#orpheus x you

[athanasius-symposium-of-writings]

A Requested Birthday Gift

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY DARLING NOVELIST MY MAIN MY HEART MY -screaming- also i totally reference this fic lol

Rated Explicit | Warning: threesome, consensual use of drugs

“Hypnos,” You stop midway heading toward your room for a much-needed nap when the Novelist approaches you, “Do you have a moment?” Politely and gentlemanly he strolls over invading your personal space, his hand caressing your cheek giving you the physical affection you much needed. Post-match aches are annoying like it is how you imagine phantom pain is, it lingers and you often seek comfort or nap it away.

“Anytime for you.” Closing your eyes as you tilt your head to the side basking in his presence and touch.

“How easily you say such things,” Orpheus’ hand slips down your cheeks until his fingers dance upon your chin. Tracing your jawline, he moves much closer until his other hand holds your waist, body moving and guiding you, “I shall take you up on your word.”

Orpheus is smooth, well aware, and skilled in getting you to bend to his will, have you pressed against the wall in the hallway to the private guest bedrooms. Your hand goes to his chest grabbing his suit coat tugging him even closer as he kisses you. Sweet, reminding you he misses your presence, and then consuming as wants your attention completely on him.

“Orpheus.” Breathy as he switches from your lips to your neck, “We should go to– Oh!” His leg is between yours applying pressure to your crotch.

“In a moment, allow me to be adventurous, my little writer.”

You nod trying to keep your mind in the presence and not drift off giving into the sensations of his touch.

“I have a request for you,” He is careful not to remove clothes though it is tempting as he kisses your neck and under your chin, “A personal request.”

“A-anything.” Barely able to stay focused.

The Novelist smirks before holding your face to look directly at him, “It pertains to my– Our birthday, my love.”

You blink to regather yourself, “Oh? Do you want to change plans?”

“Of sorts, we would like your permission to try something new with you.”

Something new? You raise an eyebrow while biting your lip as Orpheus rubs your crotch against his thigh, it makes you nearly distracted, “Okay, ah, I am at your ah ah Orpheus!” Covering your mouth when you moaned far too loud.

“At my…?” Teasing you as he keeps going, “Grant us permission.”

“All that I am is yours to use as you wish.” Poetic and romantic, needy and wanting, he adores his little writer.

“I shall hold you to that.” Kissing your cheek as he removes himself from your person, “Find us in the library.” Whispering in your ear.

You shiver both aching and yearning, you wish he would finish what he started but you know the reward is at the end.

Especially when us mean both Nightmare and himself.

Orpheus leaves you after giving you a heated kiss, one that leaves you further flustered than what you are. When he leaves, you adjust your clothes to look decent before moving away from the wall to chase after him.

The door of one the room opens and you turn to see Luchino leaning against the door frame with a casual and clearly known smile.

“Seems you'll be having a bit of fun,” The older man says, it is a bit embarrassing to know he heard all that, “Orpheus restraining himself after such words spill out of his lover is commendable.” A clap before he moves to return to his room, “Good evening, Hypnos.”

God, you are lucky it was the Professor and misfortune it was the Professor who heard that.

The library is well secluded, rarely anyone but the Journalist or Novelist come here. You have a few times but again it is always empty. Yet, you still try to keep your voice down despite the library always being seemingly avoided.

You can wonder about that later, right now you are barely able to keep your mind from drifting to that pleasant numbing abyss brought to you by Orpheus.

Orpheui because there is more than one? That makes you giggle as Nightmare is rubbing his beak against your face, that rough two-tone voice saying your name followed by a chuckle when you try closing your held open legs.

“Such a lovely voice, my love.” Orpheus speaking from between your legs, he kneeling with his hand guiding Nightmare's unseemly large cock against your well prepared hole. “Let us see how long you can keep using it, hm?” The cock, of dark purple coloring with precum glowing purple, catches and enters your wet heat.

“Ah!” You have taken his cock before with plenty of prep, but God, it is always a deep stretch inside of you. Nightmare groans, his grip on your legs a bit firmer as he lowers you carefully.

“Beautiful, truly.” The Novelist made sure before doing this to have your explicit permission before attempting this. There is a drink he used on himself and a mutual acquaintance that he gave to you, a cocktail of an aphrodisiac based along with alcohol— He made sure it is extra sweet for you. It is both to help with handling Nightmare (who is enjoying himself watching you attempt to ride him), and to last longer— You are not very well trained yet in lasting more than a round with either of them.

“Easy, easy,” Nightmare speaks as he rests your legs on top of his open legs, “We have you.” His hands on your waist as Orpheus stands up to hold your upper body, your hands reaching out yearning to be touched again.

“Say what you need.” They both speak to you, your eyes struggling to focus on who is in front of you. When you open your mouth literal gibberish comes out with whiny moans. Your hands gripping and tugging on his open shirt begging, or trying to form words, for them to start using you.

With lack of awareness, you spill easily how badly you are enthralled by Orpheus— Both of them.

“Next time a lower dosage,” Touching your face, examining your dilated eyes, the way you cannot properly form words, and neediness behavior. “Oh, dear one, you are enjoying this quite well.”

His gift is you, you who has given him a new perspective. Orpheus loves you, they both do terribly so, the thought of him once more not having you will never be entertained.

“Orpheus!” The raven creature is not willing to wait for his counterpart to enjoy the sight.

“Good, you can say our name.” Praising you as he pets your hair affectionately, “However, I am going to need to use your mouth for my own pleasure, Hypnos.”

You nod but he doubts you actually know what you are agreeing with, he will only take as he usually does.

Using your mouth on Orpheus’ cock, Nightmare uses your inviting hole, delighting in their gift.

Even better is you stopped caring about how loud you are, all that matters is him him him.

[jointherebellion215]

Flowers

Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x female!reader

Summary: You're living a perfectly content life on Geidi Prime with your husband. It's a shame your mind can't rest, sparked by glimpses of a life unknown. Loosely based on the song from Hadestown.

Word Count: 1.5k

TW: Dark!Feyd-Rautha, Dead Dove Do Not Eat, yandere!Feyd-Rautha, manipulation, gaslighting, like SO much gaslighting holy shit, descriptions of violence, abusive relationship, emotional abuse, isolation, tragedy, nonconsensual drug use, nonconsensual medical treatement, induced memory loss, amnesia, dubious consent, pregnancy, songfic, happy-but-not-really-happy ending, I know I said female!reader but there's virtually no pronoun usage or descriptive words in thisfor the reader besides titles so maybe GN!reader??

A/N: I'm blown away, almost 500 notes on His Kiss, the Riot? Holy shit, all of the thanks! Here it is, the final part! I'm ending it with the song that actually started this whole idea. Listening to Eva's interpretation of Eurydice singing Flowers gave me the most delicious, fucked-up bit of inspiration and this came out. I was clutching my own metaphorical pearls writing this cause damn, this gets dark. Like, way more than I thought I could write. Anyways, I hope you enjoy the end of this twisted tale. Thank you for reading! As always, I appreciate you taking the time to like, comment, and reblog.

Read Part One and Part Two

AO3

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Dune properties, characters, or storylines-- nor do I own anything related to Hadestown. The images used in this are not my own, and any similarities to stories or events other than what are directly referenced are strictly coincidence.

Lily white and poppy red

I trembled when he laid me out

“You won’t feel a thing,” he said, “when you go down”

Nothing gonna wake you now

Drops of blood. 

A wicked, black smile.

“You won’t feel a thing.” 

You wake up with a gasp. Your doctor had warned you about dreams like this. They weren’t real, just an aftereffect of your accident.

The medical staff for House Harkonnen had been gracious enough to inform you of your predicament. When your family had recently hosted the Harkonnens, you quickly met and fell deeply in love with the na-Baron Feyd-Rautha. Your love for each other was so intense that you had demanded to get married right away. Your father disapproved of the union, so he disowned you and banished you, demanding to never see you again.

On the journey back to Geidi Prime, a stray asteroid hit the ship and caused you to hit your head. Feyd had apparently worried for your life, which saddened you and warmed your heart. It was nice to know that someone truly cared for you. However, your mind wasn’t quite the same afterwards. Your life before Geidi Prime was completely unknown to you. Your memories were in a fragile state.

