn't deliver you the property related mails? What if she's just like Siwon?"

"Hyung! Enough!" Hoseok seethes in anger. "She is nothing like Siwon. She's the one that I trust the most after you six. I agree and apologize for everything related to Siwon. But Y/N is harmless. I'll go and ask her myself." And with that Hoseok takes long strides out of Jin's office. Jin sits there with a smirk on his plump lips.

—-----------------

You put another gummy worm on your mouth while staring at the devil's photo. The tv is playing some news you aren't even interested in. Just staring at the photo brings back the taste of his lips on yours. You sigh and close your eyes while leaning your head on the headrest of the couch. It's almost lunch time but your appetite is nowhere to be found just like the peace of your mind. The sudden ring of the doorbell startles you. You stare at the door blankly. No one visits you during this hour on a weekday, unless it's a delivery guy. But you are certain you don't have any deliveries left to receive. The doorbell rings again, pushing yourself out of your thoughts.

You take careful steps towards the door. Placing your eye in the peephole doesn't help, whoever is outside is blocking the view. You get a bit tense but decide to open it anyway. Your breath gets caught in your throat when the visitor comes to your view. It's him. You stare at Hoseok while he stares back at you. The eye contact feels so damn intimate that it sends shivers down your spine. He doesn't say anything, just stares back at you with those intense almond eyes.

You were on the verge of believing that you're seeing things but then he speaks, "Can I come in?"

You blink at him at first but then you realise that Hoseok is actually here, at your house, that too, not wearing his expensive suits but a pair of ripped jeans and a white shirt, sleeves rolled up. You nod slowly, tearing your eyes away from him. You step away from the door frame providing him enough space to enter your apartment.

Hoseok has been here before but only to the door, he never stepped inside. Your apartment is small but very well managed, just like you. You click the door shut behind him and he turns to face you. Fuck, did you have to wear such a thin tank top with those shorts that are really short? He's distracted already. However, he somehow manages his composure and tries to say something but you cut him off.

"Are you here to fire me?" You ask him, eyes piercing through him.

"Do bosses pay personal visits to their employees to fire them? I don't think it is how it works." He replies.

You scoff, "not all bosses and employees end up kissing each other as well. I thought I was a special case."

Hoseok clears his throat before speaking, "I was informed that you were not well. So, I thought of paying you a visit. Is it a migraine again?"

"No. It's something else" you reply very curtly and it hurts Hoseok, he's not accustomed to you being rude or harsh on him. He misses your warm smiles already but then again he hasn't done anything to deserve one.

"What is it, Y/N?" He asks.

"As if you don't know." You look at him with glassy eyes, "may I ask you why are you actually here?"

He sighs, "I wanted to apologise for the way I behaved last night. I…. I am really sorry, Y/N. I got worked up. I was shocked with everything that happened and I couldn't keep my thoughts straight."

"You don't have to apologise. I was the one to kiss you first even though I don't know what's the point of responding at first but pushing away later on, but I guess I deserve that for kissing my employer." You reply with a sad smile, a fake one obviously.

"No. Please. You deserve none of it. I am just. I am really sorry." He says staring down in your eyes and you get lost in him yet again but you are not gonna commit the same mistake again so you look away.

"Is that all you are here for?" You ask.

"Actually, no." Hoseok shuts his eyes. Opening them again, he asks, "have you received any paperwork or letter or mail related to the land in Gwangju earlier this month?"

You let out a dry chuckle in disbelief. "Okay so this is why you are here." You shake your head a little, "No. I did not. If I did you would know it anyway. I understand it's big enough to bring you here to my house but I hope you trust me enough. Even if you don't, you have enough manpower to keep tabs on me as well as a strong intelligence department to skim through my phone and the laptop I used while I was your assistant."

Hoseok sighs in relief even though your words cut him deep. "I do trust you Y/N. I just needed confirmation. That's all." He says, and you nod.

"And this is not the only reason why I am here. I was genuinely worried for you and wanted to apologise to you."

"Mr. Jung, there's no need to be worried." You say in a low voice, "but since you're already here, I wanted to ask you something."

"Go ahead" he says.

"Why did you kiss me back?" You ask, looking directly at him.

Hoseok falls short of words, "I…. I don't know. Maybe because Dahyun riled me up already." He lies and his own words disgust him but he doesn't have any other option.

"O-oh okay" that's all you say but Hoseok searches for more. He searches for disgust in your eyes but he finds none. Now he's searching for something else.

"And what about you Y/N? Why did you kiss me?" He asks, he's being brave with you for the very first time.

"Because I am in love with you." You reply so simply as if you are letting out some universal truth.

Hoseok's eyes go wide. The truth hits him like a truck. He doesn't know if he should be happy or sad, "Y/N…. I" he whispers.

"But I know it's not mutual. So it's okay Mr. Jung." You cut him off, "I'll try my best to stay away from you. I won't bother you anymore. But... but I won't say sorry for kissing you, because I don't regret my actions. However, I actually am sorry for making you uncomfortable." You say with another sad smile, one that breaks Hoseok's heart in a thousand pieces. You saying you will stay away from him somehow terrifies the shit outta him, even though that is what he wanted.

Next Chapter

Taglist:-

@billy-jeans23 @scuzmunkie @madinainspire @seokjinkismet @eternalhope7 @effielumiere @butterymin @hiii-priestess

[lavender-and-wheat]

I love when someone's responds to, "We should give homes to the homeless," with, "Well they're drug addicts." It tells me so much about you. There is some sort of funny leap of judgement you're arriving at:

1. So if you're someone that uses drugs, you deserve to have your home or shelter be taken away from you. Let's see, so like, millions and millions of people including your favorite celebrities, entertainment stars, politicians, and athletes should also lose their shelters. Yep, all of them deserve it if they're going to "mess with that kind of stuff."

2. Obviously while there are definitely more dangerous substances than others medically and chemically speaking, "drugs addicts" is a term used more by the general public to describe a broad, vague spectrum of people who use drugs that are not prescribed or use drugs outside of OTC instructions or doctor's advice. People who actually help provide aid, resources, and recovery for people who use substances do not refer to them as "drug addicts." They usually call them people with substance use disorders (SUD) or people with drug/substance dependence. There is a negative social connotation that society has applied to "drug addict" that suggests that they are morally inferior to people who do not use drugs.