That was just a few months earlier. Unfortunately, your mind has not yet recovered your memories prior to the accident. You were diligently taking a specially brewed tea that would calm your mind so it wouldn’t fracture under the immense pressure to try and fix itself. When you asked how long it would take for you to recover, your heart cracked when they said that it may take the rest of your natural life.

While it broke your heart to hear of your father’s dismissal of your feelings, you believed that you were strong enough to carry on. Having no further ties to your home world made it better to settle in with your new family.

You are a Harkonnen now.

Now, your footsteps make the quietest of echoes as you traipse down the narrow corridor. Heads of nearby servants and slaves bow, and eyes snap to the floor as you pass by. You feel the barest of sympathies, for not being allowed the simplest of human connection with their na-Baronness. But it was paradise considering the consequences should anyone ever feel bold enough to try otherwise.

Your husband wouldn’t allow that.

Dreams are sweet, until they’re not

Men are kind, until they aren’t

Flowers bloom, until they rot and fall apart

“Can I not have a single friend on this planet?!”

You burst into your shared chambers, rage rushing through your veins. All you had wanted was to have lunch and tea with one of the few female palace advisors you had taken a liking to. Maybe share a laugh or a story. Make a connection outside of your new family. That was all ruined when Feyd barged in and gutted your companion, stomach-to-throat, while she sat in her chair.

You were sure that your shoes had trailed blood down the hallway, but your mind was focused elsewhere at the moment.

“What use would you have for friends? I am right here.” He closed in on you, grasping your arms and forcing you to look in his direction. “Am I not enough for you? Do I not give you everything you should ever desire?”

His hands tighten around your wrists, making you flinch. A stray tear falls from your eyes, guilt starts to overcome your anger.

“No, not at all, husband! You have given me everything I could have wished for and more,” You wrench your hands out of his grip and grasp his face. He showered you with gifts, never let you go hungry or thirsty and this is how you repay him? “I just… I didn’t think you would want to hear me talk about certain things. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful.”

“I know you don’t, my darling.”

You take a deep breath as you feel the tension in the room start to settle.

“Your mind is already fragile from the accident… I just want to keep you safe.”

Safe. That was the key here. He takes step back and retrieves a small dagger from his belt.

Feyd holds it up, showing you the weapon. “Did you know that your friend had a blade dipped in poison strapped onto her person?”

You can feel the blood rushing from your face. No. You didn’t know.

“I-I didn’t see a knife on her. She couldn’t have-“

“She did.”

He drops the blade and leans in closer to you, forehead aligning with yours. “There are people out there who seek to harm you, who seek to harm me through you. I can never let that happen.”

You nod furiously. You couldn’t believe that you had been so stupid. 

Trust is unbelievably hard to come by in the Galactic Imperium. Your few months’ worth of memories can even attest to that. It seems that the only people you can truly rely on is family.

“I only want what’s best for you.”

You understand now.

Is anybody listening?

I open my mouth and nothing comes out

Another argument discussion had emerged from your telling of your latest dream. Your husband was convinced that you were entirely too exhausted to put any stock into what your subconscious was telling you, but you thought otherwise.

Fingers run through a patch of bright pinks, yellows, and blues—

“I swear to you, it felt so real! It was almost like a memory, like something I-,” A firm hand is placed on your shoulder as you give a slight stumble. Feyd puts a hand on your back, leading you to the edge of your bed, setting you on the bench that was placed against the footboard.

“Please, have some of your morning tea, my darling. You look a bit peaked.” You accepted the cup he gave you, settling down and taking a few sips of the warm, spiced drink. Your mind instantly calms, anxieties evaporating from your body like puffs of smoke. Never mind the memories that you had just… Floating.

Your husband is now on one knee in front of you, arms encasing your body, as his hands cup your face. He brings your eyes to meet his, seemingly searching. For what? You do not know.

“What were you saying about this dream of yours?” A pause reverberates throughout the room as your head tilts in confusion.

“My…?” You stutter, mouth opening to complete a thought that was no longer entirely there. “I can’t quite remember. What were we talking about?”

Your husband gives a smirk, analyzing your face once more before placing his hand on the dark fabric covering your swollen belly.

“Nothing of import. It seems that my heir is set on scrambling your thoughts.”

There seemed to be nothing in this world that brought more joy to Feyd-Rautha’s face than the sight of you and his unborn child. He’s more protective of you now than ever, having guards always posted near you, having you wear a shield during all public appearances. Not to mention, he was damn near insatiable in private. His hands and mouth are practically dragged away from you and your growing stomach every morning.

You give a chuckle. “I’d heard about pregnancy brain before, but never knew it to be this taxing! Perhaps I’ll take a walk later if I’m feeling up to it.”

Feyd gives your cheek a soft pat before rising to his feet, “Rest, my darling. I shall check in on the both of you later.” His hand rests next to yours, giving your belly a quick rub before he walks towards the door.

Your head goes to set on your pillow, the warmth from the tea running through your body. You must be really tired, since you fall asleep so quickly.

Quick enough to not hear the deadbolt lock clicking from the outside once the door is closed.

Flowers, I remember field of flowers

Soft beneath my heels

Walking in the sun, I remember someone

Someone by my side, turned his face to mine

The dreams start to encroach your mind while you are awake. You continue to follow your doctor’s instructions: take your daily tea, rest often, don’t overexert your body or your mind. But, ever persistent, they push through, finding parallels with your daily life to latch onto.

A hand, gently enlaced with yours, guides you through a meadow—

You husband’s hands lead you to stand with him by his uncle’s side, preparing for another ceremony.

A laugh, familiar and warm—

A chilling cackle of laughter reaches you in your viewing box, watching your husband gleefully slay another adversary in the arena.

Bright, yellow sunlight caressing your face and neck—

The black sun of Geidi Prime pulses in your periphery as you wave to a crowd below, your husband standing stoically next to you.

A kiss, given freely—

Feyd ravishes you in your chambers, lips melding together with yours.

My darling—

My love—

My darling—

My darling—

My darling—

My darling—

My darling—

“Is everything alright, my darling?”

You blink, snapping back to the present. Pale, smooth skin and blue eyes, your husband extends his hand towards you. Safe. He gives you everything. You and your child will never struggle or suffer with him. You are safe with him. Aren’t you?

Blood splatters over a patch of bright pinks, yellows, and blues—

You give a bright smile.

If you ever walk this way

Come and find me lying in the bed I made

[considerablecolors]

Despite the explicit instruction not to, Orpheus looks back. He needs to know if Eurydice will follow him anywhere, and so, he turns- And he finds her standing in place, unmoving.

We, the audience, find this sad for a few reasons:

1. We know there was a time when Eurydice would have followed him to the ends of the earth and straight into hell- but now, she watches Orpheus ascend to heaven alone. We know there was a time when she would have followed. We know what has changed between the then and the now.

2. Orpheus does not know what has changed. Orpheus does not know Eurydice stays because of how badly she loves. Orpheus thinks Eurydice has stayed behind because she does not love him enough.

3. Eurydice thinks the same thing. We know this, but we cannot tell them. They have both gone to places we cannot go.

4. By looking back, Orpheus has doomed them both, thinking he was saving them. If given the chance, he would do it again.

5. At some point, Orpheus believed the world was good, and Eurydice believed the world was evil. At some point, their love was powerful enough to change each other's minds.

6. Now, both see what the world could be. Orpheus reveres it. Eurydice fears it. Both are wrong. We don't know if their love can become powerful enough to change their minds again.

7. Eurydice does not follow, but she waits to see if Orpheus will turn around again. She cannot resist one last look.

8. We, the audience, know what has happened, and we know why- Orpheus and Eurydice are not gods. Their mistakes are human. We watch the scene again and again, denying what has transpired, longing for a deeper reason- coffees, lies, a higher power- but the story of Orpheus and Eurydice plays out the way it always does, for the reason it always has- love.

9. These two know the story of Orpheus and Eurydice well. Perhaps they watched it play out. Perhaps they greeted Eurydice at death's door. Perhaps they sat in a tavern and heard Orpheus play. Aziraphale thinks the story is about the inevitably of fate, the inability to resist the higher-ups- a god's will is ineffable. Crowley thinks the story is about the inevitably of leaving, the inability to have a happy ending- a god is always cruel. Neither have gotten this story quite right.