3. Let alone that addictions are a mental illness, many homeless people experience other kinds of mental illness. And somehow, that should mean that if the express any amount of symptoms of mental illness, they should be kept out of a home or shelter? Even a mentally well person who suddenly experiences the loss of their shelter would immediately be confronted with the beginnings of mental illness. (Having to find safety from extreme heat/cold, having to find safe food to eat, having to find somewhere safe to close their eyes to rest or sleep, having to be careful in who they speak to and trust, having to keep their belongings close to their body or in sight at all times before someone else tries to steal them or destroy them, having to find clean water, having to find water facilities to wash themselves and their belongings. Literally having to go into urban survival mode, that is if you even live somewhere urban or suburban.) All of these new stresses take a toll on mental health, like no shit homeless people will experience mental illness.

4. There is nobody (except maybe people who decide to be cartoonishly evil) that WANTS to suffer through the hardest, most painful, or most dangerous parts of substance abuse. Literally no one mentally well ever has thought to themself that, "Ah yes, what a fine day, I think I would like make all of my skin peel off and rot my teeth out. Yeah, that sounds great. I would love the sensation of bugs crawling in my veins every day and to never enjoy the pleasure from a cookie ever again. Let's see what I got under the sink." Literally no one. People turn to drugs to try to get away from all the of extreme stresses and pain of being homeless. They want to stop feeling pain and misery, and nobody is helping them get to a safe place of security to get back to living in a long-term home.

I don't know how to tell you that you should be kind and caring to the people around you, including some of the most vulnerable people in your immediate community. I don't know how to tell you that everyone in your community deserves basic human needs to be met, and not have to live in constant survival.

The next time you want to respond with, "But they're a drug addict," you should be prepared to either argue how that makes them an inferior person, how that giving a homeless person shelter impacts you negatively, or how more people should be homeless.

[doomedandstoned]

Warsaw's WEIRD TALES Return with Frightful Spite on Frenetic 2nd LP

~Doomed & Stoned Debuts~

WEIRD TALES are back with plenty of new steam to burn in the provocatively titled, 'Second Coming, Second Crucifixion' (2023). Throwing all fucks to the wind, the stoner-doom trio from Poland present their second full-length album this weekend, and today Doomed & Stoned readers get an advance listen.

The band's first major release since the pandemic is true night music, fit for dirty, windswept streets 'neath lonely street lamps and shuttered buildings, brown bag in hand, guts emptied for all the world to see.

When I asked frontman Dima Rasputin about the sinister monicker that accompanies the shocking album cover by artist Kriss, he told me, "Well, you know, people are so dumb. If Jesus Christ comes back they will crucify him again." As to the tone, thematically and lyrically, of the songs before us, Dima adds, "So overall an overall disappointed feeling is a big part of the album. With them noses in them phones, we are doomed."

Weird Tales make their intentions known straight away with "Disgusting & Mean." Guitars screech, fret, and snarl, while groovy bass and drums double team to pummel your senses, topped by forlorn vocals that decry the absurdity of dealing with jerks we encounter in this rat race.

I see your dirty eyes I hear your dirty voice I don’t like your lies You think you’re wise? Now look at me, come on! You can’t get what’s going on! Do you see this smile? Now you die!

”Dead People’s Shit” takes the tempo down just a notch or two for this churning doomer. Upon first listen, you might think this is a tale told by a ghost, but indeed it is about the living dead and told from the perspective of one confronting them. “You are dead, how can’t you see it?” Then he cries out, “Nobody listens, nothing is real. Can you even feel?” The song might serve as a critique of a world in which each person escapes into their own private dimension of addictions and distractions.

”Undertaker” is a dyed in the wool doomer, in the vein of Cough, that carries plenty of emotion. Some excellent guitar work on display, as well. The song reaches into the depths of the genre and pokes at its boundaries.

Following this, is Krokodil Blues, a reference to an easily synthesized homemade drug so horrifying in its effects that it was hard to believe that anyone would want to try it. Currently fent and tranq are doing much the same thing in the States. The ‘20s are shaping up to be The Age of Anxiety for everyone, as the artiface of modern civilization and high technology ratchets up its demands on all of us. Is it any wonder that people want to escape? These chemicals, however, are transforming the human being into the basest of animals.

Should I have to explain This shit drives me insane When the God talks to you There is no choice I’m warning you!

"Damned Lovers of the Swampire" is another standout track, with damning downtuned fuzz-covered riffs that reach inside of you and grab you by the guts. Five minutes in, the song breaks out into a groovy foot shuffle full of spit, bile, and blood, and the guitar burst at 6:30 is wicked bluesy, finally giving way to the screams of the damned. Then the album draws to a conclusion with the voracious 9 minute monster, “Acid Lobotomy.”

Second Coming, Second Crucifixion represents Weird Tales most concerted and terrifying effort yet -- lyrically and musically nihilistic to the core. Dima (guitar, vox), Kriss (bass) and Smoku (drums) have cobbled together a true soundtrack for the End Times. Look for the album to drop this weekend on Interstellar Smoke Records (pre-order here). Stick it on a playlist alongside Dopelord, Temple of the Fuzz Witch, Salem's Pot, Church of Misery, and Electric Wizard.

Give ear...

SECOND COMING, SECOND CRUCIFIXION by WEIRD TALES

SOME BUZZ

'Second Coming, Second Crucifixion' consists of six new tracks -- 40-minute riff-based dance music for psychopaths. On their most rebellious and edgiest work to date, Weird Tales are manifesting disappointment in humanity, friendship and love. Hatred from the deepest abyss of the heart is mixed up with the creepshow stories about schizos, drug addicts, and slaughter.

Starting as a stoner doom band, they incorporated proto-punk, psychedelic and noise to their music and amplified it with narcotic psychosis. Now they put it to your face straight from hell!

Harsh guitars, rapid, vigorous drums and dirty bass will fall on your head like a storm. Filled with dark psychedelic vocals and filthy lyrics it brings sardonic fun to all fans of heavy music, who are disappointed with life.

Like a stab between the eyes, Polish Warsaw trio Weird Tales deliver their outrageous new full length album via Interstellar Smoke Records.

Follow The Band

Get Their Music

[butterflies-and-bumble-bees]

Can you guess what drug this song is about without looking it up?

End of passion play, crumbling away I'm your source of self-destruction Veins that pump with fear, sucking darkest clear Leading on your death's construction Taste me you will see More is all you need You're dedicated to How I'm killing you

Come crawling faster Obey your master Your life burns faster Obey your master Master

Master of puppets I'm pulling your strings Twisting your mind and smashing your dreams Blinded by me, you can't see a thing Just call my name, 'cause I'll hear you scream Master Master Just call my name, 'cause I'll hear you scream Master Master

Needlework the way, never you betray Life of death becoming clearer Pain monopoly, ritual misery Chop your breakfast on a mirror Taste me you will see More is all you need You're dedicated to How I'm killing you

Come crawling faster Obey your master Your life burns faster Obey your master Master

Master of puppets I'm pulling your strings Twisting your mind and smashing your dreams Blinded by me, you can't see a thing Just call my name, 'cause I'll hear you scream Master Master Just call my name, 'cause I'll hear you scream Master Master

Master, master Where's the dreams that I've been after? Master, master You promised only lies Laughter, laughter All I hear or see is laughter Laughter, laughter Laughing at my cries

Fix me

Hell is worth all that, natural habitat Just a rhyme without a reason Never-ending maze, drift on numbered days Now your life is out of season I will occupy I will help you die I will run through you Now I rule you too

Come crawling faster Obey your master Your life burns faster Obey your master Master

Master of puppets I'm pulling your strings Twisting your mind and smashing your dreams Blinded by me, you can't see a thing Just call my name, 'cause I'll hear you scream Master Master Just call my name, 'cause I'll hear you scream Master Master

why are you so obsessed with drugs bro

[ceo-of-sloppy-men]

Do Your Worst To Me; 'Til The River's Running Red

Chapter 1

Ship: Cullen Rutherford/Lavellan/Raleigh Samson Rating: Explicit (for mature themes, gore, lyrium addiction/withdrawal, injury, Samson's potty mouth, etc.)

A defeated Raleigh Samson is taken prisoner by the Inquisition after the battle in the Arbor Wilds. He wanted to die on the overgrown cobblestone, unfortunately, Cullen Rutherford and Neros Lavellan don't give a flying rat. Samson is determined to make them regret it.

Link to AO3 if it's your preferred platform.

I decided to post this here for funzies. CW: blood, injury, dying, lyrium addiction, etc.

Samson feels like someone doused him in oil and lit him on fire. It would be easier to list what doesn’t hurt rather than what does. He lays defeatedly in the dirt, a mere few feet away from the shattered Eluvian, staring at with a hollow gaze. Footsteps echo around him, pounding in his ears. He can smell the metallic scent of blood wafting off the dead bodies of his soldiers – fellow templars he had led into their final battle, so sure of his triumph he hadn’t anticipated failure. Yet, he’d failed all the same; he always failed. It was all he could hope to bleed out into the unforgiving, cool dirt, and let his life seep away into Thedas. Perhaps his sacrifice wouldn’t be in vain, even if his body was only meant to nurture flowers that would no doubt regrow in this Elvhen temple.

Warm fingers worm their way between his armour and matted hair, pressing against his pulse point. In his drugged-out haze, Samson barely registers the kneeling figure in front of him. She’s – no, they’re – one of the Inquisitor’s companions, a lithe elven mage with long ginger hair and skin covered in freckles. He stares up at them, losing himself in the golden halos of their eyes. A hiss screeches inside him that he shouldn’t find the enemy so comforting – so beautiful – but the protest is overwhelmed by the rest of his stupefied mind that finds Andraste’s kindness in their actions. The red lyrium in his veins sing at their magic, tucking him inside the safety of their warmth. He leans into their touch, shame coiling in his stomach that he could be so easily subdued. His only saving grace is that they don’t notice, talking over his shoulder as they pull their hand away, taking the warmth in his bones with them.

“He’s alive,” they relay tentatively to someone standing behind him.

A heavy sigh echoes through Samson’s ears, and sorrow returns to blanket him. He knows that sigh – he’s heard it a hundred times in this state. The only thing missing is the cold cobblestone pressing into his cheek. Even the roar of starvation – of his body eating itself from the inside out – he knows that voice.

“Of course he is. The Inquisitor should have just killed him.”

Yes, he should have. Finally, they agree on something! He should be bleeding out with his men – Cullen should put him out of his misery instead. Finish what the Inquisitor started.

“Galerius has his own way of judging things,” Neros shrugs, rising from their crouched position. Samson feels the pit of his stomach eating away at itself, fusing with the newly rendered anxiety. Just leave him here to die, damn it! “Do you want my help carrying him?”

“I’ve seen him walk in worse states; I’d prefer not to give him the luxury of being carried again,” Cullen bites and Samson can feel the glare he’s fixed on him. He wants to curl further into himself, wants to die here, wants to plunge his blade between the cracks of his armour and stop his own feeble heart. An unforgiving hand grabs his shoulder and pulls him to his feet.

“Walk,” Cullen demands.

Samson stumbles forward, tripping over his own sluggish feet and promptly crashes to the ground. His arms are too slow to catch himself as his face smashes against the overgrown stone floor. Somehow, his face still manages to hit a stone tile, and he feels the splitting pain echo in his bones as the blood trickles down his forehead.

“Seriously?! You can walk just fine, stop play-acting and fucking walk!” Cullen shouts, bitter heartbreak colouring his voice. Samson wraps himself in those words, letting the anger seep into his bones and remind him exactly why he’s not worthy of anything more.

“Cullen,” Neros says gently, and Samson hears Cullen sigh once again. “We do not need to stoop to his level. Do not become the villain simply because he did first.”

Hah.

Someone grabs his shoulders again, pulling him back to his feet. They flank him on either side, Cullen’s hands reluctantly bracing him from falling again and Neros’ hands tentatively examining the head wound he sustained.

“Leave it – just let me die,” Samson growls, pain lancing through his throat with each syllable. He squeezes his eyes shut, willing himself not to cry. Every ache in his body has been amplified as he feels his red-lyrium high dwindle away, slowly leeching from his body. He can almost picture the sores in his throat splitting open, and regret paints his bones the moment he speaks.

“The Inquisitor wanted you alive, so he’ll decide what happens to you. Until you’re up on a gallow, you don’t get to die,” Cullen sneers and Samson can remember the aching, teary-eyed gaze staring back at him all those years ago. He wants to go back to that moment more than ever right now. Maybe it would be different – maybe he could’ve joined the Inquisition and actually done some good with his pathetic life.

Instead, he manages a hollow laugh that ends with him coughing blood onto the undergrowth beneath his feet.

The sudden, startled noises from both of them aren’t worth the effort. Shame berates him as Neros scrambles to check him for injuries, and Cullen finally picks him up. He wished they’d left him to stumble back instead. It isn’t the first time he’s coughed up blood, and it won’t be the last – until…

White spots swarm his vision rapidly, and he blacks out before he can finish.