10. Once again, Aziraphale and Crowley have forgotten to focus on the love.

[khruschevshoe]

You know, I saw all the Orpheus and Eurydice web weaving posts for Clara and 12. I saw all of the Hadestown references on all of your posts. And yet none of that actually prepared me for watching Hell Bent and going oh. Oh shit.

Because I knew about the confession dial and what he does in Heaven Sent to get her back. I know the general plot of Hell Bent. I did not realize he literally shows up with a guitar at the beginning and end of it all. That he went to the underworld in Heaven Sent and comes out of the underworld in Hell Bent and manages not to look back but only because he's planning on never looking back. He's planning on wiping her mind and so instead she looks back and dooms him, wiping his mind, and he ends the entirety of their run playing his guitar into the desert to a ghost. He will never get her back because she looked back. She will forever haunt him because he succeeded and failed at the same time. Because she wrenched her agency out of the situation. And he doesn't remember her, she can't remember her, but he is haunted by her. He is LITERALLY PLAYING HER SONG at the end of it.

I finally understand why people are so obsessed with the twelveclara dynamic, and I would put at least fifty bucks on the idea that Steven Moffat looked at how the Ten/Donna subplot ended in Journey's End (Doctor and companion become a hybrid and the Doctor realizes that if he doesn't wipe her memories she'll die because she has too much Time Lord in her) and went how do I Orpheus/Eurydice this shit but flip the table as to who is Orpheus and who is Eurydice at the last second? Who gets to walk into hell and who gets to look back and who gets to be haunted? BOTH OF THEM. ALWAYS BOTH OF THEM. THEY WILL HAUNT EACH OTHER UNTIL THE END OF TIME ITSELF.

Now excuse me while I go scream into my pillow-

(Also, this all your fault, @twelvesbian, I hope you're happy.)

[forest-hashira]

'Til Death Do Us Part

hi everyone! this is my (first) entry for @kentopedia's "Love Through the Ages" collab/event! this is a retelling of the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice, but with Gojo/Reader. if you want to know the full vibes for this, i listened to Moon Song and I Know The End by Phoebe Bridgers on repeat while writing this.

read on ao3 here | wc: ~3.3k | cw: gn reader, satoru is a musician, major character death (reader), hurt no comfort, unhappy ending

Falling in love with you was easy. In fact, it was probably the easiest thing Satoru had ever done in his life; even easier than picking up the lyre as soon as he was strong enough to hold it; even easier than the singing lessons he’d outgrown the need for when he was still just a young boy; easier than charming every young woman he ever came across, leaving a long string of broken hearts in his wake.

But not you.

With you, he’d taken his time, had actually gotten to know you until it felt like he’d known you all his life; he knew your favorite season, what times you liked to take walks in the fields outside of town, even your favorite place to watch the sunset. He also knew that you were the one he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.

Falling in love with you was easy, and even after you’d fallen in love with him, too, asking you to marry him felt terrifying. But you said yes, and all that terror had melted into elation. 

There was hardly any time at all between your engagement and your wedding, both of you eager to belong to each other forever, so in love it was almost painful. Though the wedding itself was small – and barely a month after Satoru proposed – it was the most joyful day in both of your lives. Being surrounded by the laughter of your loved ones, everyone dancing and enjoying good food and dancing had made you feel lighter than air, even long after the sun had set; for once, you weren’t even sad that you had missed watching it from your favorite spot.

Falling in love with you was easy. Loving you was easier. Losing you was the most painful thing Satoru had ever experienced.

It was only days after your wedding, after you had promised to be at one another’s side until the end, in the very field where you’d first told him you loved him, where you’d shared your first kiss. 

You had cried out from a sharp pain in your ankle, and when both of you looked to see what it was, you watched a large snake disappear into the flowers. In a panic, Satoru had ripped the fabric of his tunic, wrapping it tightly around the wound, silently, desperately praying that the poison would move slow enough for him to get you back to the town, where he could only hope someone would know how to cure snake bites. He couldn’t lose you, not like this, not so soon after he’d made you his.

When he’d gone to carry you – to pick you up and rush back to town with you in his arms – he had seen your skin was already an unnaturally pale, ashen color, a sheen of sweat over your whole body.

“No,” he’d whispered, shaking his head, as if that would magically give him more time to save you. “No, no no no.”

You’d only smiled at him, though your eyes were already starting to go a little unfocused. “It’s too late, my love.” Your hands had tangled in the front of his tunic, the soft blue fabric crumpling so easily between your fingers. “But this isn’t such a bad place to die, is it? I’m with you, and the flowers are blooming, and the sun is shining.” With every word, you’d had to lean more and more of your weight into him, your legs losing strength by the second.

“Let’s just sit together for a moment, my love, and enjoy the breeze. I don’t want to be scared when I go.”

The words had nearly shattered Satoru, but he had nodded, easing both of you down to lay amongst the flowers, cradling you close to himself the whole time. He’d stared down at you without blinking, unwilling to miss a single heartbeat of the time he had left with you; the fact that you had looked up at him, too, was both a blessing and a curse.

“Don’t go,” he’d pleaded, throat tight with the tears he was fighting back. “I don’t want you to go. I love you.”

“I know,” you’d whispered back. “I don’t want to go, either. I love you, Satoru, and I wish we had more time, but we don’t.”

“It’s not fair.”

“No,” you’d agreed, a bittersweet smile on your lips. “It’s not fair. But neither is life. And I’m happy to have spent as much of mine with you as I got to.”

Words had failed him then, and he’d leaned down to press one last kiss to your lips, knowing deep down that this would be his last chance. And he had been right; you’d managed to return his kiss for a moment, before going completely still in his arms.

Satoru had stayed in that field with you and wept for hours after the warmth left your body, only forcing himself to stand and take both of you back to town when it began to grow dark and a chill drifted in on the breeze you had been so eager to feel in your last moments.

And so, he had carried you home, his eyes red-rimmed and swollen from crying, but his face otherwise blank, too numb to feel even grief at that moment. No one that saw him had tried to stop him, the sight of the typically lively musician so hollow, so quiet, had left everyone shaken.

The days after your death all blurred together; the only one that stuck out significantly from the others was the day of your funeral, because it was the only time he’d cleaned himself up and left the house, and even that was because Satoru knew he was expected to be there, the grieving husband to round out the picture of a Perfect Funeral. It had made him sick, and he’d excused himself as quickly as possible. 

He spent much of his time crying, or staring at the wall, or ceiling, replaying that last afternoon with you, obsessing over how he could have done things differently, how he could have saved you, even if he knew logically it was pointless; what was done could not be undone, especially not death. 

…Could it?

Once Satoru had the thought, he could not bring himself to abandon it, so he began instead to meticulously detail his plan. 

The days were already growing colder, which meant that Lady Persephone had returned to her husband’s realm of the Underworld; perhaps he would be able to use that to his advantage. 

Satoru had a purpose again, something to get him out of bed and moving; he had a goal to achieve, and no earthly force would stop him. He spent days polishing and tuning his instruments, and days longer composing and perfecting a song to play for the King and Queen of the Underworld; if he was going to convince the keepers of the dead to release one of their charges, everything needed to be perfect.

He was vaguely aware that a couple people – Suguru and Shoko, perhaps? Anything outside of his task was fuzzy at best – came to check on him occasionally, just as they had before he had manically begun to prepare to do the impossible. If they tried to talk him out of it, he can’t remember; even if they had tried, it wouldn’t have worked. His sole focus was on getting you back, and nothing would stand in his way.

By the time Satoru felt he had done everything he could to prepare for his journey, almost two weeks had passed since you’d died in his arms.

Your husband dressed warmly, both because he was unsure what to expect in the Underworld and because having your scarf wrapped around his neck gave him confidence that his plan would work; how could it not, when wearing the scarf wreathed him in your scent, as if you were already back with him again?

The sun was barely up when Satoru left your home, his lyre wrapped carefully in muslin and tucked into his bag. He knew the entrance to the Underworld was close enough to walk, but he didn’t know how long it would take him to get there, and he didn’t want to waste any time at all. Though he had left so early in the morning, there were still a few townspeople that saw him, asked him where he was going, but he ignored them all; conversation would only delay his journey, and he wouldn’t have that.

The musician made good time, all things considered, reaching the entrance to the Underworld about an hour past midday. He paused for a moment, took a deep breath to steel himself, then stepped forwards into the darkness.

He had no torch to light his way, but the path beneath his feet seemed to glow on its own, as if guiding him along; as if the Lord and Lady were expecting and didn’t want to be kept waiting because the foolish mortal lost his way. So, seeing no other option, he followed the soft, almost foggy glow as it led him deeper and deeper into the earth and – hopefully – to the throne room of Hades and Persephone. 

Time didn’t quite feel the same below the surface – it felt thicker, somehow, and heavier, catching on his clothes and sticking to his skin like honey – which meant he had no idea how long he’d been walking. The only thing that kept him from panicking was the faintest scent of pomegranates, coming from the same direction the path seemed to lead.

Eventually, Satoru did reach the throne room, though he couldn’t have recalled what it looked like later if his life depended on it. For as much as he looked around, the whole room could have been made of diamonds and liquid gold could have rained from the ceiling; none of that mattered to him, because it had nothing to do with you. His gaze went straight to the couple in their thrones, and he fought to keep his nerves under control; now was not the moment to get stage fright for the first time in his life. 

“Your Highness,” he said, bowing so low he felt the way his hair shifted to cooperate with gravity, the dusty purple of his undercut no longer hidden beneath the pale strands of his frosty hair, so white it practically glowed in the dusk of the throne room. 

“What brings you to my realm, mortal?” Hades asked, his expression impassive, though his eyes simmered with something dangerous. 

“I have come to play you a song,” Satoru answered simply, standing from his bow and removing his lyre from his bag, unwrapping the fabric from around it with great care. He adjusted his hold on the instrument until it sat nestled in his arms in the best position for him to play, then lifted his gaze back to the gods. “If it pleases my Lord and her Ladyship, of course.”

This was the one catch in his plan: if he was denied permission to play, he had no chance of returning home with you at his side.

“Oh, please?” Persephone turned to face her husband, a pleading expression on her face. “Let him play, my love. We never have mortal visitors, much less artists, and I want to hear what he’s prepared for us!”

The King of the Dead hesitated for a few moments, staring at his wife, but Satoru caught the way his smoldering eyes softened, the way the hard lines of his mouth eased, and the musician knew he would be allowed to play.

“My wife wishes to hear you play,” the god said, turning back to the man before him. “I hope you don’t disappoint her with your skills.”

With another, smaller bow, Satoru began to play, and soon thereafter began to sing. He sang about you: all the ways you loved him, and all the ways he loved you in return. He sang of his life before he met you: how he had played around, led people along and broken their hearts with his carelessness, simply because he was bored. He sang of your lives after you’d met: how you had brightened his mornings and sweetened his days and warmed his nights; how you had planned a future together you had never gotten to see. The harmonies from his lyre blended with the melodies of his voice, painting the image of you so vividly Satoru swore he could see your shape in front of him again.

It wasn’t until he finished his song that he realized he could see you there in front of him, though your form wavered around the edges, like you were a little less than solid. But you were there, and you were smiling, and he felt like falling to his knees and crawling to you right then and there; the only thing that stopped him was realizing that both Hades and Persephone were openly weeping.

He, Gojo Satoru, had brought gods to tears with his music, and with his love for you.

Emboldened by seeing your face again, Satoru spoke. “Please,” he begged, his voice eggshell-thin, cracking under the stress of his request. “Please don’t make me return home without my love. I cannot bear to make the journey alone again.”

At first he received only silence in response, and though he was not a patient man by nature, he forced himself to wait until he was spoken to, not wanting to risk upsetting the gods before him.

“Once a soul has entered the Underworld, it cannot be allowed to leave again,” Hades responded once he had composed himself, which felt like years after Satoru had made his plea. “I am very sorry.”

The musician felt his heart sink at the denial, and he began to consider begging to be allowed to stay, instead, if he couldn’t bring you back with him.

“Oh, please, my love,” Persephone cried, messily wiping the tears from her eyes as she gazed at her husband. “You let me go home again when my mother begged for my return. Why can’t you grant him this same mercy?”

“Because order must be maintained,” the Lord of the Underworld answered. “Rules must be followed, you know this. Your own return home has its own rules, after all.”

“Then give me rules I must abide by. I swear I will follow them as faithfully as possible.” Though he knew interrupting a conversation between gods could be dangerous, Satoru simply could not stop the words from tumbling from his lips.

“Please.” The goddess’s voice was petal-soft, a warm, hopefully breeze cutting through the chill of the Underworld. 

The silence was heavy, crushing the air out of every part of the room, suffocating the musician where he stood. Despite the pain, Satoru only had eyes for you, your warm gaze giving him the strength to push through, to wait for Hades’s answer before completely giving up hope.

“If I let you both return to the surface world,” the god’s voice, though low and rough, rang out clear. “You must follow one rule.”

“Only one?” It seemed too good to be true.

“It is a difficult one.”

“Anything,” Satoru rushed out. “I’ll do anything.”

“You will lead the two of you out of the Underworld, but until you both are on the surface again, out of my domain, you are not to turn around. I promise you will not be alone, that you will return with your love, but you must not turn around before you leave this place. If you turn around, you will have to leave here alone, and you will never be allowed to return until your own death.”

“If I’m not allowed to turn around, are we at least allowed to speak to each other?”

“Yes, you can converse on the journey. Now, take your lover and go. Once you leave the throne room you must keep your back turned at all times until you reach the surface.”

Bowing deeply, Satoru thanked the god profusely for several moments, then straightened and stepped forward, reaching out and taking your hands, helping you from where you sat on the floor of the throne room.

“Let’s go home,” you said, smiling so sweetly at him it made his teeth ache. He nodded eagerly in agreement, taking just a moment longer to take in your features before guiding you to the entrance of the throne room.

“Are you ready?” he asks, turning to you one last time as the two of you stand in the threshold. “I’m not sure how long the journey back is, and if you grow tired we can’t stop.”

“I’m ready when you are,” was your answer, giving his hand a light squeeze to show you meant the words. 

Satoru nodded back, once again pausing to admire your face, your smile, everything about you, before turning away, still holding your hand as he stepped out of the throne room and began the trek back to the surface, back home.

He was silent for a bit at first, feeling your hand in his enough to assure him you were there, but eventually both his nerves and his natural chattiness got the better of him. He said almost every thought that came to his mind, though he tried to make sure to ask as many questions as possible, eager to hear your answers, your sweet voice a soothing balm to his raw and frayed nerves. 

The journey felt shorter this time around, though whether that was because he was retracing his footsteps, or some other strange property of time in the Underworld, Satoru couldn’t be sure. He wasn’t going to complain about it, either, because not turning to look at you was proving much more difficult than he had thought when he was first given the rule.

When he finally saw the entrance to the surface, sunlight still visible on the horizon, a beaming grin broke out across his face. “We’re nearly there,” he told you. “See? We’ve nearly made it.” Unable to help himself, he picked up his pace, still pulling you along behind him. 

He didn’t notice your hand slipping from his own as he closed the last few paces to the entrance.

His joy was palpable as he practically leapt through the gates, back onto the surface, into the grass that waited for him as the sun began to set behind him.

“We did it!” Satoru cheered, spinning around to look at you. “Oh, my love, it feels so good to have you—” The sight of your sad smile had his gaze dropping to your feet.

You hadn’t yet crossed over the threshold.

And he had turned around and looked at you.

“No,” he begged, racing towards you, desperate for at least one last kiss, one last embrace, even if he could not keep you with him. “Please, my love, I’m so sorry.”

Before he could reach out and touch you, though, your shape had already begun to waver, rippling like the surface of a pool disturbed by the wind. You only shook your head, your smile never leaving your lips. “It’s okay,” you assured him. “I love you. I’ll see you again someday. Live well for me, okay?”

“I-I’ll try,” he choked out, tears thick in his voice even before they spilled from his eyes, though there was no stopping them as your form wavered more, then faded fully from sight.