~*~

Cullen drops the limp, shaking body of Samson down on a cot inside the healers’ tent. He slumps into the chair next to it, feeling the weight of his armour pinning down his bones, exhaustion finally catching up to him. Two guards appear and whisk away Samson’s weapons, leaving him in nothing but his armour as Neros returns with freshly watched hands. A healing potion is thrust into his hands, and he can barely grip the bottle. He relies on their help to tip it to his lips, feeling utterly defeated as they cradle his jaw.

“You should rest, Cullen,” Neros attempts to persuade him.

“I’m not leaving you alone with him.”

There’s a soft understanding in Neros’ gaze that Cullen hates. He hates that they know. He hates that he told them. He hates that he didn’t keep it bottled up and to himself. No one needed to know about his entanglement with Samson – let alone his current lover. Yet, they knew all too well and still kiss his forehead gently.

“My brave knight,” Neros hums, knowing that’s all he wants to hear.

He manages a smile, and that somehow satisfies them. They turn to Samson’s weak form, hands on their hips, leaving him to his own thoughs. Cullen sits back, letting them know their own limits. Instead, he admires their diligence as they pull on leather straps and undo buckles, deftly removing foreign armour. A small pile forms on the floor that a soldier gathers up to store in a nearby crate until all that’s left is the cuirass. Cullen cringes as the scars and sores that scatter Samson’s body – countless lyrium burns, war injuries and even a few he doesn’t want to know the origin of. He remembers finding him on the streets, nearly as bad, beaten and bloody from attempting to steal Lyrium when begging didn’t work. He trembled then too.

“Lyrium withdrawals,” Cullen mutters absent-mindedly, one hand curled around Samson’s ankle to try and stop his leg from shaking.

 Neros’ head snaps to him instantly, and they nod quickly:

“The shaking? I was thinking the same thing! Okay, I have something for that – it’ll help for the moment, at least.”

He’s grateful he doesn’t have to explain to him why he smiles. He hates Samson – he swears he hates him – but he wouldn’t wish raw-dogging lyrium withdrawals upon his greatest enemy… Samson is his greatest enemy. Isn’t he? Or isn’t it Corypheus? Or the Chantry? Can it be all three – or is that too much? Maybe he’d wish lyrium withdrawals on Corypheus… does that make Samson less of an enemy?

Neros returns shortly, pulling him from his doom spiral. He watches as they mix a potion by spinning their wrist rapidly until it changes from bright yellow to a deep purple. Cullen shudders at the memory of the taste – a cheap wine-like body with sharp undertones of what could only be described as cat piss. Not that Cullen had ever tasted cat piss, but he’d bet money that’s what it would taste like.

Cullen gets the satisfaction of watching Samson’s face contort in disgust as Neros coaxes it down his throat… it’s not nearly as satisfying as he had hoped.

He pats Samson’s leg and mumbles a quick:

“It tastes like shit, but it’ll help.”

“What the fuck is that?! Spoilt milk mixed with sewage?” Samson coughs after Neros lets go of his nose.

“It’ll help with your withdrawals,” Neros states, unbothered by the insult hurled at their potion. “Let me know if you keep shaking, experiencing hot and cold flashes, constantly feel like you need to pee without actually having to pee, or if you can still hear your veins singing. This potion is technically made for lyrium withdrawals, but I’m not certain how much it’ll do for red lyrium.”

“Always knew Rutherford was a weak little bitch; I didn’t realize he couldn’t handle withdrawal symptoms without whinging,” Samson jabs because that’s all he knows how to do. That’s all Cullen wanted to do as well – jab and insult him, maybe even kick him a little while he’s down. But then he’d seen him lying in the dirt… Somehow it didn’t give him the satisfaction he was chasing.

He still wants him dead… at least, he thought he did.

Neros steps in before Cullen can come up with a retort:

“Actually, while Cullen has only taken a few of these. He’s relatively reluctant to accept any medication – which is understandable given… everything. This was designed for the templars the Inquisition took in. Many of them wanted to follow their Commander’s example and the Inquisitor asked me to design a potion to make it easier on them. As I haven’t treated any red-lyrium templars, any insight into the potion’s effects you can give me will help future red-templars the Inquisition helps.”

Samson just stares at them with wide eyes. Cullen smiles at that – there’s a satisfaction in seeing Samson rendered silent instead of getting the rise he expects.

“… I can still hear it singin’, but that might have more to do with having it in my chest. That and it feels a hell of a lot colder here than it did earlier,” Samson finally says, and Neros smiles softly.

“Thank you for your honesty,” they chirp, and Cullen has never loved them more. Even when faced with impossible odds they still manage to retain a staggering air of kindness. Maker preserve him, for their gentle heart will always weaken his knees.

“Now, um, what did you mean about it being in your chest?”

Samson barks in rough, ragged laughter as if they just told the funniest joke he’s ever heard. Cullen frowns, exchanging a look with Neros that he can only describe as concerned.

“Take a look for yourself, softy,” Samson invites them, gesturing to the cuirass still buckled to his torso.

Cullen can see them hesitate before reaching for the straps – he doesn’t blame them. Part of him wants to turn away from what he’s about to see… but the other part of him knows that he has to see this through. He has to know. He just has to.

Regret hits him like a truck the moment Neros pulls the cuirass away, hefting it like they expect the red-lyrium to come free with it only for it to slide off, leaving the lyrium impaled in Samson’s chest. The area around the wound is an angry red, oozing ever so slightly; Cullen doesn’t know if it’s blood or puss, and he’s not sure he wants to. Neros, for their credit, keeps a straight face, pulling the cuirass off carefully and setting it to the side. The soldier moves to take it away and they chide him, worried they’ll need to replace it in a moment. Samson, on the other hand, looks like he’s in agony. Cullen helps remove the back piece just to make sure he’s not impaled all the way through and can’t fight down the sigh of relief when he finds he isn’t. Neros is already futzing around, pulling Samson’s shirt off to get a better look at the wound – it peels away like he hasn’t taken the armour off for weeks (and smells like it too).  

The moment Neros attempts to examine the wound, Samson whimpers, sounding like he’s biting back sobs. Cullen catches Neros pulling their hand back like they’ve been burnt. It’s too much to bear – Cullen takes his leave swiftly, kissing Neros on the cheek before stepping out of the tent. He has soldiers to check on, orders to give, and an army to lead back to Skyhold. Maybe a little distance and some fresh air will clear his head – help him recognize that he loathes Samson, that Samson is the enemy and the villain and the absolute worst and that he should not be pitying him. He hates him.