He fell to his knees and wept, loud, heaving sobs, gripping handfuls of grass as he pressed his forehead to the ground, forced to mourn you a second time.

ok so this was baby's first sad ending/hurt no comfort so pls don't come for me if it was bad i'm so sorry idk how to do this i don't like sad endings but this is my favorite myth i couldn't bring myself to change the ending

tagging: @kentopedia @kentohours @mitsuristoleme

[the-sound-of-her-wings]

don't stop trying to find me here amidst the chaos

❀ Premise: You get injured on the job and Kaz loses his mind about it. When you are on the mend, both of you learn what it means to start on a journey towards healing ❀ Word Count: 2,338 ❀ Content Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Gore, Blood, & Violence, Kaz beats someone to death with his gloved hands, Infection of A Wound, Hurt/Comfort

It was supposed to be an easy job. Break in, forge some documents, destroy some others, and you're done. It was a trap, but everyone knew that going into it.

Still, you weren’t expecting this much effort to go into killing the crows. You’ve been trying to stay out of the line of fire, aiding the various crows when they call out for help. You’re on your way to helping Inej heal a minor wound when it happens.

You feel the knife before you see it. Of course, target the healer you think to yourself, trying to wrestle your attacker off you before they're able to rip the knife back out of your body. You fail, like you thought you would. A bullet whizzes past your head, hitting your attacker in the head, and killing them instantly.

"You're bleeding?" Jesper yells, as if he's never seen you injured before.

"That tends to happen when you get stabbed!" You yell back.

Another bullet flies past you.

You place your hand over your wound, trying to heal yourself enough to remain useful. Instead, your hand pulls away from your hip covered in blood.

"I need to leave." You say, flashing your bloody hand.

"Y/N! This way, quickly!" Nina yells from behind Jesper.

You stumble forward, trying to keep yourself from falling over. The pain isn't too much, but the blood loss… somebody has to stop the blood loss.

"I've got you," Kaz says, appearing on the side opposite the wound, seemingly out of nowhere.

"Thanks, Kaz" You state.

"There's a safe house nearby," He reassures.

"I know. I've healed you there many times before." You reply.

You make it out of the building, but not before losing at least three pints of blood. You’ve got a headache, and your dizzy, and you’ll probably pass out in a very short amount of time.

“Where did Nina go?” You ask, starting to slow down a little.

“Making sure the safehouse is still safe.” He says.

“Oh. How’d she get that far ahead of us?” You question.

“She’s not bleeding out,” Kaz states.

“Sorry for bleeding out on you,” You say, words starting to slur. You aren’t sure how you’re still walking. “I’ll keep my blood in my body next time.”

“We’re almost there,” Kaz replies, barely managing to stay upright himself, as most of your weight leans against him.

“Quickly!” Nina shouts, urging the both of you into the safe house.

“I think I need to lie down.” You say, slowly collapsing to the floor. Blissful unconsciousness greets you shortly after.

“Brekker, help me get her to the table,” Nina commands.

Kaz is no longer consciously aware of what’s happening around him. He’s able to follow most of Nina’s directions, but he’s not physically there. He’s retreated into his mind, where the emotions begin to fester.

The inside of Kaz’s mind is a series of mazes, locked doors, dead ends, and brick walls. They are defenses he built for himself, to protect him whenever something terrible happened. The more trauma he endured, the more complicated it became for him to express his emotions. And then, one day, the only emotions that he would allow to emerge from his skull were anger and rage.

He looms over your unconscious body, eyes sharp as knives, covered in your blood. If he ever finds the man who did this…

“BREKKER!” Nina shouts, snapping him out of his disassociation. She’s kneeling by your unconscious body, trying her best to seal your wound while being flooded with Kaz’s emotions. “You aren’t helping.” She runs her hand through her hair, frantic. “If you don’t calm down I’m going to have to kick you out of this room. Do you understand?” Your wound is beginning to unseal itself as she loses concentration.

Kaz swallows his emotions, pushing them back into the pit they had suddenly erupted from. “Yes,”

“Good. Now let me focus,” Returning to your wound, she’s able more or less seal it- at least enough that the bleeding stops completely.

Were he a different man, he may have kept vigil over you for the days that followed. Watched over your unconscious body, thinking of all the things he wanted to say to you when you woke up. To apologize for having fell for an obvious trap. Were he another man, he may have dabbed at your head with a cool towel, trying to quell the fever that arose. Held your hand. Prayed for your return. But Kaz was not another man.

He was the Bastard of the Barrel. Dirty Hands. And he was going to kill every single person who had anything to do with that cursed job. At least, he would have, had the other Crows not been there to ground him in reality.

Kaz leaves the safe house, heading straight back into the fight. To be honest, he’s not in much better shape than you, but the adrenaline keeps him upright and the rage keeps him deadly. A bullet lands in a pillar beside him, but he ignores it.

Inej approaches him while he is still beating up the man’s corpse. Everyone who tried to kill them is dead.

He feels a fist land on his back and turns around to meet its owner. And then the rage takes over. Have you ever wondered how many times you have to hit someone before they're dead?

Kaz knows the answer, but he passed that number a very long time ago.

“Kaz,” She says, quietly. She places a hand on his shoulder, but he continues.

“I think he’s dead,” Jesper deadpans.

Slowly, the punches start to slow down, until he finally stops. He stands up, shakily, absolutely covered in blood from head to toe. He is still too angry to notice that he’d been crying. Jesper and Inej notice, but say nothing.

“Let’s go,” Inej says, handing Kaz his cane.

Nina is sitting with a cup of tea when they arrive back at the safe house, staring deeply into the cup.

“How is she?” Jesper asks.

“She’ll live, most likely,” Nina replies, glancing towards the group. Her eyes narrow as she sees Kaz covered in more blood than he left with. “It’ll be a while before she recovers.”

“We should plan our next move,” Kaz states, though he really means he should plan their next move. Which is revenge, of course.

“It should start with changing your clothes.” Nina retorts.

Kaz gives Nina a look.

“Don’t you look at me like that when I just saved the person you love,” Nina hisses, letting go of her cup of tea and slapping her hands against the table. It rattles, splashing some of the tea. “You know she wouldn’t want to see you like this,” She mutters, returning to her tea.

“I think washing up’s a good idea. Anybody disagree?” Jesper asks the room of severally traumatized people trying desperately to not let their emotions take over.

He does not get a response. Instead, the crows each find themselves going separate ways within the house, giving each other time to process what has just occurred.

XXXXX

“Kaz?” You ask, barely making out his figure in the dark room.

“I’ll go get Nina-” He says, standing up.

“No- stay. Please.” You plead.

He sits back down in the chair at the far end of the room.

“Come closer,” You beckon.

He moves to the chair beside your bed- the one the others had been taking turns using. The one Jesper sat in, recounting his day, pretending like you were awake. The one Nina sat in while she re-examined her work, taking the bandages on and off a wound that shouldn’t still be leaking. The one Inej sat in, drip-feeding you water so you didn’t dehydrate while you slept. Each of them had their own little task, their thing they did to make them feel like they were helping you heal.

Kaz just stared at you from afar, terrified. He knows what dead people look like- what they feel like- and for a while, you didn’t look much better than them. Tonight is the first time he’s ever sat in this chair. The first time he’s felt safe enough to do so since you got stabbed.

“Can you check the wound?” You ask. “I’m not strong enough to take off the bandages…”

“Are you sure you don’t want Nina?” He replies, already slowly peeling the covers off your body.

“So she can make it worse? No. I don’t need Nina for this.” You respond.

Hearing you quip again makes him feel better. The fact he has to touch your skin to take the bandages off, however, is a different kind of battle. The gloves are there as protection, as they always are, but he worries they aren’t enough.

“Kaz” You breathe.

“Y/N?”

“Deep breaths. In for five, hold for three, out for five.” You coach.

He nods. In for five, hold for three, out for five.

The first layer of bandage is off, still a pristine white.

In for five, hold for three, out for five.

A light pink and yellow mixture lightly coats this layer.

In for five, hold for three, out-

“Kaz? What is it?” You ask.

He could vomit- he might, even. This last layer of bandages is almost soaked, with a yellowish outline surrounding a red center.

“I knew I had an infection,” You say with a weak sigh.

He looks away as he peels this last layer off, trying to pretend he didn’t see it at all. Your skin is raw, irritated, and angry. It hasn’t gotten enough air.

“Is there puss?” You ask.

“Yes,” Kaz replies, trying to look anywhere but at the wound.

“Of course. Go get Inej. We’re going to need someone with a strong stomach.”

He nods and gets up to leave.

“And do me a favor- wash your gloves. There should be another pair in the cupboard.” You call after him.

As he comes out of the room, the rest of the crows are waiting.

“She’s awake,” Kaz states, holding the bandages in his hands.

“What did she say?” Jesper asks.

“She needs someone with a strong stomach.” He looks at Inej and cocks his head back toward the door.

“Infection,” Nina states, her lips quirking upward in disappointment.

“You did the best you could,” Jesper tries to reassure. “It was enough to keep her alive.”

“That remains to be seen,” Nina says.

Inej spends the next few minutes making trips in and out of your bedroom, carrying in clean bandages, carrying out bloody clothing, carrying in clean water, carrying out a bucket of- well. Finally, she exits the room for the final time, carrying more used bandages.

“How is she?” Kaz asks.

“Better. She was able to clean up the infection, but it will take her a few days before she gains enough strength to heal her wound completely.” Inej states.

“Did she say anything else?” Nina questions.

“I’m sure you’ll get an earful later, Zenik.” Jesper teases.

“She wanted to see Kaz,” Inej responds. “If you’ve changed your gloves.” She adds.

Kaz nods and enters the room after Inej leaves.

“Hi,” You say, sleepily. Cleaning up the infection took a lot out of you.

“Hi,” He mirrors, sitting in the chair next to your bed.

“Can you give me some water?” You ask.

He nods, bringing the glass up to your lips. You take slow, long sips, trying not to upset your stomach. When you stop taking sips, he pulls the glass away from your mouth.

“How long do you think you’ll need to recover?” He questions.

You laugh, and then you wince, because you really shouldn’t be laughing right now. “About a week. They missed my vital organs. Why do you ask?”

“I need to know how long my healer will be out of commission,” He responds like all you are to him is a means to an end. You would have believed that, once.

“You’ve been crying,” You point out. You don’t point out the new dark circles under his eyes, or how he looks paler than you’ve ever seen him.

“I’ve been sick,” He says, deflecting.

“I will be okay, Kaz. I promise,” You say, wanting to caress his hand. You aren’t strong enough to do it, and the gloves would prevent him from feeling your touch anyway. If he would even allow you to touch his gloved hand.

“Nothing like that will ever happen again,” He says, through gritted teeth.

“You can’t promise that. Not in this line of work.” You reply, searching for answers in his eyes.

“It won’t happen again.” He repeats, and you see the cracks starting to form. “I- I can’t let… I need.. I…you,” He stammers, trying not to cry.

“I’m alive. I’m here.” You say, “Touch me. I’m here,”

Kaz’s breath is shaky as he reaches for your exposed arm. He traces up and down your arm with a gloved finger in slow, repetitive motions.

“That’s it. Now breathe,” You instruct.

His breath slowly begins to stabilize as he breathes in while his finger moves down your arm and out while it moves up. Eventually, he’s calm again, and he works up the courage to lay his hand on top of yours.

“I will heal,” You state. “So- so will you. It’s not going to be easy, and it’s going to take a long time, but… we’ll heal.”

You don’t expect he’ll ever be able to touch someone without that protective barrier- that’s more a part of him now than it is something that needs to be fixed.

“You should rest,” You tell him.

“So should you,” He retorts.

“If you aren’t going to leave, at least take a blanket,” You state, wanting to hit him with a pillow.

It doesn’t take long for both of you to fall asleep. You, safe in your warm bed, healing from a wound that you just received. Him, asleep in a chair, just starting to heal from a childhood full of trauma.

[la-pheacienne]

People that still blame Ned for telling Cersei of his plans are the same people that say they wouldn't have turned if they were Orpheus, and the common denominator between these two categories of people is how fucking BORING they are. Imagine trying to analyze Oedipus Rex through the prism of how stupid Oedipus was. STOP for the love of god

[heartshapedbubble]

and now, for a request that took me six months to start writing and two months to finish due to personal stuff. jesus christ i should start including financial compensation alongside my fics.

anyways happy spooky szn everyone!! now that my reqs are finally empty i'll be reworking my page soon and opening them again💞

unspoken words, an orpheus x maid reader fanfic📕

tags/heads up: reader is a maid, gender not specified, one sided enemies to lovers kinda????, suggestive only if you squint really hard and get your eyes reaaaally close to the screen (theres only kissing tbh)

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

Being a survivor was never easy. Peer pressure from both your team and people outside it, dealing with all sorts of blows directed right at you - either the physical ones, by the hunter, or the verbal ones from the other survivors.

But being a survivor AND a servant? It made things even worse.

Right after a match, it was only a matter of time when you'd hear groans and whines about how there's no tea and biscuits served in the living room, how there's so much dust on library shelves, how stained the floor in the hall is. And there was no time to catch a break, hell, no time to heal either. You roughly wiped your bloodstained knees, plucked out pieces of wood that dug themselves into your palms, and got back to work. As drops of remaining blood rolled down your leg and you felt your hips crack each time you bent down, you got back to your everyday cleaning service. As you were a maid - the only one that was available at all times, at least, and the only one who was actually living and not just a stitched-up corpse - most if not all of the household manor duties ended up a burden on your back. Strolling between the survivor side and the hunter side, you served warm cups of lemon tea, handed clean towels, even polished shoes. And my god, there was no mercy from either side. Everything was always "not good enough", and most of the time you barely even got a "thank you" handed back. One time, one especially daring hunter dared to spit on you as you scrubbed the tiles beneath him - let's just say that the handle of your broom got to his ankles quite quickly.

The maid life was ugly, but it had its benefits, too. For example, you heard all sorts of juicy gossip dealt from mouth to mouth, from ear to ear, dark secrets from every single person inhabiting the manor. And as most people ignored you unless they needed some unimportant favor from you, in the meantime there was plenty of alone time you could use up until the next bell ring. Curled up in a hidden part of the library, a plate stacked with softened butter cookies by your feet, your free time was spent dozing off on the soft, velvet cushions of the hard sofa by the foggy window, your eyes occasionally skimming through a yellowed book.

~

"Oh, sorry." Helena mumbled as the tip of her cane accidentally scratched your hand as you scrubbed the floor. "I knew you were somewhere in front of me, but I didn't know where exactly."

"It's all good, Hele." Helena was one of the more polite residents, but it was just part of her nature - shy, polite, respectful. Compared to everyone else, she was just a kid after all.

You achingly checked the grandfather clock looming over you, waiting eagerly until it rang for five o'clock and signaled your break for the day. Yesterday you stumbled over a really good book, with a fascinating plot decked into at least five hundred pages. You barely got to skim over the first few when you heard a whine from the living room, demanding a serving of pastries. It kept you up all day long and you could barely contain yourself from running to your little haven straight away.

At last, your deserved break came, and you almost tripped over the carpet folds as you ran towards the rusty trapdoor separating you from your one-hour paradise. Yet, as you lunged right for the piled-up cushions, you noticed a figure.

Someone.

Sitting on your sofa.

Reading a book.

Not just a random book.

The exact same one you picked up and tucked under the pillows yesterday, so no one can get their grubby little hands on it except you.

And, to top it all off, it was no other than the novelist, Orpheus, who was sifting impatiently through the pages, splayed on your sofa like a frog, his leg bouncing nervously.

Ugh, that Orpheus. He was polite and all, one of the exceptions, good-looking even, but god did something about him rub you the wrong way. He always said hello, said goodbye, said thank you and please, smiled back at you, yet...

"Oh, good afternoon, ___!"

The position he was in right now really wasn't helping.

"Hello, sir Orpheus." The "sir" title you had to use out of respect awfully repulsed you, even more so than "lady". Perhaps it was the undertone of uttermost submission unavoidably coming with it. "May I ask you, what are you doing here?"

"Oh. Well, I was on a.... little expedition, will you", he chuckled, nervously playing with the buttons on the cuff of his shirt, "Y'know, messing with the bookshelves and what not, when I stumbled upon this fine little room. Seems like I'm not the first one to discover it, am I?"

"No, you're not." You forced yourself to smile, and sat right by him, the cushions dipping under your weight and slightly pulling you two closer. "I've claimed it as my own, in fact. I believe you don't mind that, do you?"

"I-I don't mind it at all! No no, how could I? Well, I..." He mumbled nonsense, trying to hide his face as he cleaned his monocle. He seemed especially nervous today, and he wasn't the calmest in general, either. "...may I assume you don't mind me staying a bit longer here, do you?"