Doesn’t he?

~*~

Samson wants to curl in on himself – wishes he was still curled up in the dirt. They stand there, staring at him, scrutinizing him; the picture of beauty peering at him like he’s a mangy dog they found stumbling through the woods. He’s not sure what stings worse, the lyrium in his chest or the kiss Cullen left on their cheek. Cullen. His Cullen. The one he’d waited for, who’d dashed him across the rocks and left him for the scavengers. Bitterness returns to him in full force, curling in the pit of his stomach. How come Cullen got everything he ever wanted – his happy ending, his perfect daydream that he’d clung to like a child clings to a teddy bear? He’d still cling to his teddy bear his father hadn’t burnt it before sending him away. Is this it? Is he doomed to watch Cullen have everything he ever wanted right in front of him until the lyrium eventually claims him?

Fate was a cruel mistress indeed.  

“I need to examine you to know how to help,” Neros says calmly, their voice a warm blanket for his weary mind. Calloused hands try to urge his hands away from where they’re plastered to his chest.

“It hurts,” Samson protests. “You’ll only jostle it!”

“I promise, I will be very careful not to jostle it. Do you know if it’s impaled in any of your organs? Have you tried to remove it before?” He almost believes the sincerity in their voice. As if he was just another patient they were tending to and not the prisoner that he is.

“Haven’t bothered; what good would it do? I’d just grow more.”

“And your organs…?”

“Beats me. Probably not – Corypheus kept tellin’ me I could pull it out and grow a bigger one. Not that I don’t think he wouldn’t risk my life like that. Just never bothered risking it myself,” Samson shrugs, allowing them to coax his hands away. “Just don’t jostle it.”

“I won’t,” Neros assures him, having paused to take notes in the notebook open near his head. He’d already made an attempt to read it, but the blasted thing was written in Elvhen. Unfortunately, Templars aren’t trained in Elvhen and he was never good at trying to pick it up during his time at the circle (boring days will drive you to real dead-end hobbies).

So, he lets them examine his chest – even if they do move it slowly, giving him fair warning so he can brace himself. It hurts less knowing that it’s coming, but pain still roars through him like he’s being stabbed. He’s just gotten used to it. They’ve got some sort of magical glasses on, peering at him and taking notes. Turning his head to his side he can just barely squint at the drawing of his chest cavity in their notebook. Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t make him feel less like an overly scrutinized, dying animal. If he was less concerned with jostling the shard in his chest he would have curled into a ball of shame and yelled at them to leave him alone by now. Instead, he lets them poke and prod him so the damn thing doesn’t stab him in the lungs from moving around too much without something holding it in place.

“Okay, so the good news is that’s totally removable. But, the bad news is I’m going to have to keep it in for a while longer. Major surgery is not something to be attempted in a tent in the middle of nowhere… Think you can hang on until Skyhold? If you can’t I can try to remove it today, though it would be a major infection risk.”

That’s… not the news he’d hoped for. He’s not sure what he hoped for – death, probably. It would be fairer to everyone involved – Cullen could go on living his pretty, fairytale life; the Inquisitor could judge him to rot in prison until he succumbed; the world would go on, better without him in it. Yes, a life expectancy would have been perfect. “Oh, Samson, I’m so sorry to tell you this, but the lyrium is pressing against your heart and is sure to grow right through it.” Or maybe “Samson, the lyrium crystal will pierce your lungs and you’ll slowly suffocate on your own bodily fluids.” He had been prepared for those. He had been ready to jut his chin out and make some snide remark about already knowing he’s dying.

Instead, he stares blankly at them:

“What?”

“You’ll live,” Neros repeats and Samson marvels at how simple it is for them to say.

You’ll live.

It’s starts as a scoff, then a little snicker, devolving into a chuckle then full-blown laughter as he clutches his gut, wheezy laughter escaping him. Neros startles, blinking owlishly at him as he laughs like a madman, tears pooling in the corners of his eyes. He sees them take a step back as a particularly harsh laugh escapes him and can’t blame them. Then, as quickly as it started, he’s coughing, hands pressed over his mouth as he leans over the edge of the bed on his side. Blood splatters the floor beneath him as the tears in the corners of his eyes finally trickle down his face.

The speed in which Neros is at his side is strangely comforting. They rub his back until he stops coughing, passing him a handkerchief to wipe his mouth on and offering him a glass of water when he’s done. He gulps it down, finding himself suddenly parched. They give him another, but not a third and he can’t blame them – he’s certain if he has another it’ll come right back up.

“How do you feel about healing spells?” they ask tentatively, sitting next to him. Samson searches them for that same snideness any templar would wear when taunting another about magic. Staring back at him is a patient, reserved kindness that he could confess the worst to without fear.

“So, Cullen really found himself a mage-healer, eh? Someone’ll manage to look at him without grimacing at all of his sickness. Thought the reports were lying and you were just some elf who could heal like magic. Figures, he’s always been soft,” Samson vituperates to hide the security that flares in his chest. He doesn’t get this – he doesn’t deserve this. This isn’t for him. They’ve treated templars before; they probably have some rehearsed speech for the whole magic-fearing conundrum.

“That’s not what I asked and you know it,” Neros deflects, their expression never wavering.

“Oh come on, knife-ears, admit it; he saw you were a healer and knew you’d make a great hospice nurse,” Samson pushes, smirking, each word feeling like agony, cutting through his raw throat.

“You get it all out of your system yet, or do you still have more?”

Samson pauses at that. Get what out of his system? He’s just – actually he’s not sure what he’s trying to do. Cullen’s not here to get a rise out of anymore and Neros is apparently impervious to his usual material. Wait, why is he being mean to them again? It’s not like they left him back in Kirkwall. They’re just the nice… lady? Sir? Bah! They’re just the nice healer who’s taking care of him on his not-deathbed. He probably shouldn’t be angering his healer or they might walk off and leave him to it. Is he doing it because he wants them to walk off? It would certainly be easier to roll over and die than figure out what to do next.

“I’ll take your silence as you’re done. Now, back to my original question: are you okay with healing magic? Or should I prepare a potion for you? It won’t reverse all the damage that has been done to your body, but it’ll at least stabilize you while I figure out a treatment plan,” Neros reiterates with the patience of Andraste herself.