You sighed. Well, maybe some company instead isn't a bad thing. Even if it was him. "I'll let it slip this time. Want some cookies?" You pulled out a scratched tin box from under one of the big cushions, and messed with the tightly clasped lid. "They're a bit stale, but they taste just fine."

He pressed his lips into a thin line. Hesitatingly, he picked a crumbling cookie and wrapped it in his handkerchief. "Thank you for welcoming me so nicely despite your... condition, y'know. I can only imagine how hard it can be having the role of a maid and a competitor at the same time." There was pity in his voice, a hint of internalized shame, maybe. Willingly or not, his last sentence created an uncomfortable silence between you two, and it was only a matter of time before one of you broke it.

"...You're welcome", you went in head-first into the conversation, "but I really don't need your pity. I didn't get a lot of it in the first place, and I sure don't need it now. My life is what it is, and neither of us can change it."

He sighed. "I suppose you're right", he said as he got up and stretched, "just saying, though.. accepting empathy or help here and there really isn't that humbling as it seems." He calmly walked through the trapdoor, as if he didn't say anything.

God. You decide to be nice for once and you get back a lesson instead? How fun. Especially when it's from someone who you thought you could confide in. But you're not going to allow his words to get to your skull - there's so much better things to think of compared to that....

~

"My apologies, dear." Michiko whispered as she quickly tiptoed away, accidentally bumping into you the second before.

"I'd advise you to be more careful where you tread, doll", Joseph suddenly appeared in the hallway, weaving his words with his usual husky yet elegant voice, "I believe you don't want any accidents to occur while working, hm?"

Out of almost all of the (adult) hunters, Joseph was the most talkative. And you were no exception - he regularly spoke to the other survivors, often scaring them by whispering from behind their back or jumping out of the shadows. He wasn't trying to form strong relationships, obviously, but it seemed like he wasn't the type to withold his comments. After some time spent observing you deduced that Joseph might be a little bit too fascinated with you - or at least a little bit too interested in chatting with you.

"No, Joseph, I, in fact, don't.", you groaned as you threw the broom back in your bucket, "Besides, shouldn't you be more worried about your own wellbeing, old man? Should I bring you some balm for your sore limbs?"

He clicked his tongue. "Tch. You know I have good intentions, dear." One blink later and he already merged with the shadows, looking for someone else to talk to.

"Woah. What was all that about?" You heard a voice behind you, a bit shaky and uncertain. It was - you sighed - Orpheus again, in his hands a ceramic tray stacked with porcelain dishes and silverware, a warm scent of mint emitting from the glossy teapot. He wasn't having a good time trying to balance it in his arms.

"Nothing. Just Joseph being Joseph. Mind me taking this for you?" you grabbed the tray in an instant, now much more stable under your grip.

"I...do, actually." He slowly pulled the tray back towards him, a bit hesitantly now as his hands shook beneath it again. "I thought once you finish we could sit down for tea. Y'know, just the two of us. In the little room in the library. I can bug Norton for some of his tres leches if you want. Or maybe Margaretha for pierogi if you're craving something savory instead... Sorry, I wanted it to be a suprise." He looked away, bashfully, as if he regretted doing all of this in the end. You weren't sure what had gotten into you at that moment, but you suddenly felt that if you don't accept his offer now, you might feel really bad later on. Like looking at a sad little puppy's beady eyes.

"Thinking of it now, it doesn't seem like a bad way to pass the afternoon. I'm in."

~

You puffed at the steam coming from your cup.

"Joseph really gets on your nerves, hm, ____?"

"A bit, yeah. Snooty old man."

"Ah, come on now, he isn't that bad. He's quite pleasant to talk, actually. A little intimidating, very peculiar, but pleasant. Most of the time."

"Wish it was like that when playing against him. I go through hell and back while dressing my wounds because of his damned rapier. How did it even get approved by the owner?

"He's a veteran, so I believe they decided to let it slip back then. Or maybe he just swayed DeRoss off of his feet with his Frenchman charm and the two lasers he has for eyes."

You almost choked on your tea. Orpheus had a suprisingly sharp tongue, unfitting with his unsuspecting face and downturned eyes. He took off his gloves - revealing rough yet nimble fingers - and scooped some pierogi onto his plate.

"Was this a pleasant enough suprise for you?"

"Well, for the first time someone has been nice to me in a while, it's quite delightful, I admit."

"You mean, you wouldn't consider Joseph being polite towards you as "being nice"?"

"Hm?"

"Oh, just wondering, since I overheard bits of your conversation today. He didn't really sound rude, did he?"

"I mean, he wasn't rude or anything, it's just...I don't know how to explain it. Yeah, people are nice to me, actually, quite a lot of them, but they rarely go beyond their words. They don't put them into action."

"I see. I believe it gets annoying with time."

"It does."

"Do you put what you say into action, too?"

"...What are you implying?"

"As in, when you like a person or care for them, do you also try to put into action your love for them?"

"Orpheus, I put everything into action. Every day. That's my job as a maid."

"Yes, I...know that very well, but do you put love in action, too?"

"I don't have time for love. Nor is there anyone to fully love here, I fear. Just tolerate and like, maybe. If they're really nice."

He sat up straight, his thumb trailing his bottom lip back and forth.

"See, I'm no expert, but I do feel that you're denying yourself of something you don't know you need most."

Leaving you puzzled, he got up and left the room.

~

"Orpheus, have you ever kissed somebody before?"

He suddenly jolted, staring back at you from the other edge of the sofa.

"What kind of question is that?" He tilted his head, pouring milk into his tea. One tea break ensued after another, and now it has become an unspoken rule to bring something to sip (or munch) on to the library hideout as the clock struck for afternoon.

"You know how they portray poets and novelists. Romantic, sensual, passionate. I just assumed you already have some experience with dating."

A faint pink flashed his cheeks. "Well, now, what is it that prompted you to ask me? And now, of all times?"

Sip by sip, sentence by sentence, and you got quite close to Orpheus in these few months. You couldn't help but think about his words here and there - to do something with love, not just because you have to. Or out of love. Whatever. The following day after he brought you tea for the first time, you felt the moral obligation to invite him for lunch. And so the cycle continued, an opportunity to chat appeared along with it, and in Orpheus you now saw a friend. Perhaps. There were bits of joy in the moments when you picked out the perfect flavor for the day or played with coffee cream, attempting to make some designs with it.

No, in fact, there was no real reason behind your question. It seemed fitting enough for the moment, and maybe, just maybe, you wanted to catch him off guard again.

"Felt like it."

He cleared his throat. "Well, if you're so curious about it.... not really. Fangirls were common but... I'm simply not very experienced. Some may see me as charismatic but once things get a little bit more serious I don't know what to do. Was that the answer you expected from me?"

It was a bit ironic. A bit cute, even. How his charisma only reached up to actual love, the real thing. The same thing he remarked you needed the most.

"Funny. The Orpheus, the detective novel author, afraid of love? Out of all things?"

It didn't take long for him to pout his lips, looking away in shame. "To be fair, there's quite a bit to be afraid of in love. There's commitment, passion, building trust, insecurity... It takes a lot to love."

"I see."

"May I ask you the same question?"

"Which one - if I've ever kissed someone? Never. Never had the opportunity. Never felt the need, in fact. It wasn't a necessity to have a partner, only a plus. It's not something to be terribly afraid of. I believe it just happens and, well, you go with the flow."

"Well, maybe you never feared it because you never reached its starting point."

"Oh, Orpheus, you're supposed to be a novelist, not a philosopher."

~

The library sofa is quite practical. If you pull the compartment at the bottom of it a little too hard, it can be stretched out, turning it into a large comfortable bed, although a bit rough on the skin.

You and Orpheus laid on the sofa-bed, directly facing the large window, listening to the sound of raindrops hitting the glass.

"It's really calming here. Lulls you right to sleep." He started, his monocle set aside. Now having a better look at his so-to-speak "monocled" eye, you noticed it's more downturned than the other.

"...Mhm." Already half asleep, you turned your head towards his face, soaked up his profile through lidded eyes.

"____ , is everything okay?"

"Everything is just fine. Juuust fine. I'm just a bit sleepy."

You looked at his hand, laying by his hip between you two, fingers twitching here and there nervously. He never took his gloves off in front of you except for when he was eating.

"You can go take a nap if you want. I'll wake you up once it's time to go."