“I ain’t afraid of magic, if that’s what yer implying. That’s Cullen’s shtick, not mine.”

“Now, now, you know that’s not fair. Cullen has a valid reason to be afraid of magic and he’s worked very hard to get past it. Besides, he’s not even here right now, so what does it matter?”

“You’re probably comparing us to each other – we were both templars and all. Plus, it ain’t exactly a secret we were close. You know I’ve even seen the cute little mole just above his rump; bit it a few times too,” Samson tries, searching their face to see if that’ll earn him the rise he’s been chasing.

He almost curses when they roll their eyes with a smile at his attempt. What the fuck is it going to take to get a rise out of them?!

“Give Cullen some credit here; he’s already told me all about the two of you. But no, I’m not comparing you two to each other, or the two of us together. I am perfectly secure in my relationship with my lover and do not need to get into a dick measuring contest to prove it,” Neros says, taking Samson’s face in their hands. “Now, say ‘Ah’.”

Perplexed, Samson opens his mouth, sticking his tongue at them so they can peer down his throat. If they want to scrutinize the scabs in his throat that’s their problem. The cringe it earns him is worth it, though he could do without the pitying look that follows.

“I’m going to have to ask you to refrain from talking from now on, please,” they request, tilting his head left and right.

“Your loss,” Samson shrugs.

They look a little baffled that it had worked so easily – and Samson will take it. Even if it’s not the rise he was hoping for.

“Good. Now, I’m going to bandage your chest so that the lyrium stays in place and then I’m going to replace your cuirass for the time being. Nod if you understand me –“ Samson nods – “Thank you. After that I’m going to find a friend who’ll put you out for the journey back. We don’t exactly have enough supplies to treat your throat right now, but I do at Skyhold. It’ll just be easier to keep you unconscious until we get there. Nod if that’s okay.”

“I’m your prisoner, softie. Do with me as you will,” Samson shrugs, earning himself a glare. He rolls his eyes and nods his head.

“Thank you.”

He watches as they move about the tent, gathering bandages and making a salve. Light brushes of healing magic ghost over his skin, careful to repair what they can of his throat and alleviate some of the ache in his joints without sealing his chest around the red lyrium. He can tell they’re working as cautiously as possible to not seal his chest and he’s almost grateful – if only he was capable of gratitude at this point. Which he isn’t. Not at all. But, he does try to be compliant so they bandage him correctly; there’s no sense in sticking himself with poor bandages to get back at them. In the end it’ll just be uncomfortable for him. So, he lifts his arms when they ask, winces openly when something is moved incorrectly, and bobs his head when they ask him questions.

He doesn’t see who knocks him out afterwards, but it doesn’t matter as he drifts into hazy unconsciousness in the bottom of a locked cell. It’s easier this way; now he doesn’t have to spend the trip back stewing on his quick, pathetic defeat at the hands of the Inquisitor. A fucking mage had brought him down while his companions stood and watched, only adding insult to injury. The very thing he’d trained all his life to be able to defeat and they’d cut him down like he was wet parchment! His judgement won’t come close to rivalling the shame he’s already harboring.    

~*~

Neros barley manages to wait until the soldiers to lock Samson’s cage before stumbling a few feet away and promptly puking. Bile passes through their throat and onto the unsuspecting grass as they grip their staff, biting back bitter tears. They squeeze their eyes shut, swaying lightly on their feet as they will themself to not puke again, their stomach churning.

A strong, sturdy hand rubs their back and they don’t even need to move their head to know the Iron Bull’s standing next to them (they can see his shoes). A bubbling, broken sob escapes them as they turn and collapse into him, weak hands feebly gripping his leather brace. The Qunari makes a murmuring noise in an attempt to soothe them, rubbing their back slowly.

“You wanna talk about it?”

“I don’t know what to talk about! He’s just – he’s horrible!” they sob, hot tears rolling down their cheeks.

“Some people are just born mean. Trick is to learn how to not let ‘em get under your skin,” the Iron Bull reminds them, continuing to hold them for as long as they need.

“No, it wasn’t that… I can handle mean – a lot of templars are mean their first few days. I don’t take it personally and I knew Samson was his own special kind of rude thanks to Cullen. But –“ Neros chokes down a sob, trying to gulp air into their lungs – “The state he’s in is horrible! It’s painful to look at and the way he just stares a thousand yards away to cope with it – I tried to tell him he was going to live and he laughed so hard he tore the lyrium burns on his throat. Like I’d told him a cruel joke rather than good news!”

“You’re too soft for this world,” the Iron Bull chuckles, shaking his head. Neros feels the ground disappear from beneath them as he picks them up, cradling them in his arms. “Wish the world had more like you in it. You’ve got more compassion in you than most experience in their whole lives. What do you say we go find your beloved and get you the comfort you deserve?”

“I’d like that,” they sniffle, wiping their face on their sleeve. “Gods, I must look like such a mess. We finally win and what do I do? I cry over the state of our enemy!”

“Better than what most would do. I’d say you make us more deserving of the victory – it’s really good for the Inquisitions whole ‘we’re the good guys’ image.”

“I wish we weren’t so good – maybe if we weren’t Corypheus wouldn’t be so evil.”

“Nah, he’d just look better in comparison and then people would be sympathetic. At least this way we balance him out – we may even be putting more good into the world than he’s taking out of it. Better than the alternative of having more people join him.”

“You’re probably right… Thanks, ‘Bull. How do you always know what to say to make people feel better?”

“Ben-hassrath training. I know how to read people, which helps me know what they need to hear. Comes in handy when you’re trying to calm someone down,” the Iron Bull shrugs lightly.

“Oh… that makes sense.”

The Iron Bull chuckles lightly as he stops walking and jerks his head to the side, presumably to someone else. Neros peers over their shoulder to see Cullen rushing over to them. Concern is painted blatantly across his face, and they cringe; he probably thinks Samson hurt them or something. They should’ve just told the Iron Bull they could walk on their own to avoid worrying him so much, everyone’s under enough stress as it is.

“They’re fine, Cullen. Just a little shaken up by the state Samson’s in. Figured it was best to just come find you,” the Iron Bull explains, helping Neros to stand on their own two feet, using their staff as a crutch.

“Thank the Maker, I thought something had happened,” Cullen sighs, pulling Neros into a tight hug.

“Yeah, don’t mention it. Chargers are ready to head out when you are,” the Iron Bull relays.

“We’re ready too. Do me a favour and let Scout Harding know to go ahead; I just gave the order to for my men to get on their horses.”

“Will do,” the Iron Bull grunts before walking off.

“We’re leaving already?” Neros inquires, letting Cullen wrap his arm around their waist to support them.

“No one wants to stay in these woods overnight and I don’t blame them. Corphyeus took most of his men with him, so there’s no point in sticking around to round up stragglers for a few days. A team is staying out here just in case, but we need to get back to Skyhold,” Cullen elaborates as he helps Neros walk over to their War Nug.

“Does this have anything to do with Samson’s condition?”

“… I shouldn’t make decisions based on the state of a prisoner –“ Neros places their hand on his shoulder and he sighs softly, leaning closer and dropping his voice to a whisper – “A little, okay? The Inquisitor should judge him while he still can.”

Neros arches their eyebrow at him.

“Okay, fine, maybe I am worried about him and I want to make sure he can get back to Skyhold where we have all our medicine. But can you blame me? He has sensitive information on Corypheus’ forces and their battle tactics, not to mention he could be the first red templar we cure which could save hundreds of lives!”

“Cullen, I wasn’t accusing you of anything. I want to get Samson back to Skyhold for treatment just as much as you do – strictly for medical reasons though. But, you don’t have to get so defensive –“ they take his hand, cradling it gently in their own – “I know.”

Cullen bristles and pulls away, knitting his hands together.

“I’m – there’s nothing – I don’t want to talk about this.”

“I understand. I didn’t expect you too, I only wanted to let you know I am here for you,” Neros concedes, watching as his gaze darts around the camp to various soldiers gather together on horseback. “Not exactly a private place to discuss this.”

Cullen simply nods his head and Neros tentatively takes his hands back. He gingerly allows them to pull him into a hug with a defeated sigh. The hug is warm and comforting, despite the armour pressing in on them, smudging their elven robes with dried blood. The weight of the world seems to sluff off their shoulders, pooling around their feet, waiting for them to pull apart again and readjust the mantles upon their respective shoulders.  

“Am I a bad person for… this?” Cullen whispers quietly as they try not to bury their face in the blood clotted in his mantle. “I hate him – but I don’t. It’s all so confusing, like I’m caught aboard a ship in a storm of my own emotions. I should hate him – I hated him all the way up until… it’s just hard to hate him when he’s like this.”

“No, empathy doesn’t make you a bad person,” they state firmly. He smiles weakly against their neck. “You’re exhausted, everything is going to seem overwhelming to you right now. I can’t speak for what you’re thinking right now, and I won’t pretend to know a way out. However, you need time to process what just happened – all of it, not just the recent events –“ Neros pulls back just enough to plant a gentle kiss on his cheek – “ We’ve got a long ride back, why don’t you start there?”

Cullen responds by smudging a kiss across their lips with a light smile.

“You’re right – how do you keep doing that?”

“Magic,” Neros giggles and Cullen chuckles softly.

A soldier runs up to them and they break apart to hear the news: everyone’s ready to head out. Mounting their respective steeds (a war nug and a shire horse) they set off to head the long trek home.

[cremisino]

@tribunale

❝"I used to believe that myself," says Diavolo, with a modicum of sympathy amidst the apathy induced by all his deathless deaths. "That I would not give up. That there had to be a way back to the top, to recover my throne... I am not so sure anymore. It seems… we have lost the favor of fate itself."

Lost it to Giorno Giovanna, he thinks, bitterly. Through all this time, he still does not understand how he could fall from grace the way he did. How a mere child could dethrone him. And how fate, in the end, discarded him in favor of another.

"You still don't get it, do you?" Solido asks "his" Diavolo, aloud. "All that bullshit about being favored? It was all just that: bullshit. There was never any fucking favor, how could there have been when we grew up the way e did? You just got in way over your head with your new power. Had to mow down everything that challenged you, didn't you? Face it, brother, you were wrong," Solido's expression sours even futher. "I can't believe you still don't fucking get that. Can't admit it, even now."

Diavolo, to his credit, feels offended. "Everything I did was for a reason! There was a point to stay at the apex! So nobody could-… So we wouldn't-… All I did, I did to protect-"

"Shut it! I don't give a fuck if you genuinely thought this was all to protect us. My ass that it was! In the end you failed us!," Solido is fuming now, bringing that anger coursing in their veins to the surface, in an explosion of rage and tears. "You failed to protect Doppio, you failed to protect me, and you failed to protect your own fucking self. And you know why? Because once you had a taste of all that power, it changed you! You were an addict as much as me. As much as the people who bought your dope. But your drug wasn't any coke, ti wasn't heroin, it was all that fucking power. Staying at the fucking top. Paranoid that it was gonna be taken away from you. No fucking wonder it was. I fucking knew this was gonna happen one day, but you and King Crimson just had to keep me out of the way, huh?"

"You would have killed us both had I not done so! Do you truly think keeping you dormant was my first choice?" Diavolo explodes back, ignoring the biting criticism of Solido's words, wanting to accuse him back, wanting to justify himself. "You courted death on a daily basis, you would have thrown our lives away because of the past. I chose to burn it down, I chose to erase it, whereas you were stuck inside it, and wanted to die because of it. You are my brother, and I love you, but you gave me no choice! You endangered us all, Solido!"

They've had this argument before. It always ends the same. It's as much a loop as their endless deaths. Something inside him churns each time, like a heartbreak happening over and over again. Like they're breaking apart at the seams, and, one day, they'll come undone and disappear.

It's the only display of emotion they seem to know now.

"And you fucking didn't? Look at us! If I'd done it, at least we'd only have died once! You fucking cunt!" Solido shouts in response, and then they both remember they were not alone. They slowly move their eyes to gaze upon the other Diavolo, their mirror, their twin.

"Fuck!" muffled into their forearm, Solido screams, but as he does, so does Diavolo, and so do all the parts of him, all in pain, all in misery.

[the-graves-family]

22. Drugging (Alternative)

It’s been less than two weeks since he’s been released into Aaron’s care and Ace already can’t handle the pain.

Everything hurts. His skin still feels raw from the burns, his insides tender from the multiple surgeries, his residual limbs and the phantom pain don’t let him sleep for more than a couple of hours at a time.

Aaron’s ministrations obviously don’t help.

Scars are coloured with bruises, aching joints are sprained, skin split and bleeding. He barely feels human anymore, just a collection of injuries and pain and misery. He still cries when Aaron hits him, but he can’t muster up the energy to do much else. Any chores or tasks that his twin gives him are left incomplete. Ace physically cannot do them.

When Aaron comes home this morning (at least he thinks it’s morning), he looks strangely pleased. Already a bad sign.

Ace still isn’t very sure what he’s supposed to do when his twin comes home. Sometimes, he’s waiting by the door and Aaron’s annoyed to see him. Other days, he doesn’t go to greet him and his brother gets angry that he’s being disrespectful. Anytime Aaron parks in the driveway, Ace can feel his heart start racing.

Ace hasn’t managed to get out of bed today, not yet. Everything hurts too much. He’s not overly eager to see what Aaron’s reaction is going to be. He hears the whistling approach his door, dread creeping into his thoughts, and flinches when the door is slammed open.

“Rise and shine, bitch,” Aaron says, voice ringing out in the mostly empty room. Again, he seems pleased. There’s a paper bag in his hand, and Ace doesn’t want to know what’s in it. Whatever it is, it’s not going to be good for him. “I’ve gone and done something nice for you. Aren’t you glad?”

That’s puzzling, but unfortunately Aaron takes his confused silence as disrespect, and is on him in mere seconds. A hand wrapped around his throat, making Ace sob and gasp and cry as his twin’s weight puts pressure on his damaged insides.

“I said, aren’t you glad?”

Ace can’t answer while he’s being choked, but that doesn’t seem to stop Aaron.

He doesn’t understand why this keeps happening. Why have they become this?

When he can barely see anything anymore, Aaron finally lets go, but doesn’t get up from where he’s pinning him down. Ace hears the paper of the bag rustling, and something green crosses his field of vision, still blurred from oxygen deprivation.

Aaron’s quiet as he does… something, and when Ace finally blinks the tears away enough to see what’s going on, the needle is already breaking his skin.

Aaron’s very good at finding veins.

Ace is too weak and in too much pain to struggle, and his noises of distress and confusion are shushed. “Shut up, dickhead. This is going to help you.” After a few long seconds, Aaron pulls away and takes the syringe with him.

“What…?”

“Found something that’s going to make you marginally less useless,” his twin crows, and grins. Ace doesn’t feel any different, but that quickly starts to change, even as his brother just climbs off and stands around.

Pain’s lessening.

Holy shit.

His disbelief must have shown on his face as he sits up, because Aaron looks extremely pleased with himself. It immediately makes alarm bells ring in his head. “...thank you, Aaron,” Ace says, because it can’t have been easy to get medication for—

“Feels good, doesn’t it?”

It does. It really does, but Ace doesn’t like how Aaron leans closer. Doesn’t like the smile and cold gaze.

“Yeah, I bet it does. You like feeling that way, don’t you?”

Ace blinks slowly. Something’s wrong.

“It’s a hell of a thing. Only thing that’s made the pain stop, right?”

A hand stroked his cheek for a moment, before it grabs his hair and pulls his head back. It doesn’t hurt.

Nothing hurts.

He can’t feel anything.

“And if you want to keep feeling good, you’ll behave. Be good, and I’ll keep helping you. Doesn’t that sound like a nice deal? All you have to do, for once in your fucking life, is not be a bitch, and behave.”

And Ace can only really try to nod, because he can’t find the words to express how wrong he feels. How wrong everything feels.

“Good.”

[meds4gen]

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[mylifeinsg]

I've never been ashamed to tell you the person I am

When it comes to doin' drugs, I've never been a rookie

But hold up, lemme tell you about the places that they took me

I haven't showered, it's been possibly a week

And I'm so deep in a psychosis, impossible to speak

The coke is in my arm, now it's impossible to sleep

My throat's numb, closed shut, so it's impossible to eat

Losin' weight's a part of my daily routine

I always use against my will, just prayin' I was clean

So nod your head if you understand what I mean

When I was growin' up I never thought that I would be a fiend, ever

My life's tumultuous, it's never gettin' better

Another abscess from my arm is gettin' severed

My exquisite vision, depiction of dereliction

Livid living conditions, malicious on a mission

All these Green-tree cops, look, they all know me by my first name

Paramedics had to revive me, this ain't a game

I worn the same clothes for like the last ten days

And look, I wanna do better but I don't know a different way

Completely all alone, I'm sittin' in this room

I empty out the bags, brown liquid in the spoon

I have to do a lot, can no longer do a little

The water's been added, I place the cotton in the middle

I'm suckin' every drop up into this plastic device as I'm tyin' off

I'm tryna find a decent vein to strike

I shove it ever so gently up underneath my skin

As I am pullin' back the plunger 'til there is blood in the syringe

I push it in and try to drift away to heaven

But criminals like me, that's never the place that we're headed

The guilt, shame, remorse and regret I never address

And I'm a mess from all this pain and this anguish

I'm filled with stress, overdoses

I'm emotionally broken, this ain't a joke

I'm smokin' on a Newport, I never have any hope

This is me, I'm feelin' like I don't deserve more

I feel disgusted as I'm pushin' on this burnt chore

Someone stole the vinegar in the midst of a black out

Another shootin' gallery, another crack house

On the porch "Welcome To Hell" is on the floor mat

I'm glancin' at my arms and all I ever see are sore tracks

I'm feelin' filthy, dirty needles with the orange caps

Peakin' out the window, someone whispers "Lock the door latch"

We're blastin' off, departin' from this mothership

I look around as others search the carpet for another hit

Crest whitening strips and Mach 3's

I'm on a suicidal mission 'til these cops try to stop me

We boosted everyday, sellin' steaks for half price

Any dream I ever had was shattered by glass pipes

Glass rose, Devil got my in his lasso

Entered the gates of hell and I didn't even have a pass-code

I'm hard headed, I will never learn my lesson

You know the drill, commit a crime, and get arrested

The misery never ends, I spend another week in jail

I don't have friends, family never paid my bail

So I would withdrawal and kick on that concrete floor

I feel like I've had enough but my body is screamin' more

The food is horrible, but I haven't eaten in days

No reason to call home 'cause I got nothin' left to say

I'm tired of this jail, I don't ever wanna see prison

Look, I'm tired and exhausted from this life that I am livin'

I would get a couple days clean, and say that I was done

But every time I got released I was back on the run

It's back to thievin', lyin', robbin', and rippin', and runnin'

These problems, I don't solve em, I'm crippled and sick to my stomach

I hang with prostitutes and these deadly degenerates

I'm homeless for the moment, but that's really quite irrelevant

The only thing that matters in life is my next high

I gotta be willin' to change and give it my best try