Your hand mindlessly headed towards his and your fingers pinched at the satin gloves, trying to take them off his hands.

"No, I think i'm good."

He sighed sharply. That wasn't a sigh of annoyance, it was a sigh of pain, like trying to breathe deeply while your heart aches.

"God, no. Please, ____ , don't do this to me."

He was scared, and now you were too, but his hand remained still. Torn between pleasure and horror. His fingers cold and nimble, his hand rough and calloused again. For an unknown reason, you wanted to hold it, from the second your gaze switched to it.

"I'm not doing anything bad, am I?"

Your fingers finally fit between his, palm to palm. It was weird. Like holding a pleasantly cold cup and trailing across sandpaper at the same time. But it felt good. It felt safe, secure, like it could last forever.

"You know what you're doing."

You felt his fingers tighten around your hand, gripping it tightly.

"...Please keep on doing it."

~

Seven o'clock.

An envelope in your hands. Your name written on it in the prettiest cursive you've seen, like a treat, baiting you to open it.

But you held back.

You waited.

The door creaked behind you. Not turning back, you spoke softly:

"Orpheus."

"____"

Your name uttered between breaths.

The clack of his shoes, his weight switching from leg to leg, his breathing becoming louder. You could now feel it on your neck. The chilling warmth.

"Why didn't you open the letter?"

"You know why."

"You're cruel."

"But you came anyways."

He sighed. "... for love." It sounded heavy coming from his mouth.

"For love." You smiled, the word now as light as a butterfly. The knife tore through paper and you skimmed through the lines of words, a careful gaze watching you as you did so.

"...What do you think?"

"It's wonderful."

"I know what's on your mind."

You turned towards him now. Face to face. Mere inches separating your eyes. Eyes, wandering everywhere else except towards what laid in front of them.

You tried to lay your hands around his neck. You tried, really. But the look in his eyes already denied you before you even started.

His hands quickly reached for your lowering wrists.

"Give me a moment, I beg of you." He whispered, shaking.

His lips indecisevly hovered above your lips, then your neck, your nose, your cheek. You closed your eyes firmly, only opening them once you felt comforting warmth on your jaw. He pulled back, leaving a translucent string of saliva as he parted.

"I know it wasn't as magical as you expected it to be. I'm sorry, ____ ."

"We barely even started, Orpheus."

He tried to object, to bury himself again, but before the words could slip from his mouth, your lips shut him up. And so, in a mere moment, the unspoken words did not matter anymore.

[turbulentscrawl]

hey hey how would nightmare react to that prompt you did of reader dies after a match. This is totally for science i swear

Is this painful enough for you? 😏

He was not a creature easily disturbed. He was an amalgamation of horror, dread given legs and will. His fate was an unfortunate one, but he accepted it without struggle, and used his sharpened quill as he was intended to.

…but he hated the way your body went limp beneath him. It was not the willing submission you had gifted him before, but a kind ripped out of you by the hand of death. He hesitated to continue, at first. He felt the hole through your head was something he needed to witness fully. To commit to memory and punish himself with the lingering image of. But the match called to be completed, and he could speak to you another time.

So he thought.

Orpheus was the one to inform him, but only via letter. He was smart enough to not face his other half in person, especially not with new such as this. News that you were gone. That you had died at his own hand.

Nightmare was an amalgamation of horror. Dread given legs and will! And he…did not know what to do. He was all the bad Orpheus had to offer. But for all that hate, and bitterness, and loneliness that encompassed him, now he just felt…numb. He could not fathom why the manor would do this to you. Or do this to him. Why he had to exist not just as a monster, but the monster with real blood on his hands.

He held Orpheus’s letter for a long time, rereading it. Looking at the lines of your name laid out in practiced cursive. Delicate. Mournful. Orpheus and he were the same, through and through. The letter did not say where you had been buried, or what had been otherwise done with your remains. And that was cruel, Nightmare thought. The two half-men were at odds, but Nightmare had not realized the hatred ran deep enough that Orpheus would keep your memory hidden away from him.

He was angry. So angry…. And he still didn’t know what to do. You had always been his reason, his answer. You helped pull him from the indecisive limbo he so often slipped into. He needed you. He needed you more than Orpheus did.

Nightmare crumpled the letter in his talons and slunk off to his dark corner of the Hunter manor. He knew not what this meant for the whole of he manors. If everyone could die now, if no one would heal. He did not know if your name would stay carved into his flesh, but he cut the letters into his forearms anyway, with Orpheus’s cursive. His cursive.

He yearned for any trace of you he could get, and if that meant slicing your memory into his flesh every day for the remainder of his miserable existence, then so be it.

[liam-summers]

Bangel + Baby Bangs in Public

[athanasius-symposium-of-writings]

Okay I was sleeping and I had a wonderful idea about Orpheus as one does and I’m thinking, he’s a writer. Surely He’s written something SPICY

Back to my point- So he’s writing one of his scenes for a novel but is just running out of inspiration. He then asks partner Y/N for help, and just tests a few kinks on them? I thought that would be pretty cool and I love how you right for Orpheus. Don’t feel pressured to write this just an idea, love your work!

I talked about this with a couple of friends but yes I believe Orpheus has done this with his lover.

To me, Orpheus writes what knows when it comes to those particular scenes. How? The man explored, went out to opium dens, molly houses, cat houses, etc. Just so he can write those scenes perfectly. Plus sex scenes are not written a lot in his books, and when they are it because for plot reasons it needs it. He is a more psychology horror mixed with series of unfortunate events vibes type with a dash of disturbing images (he basically Lovecraftian writer of that world tlr lol)

Anyway! I think Orpheus likes to watch. Yes, I think he is into voyeurism. There are few people in the manor he would not mind watching rail reader while he watching taking notes. Some think he is into cuckholding, but understand, Orpheus will only do that with those he knows he can hold the leash of.

The people he would let sleep with reader in his presence: Norton, Matthias (im bias), of course Nightmare (especially watching how much you can fit uwu), and Jack (they just using him like a dildo no im not explaining), Professor (two tops he knows why he is here)

Orpheus is a whore the end

[orpheusredux]

Ride the Lightning

Summary: Eddie is hanging out in his girlfriend's bedroom when he discovers something... naughty and delightful.

Rating: NC17

Pairing: Eddie Munson/Reader. Established relationship

Warnings: Very, very smutty. No Minors! 18+ only. Canon compliant.

A/N: I have been writing this is fits and starts for weeks, but I just couldn't stop. I meant it to be a quick and dirty little drabble about a boy, and girl and her vibrator, but then I went and got feelings all over it and it turned out way longer than I intended too. Please consider reblogging, it really helps. Also, this way for my AO3 and my masterlists. 5433 wds

“Baby… what’s this?” 

You look up from where you’re lying on your tummy on your bed reading a trashy romance novel to see your boyfriend of six months holding…

“Oh my God, Eddie! Put that back!”

…Your vibrator. 

You met at a punk show in Indianapolis in the depths of Winter. Eddie was working the door, and when you walked up late to meet your pals who were already inside, he’d looked you up and down, given you a wrist stamp, and a wink, and ushered you in without asking for a dime.  

It was almost as if he’d known the way to your heart was free gigs. 

Later he’d “bumped into you” at the bar and bought you a drink. Then you bought him one. Then there were shots with the band. The next thing you knew the two of you were back at your apartment, sprawled across your ratty old sofa, his tongue in your mouth and your hand in his pants. You’d been dating ever since. 

Being with Eddie was both delightfully easy, and head-fuckingly bizarre at the same time. 

First of all, he was a metaller, and you’d only ever dated punks, stoners and on one less than stellar occasion, a party guy from California who wore pastel exclusively. You were not prepared for the level of energy Eddie brought to your relationship, the earnestness and often kind of confronting honesty. He told you he loved you three months in, and then proceeded to spend the next three months showing just how much. 

“I learned the hard way not to fuck around,” he told you once, when you’d pressed him on how he could tell someone he loved them so easily. “I know for a fact you don't always get that tomorrow you're putting things off till. You know?”

Which brings you to the second thing: Eddie was from Hawkins, that town down state that had caught fire and burned to the ground - like the whole town. They called it Indiana’s Centralia, now, after that town out East that’d been burning for 30 years? That was Hawkins. Everyone had been evacuated and there was still a danger zone three miles deep around the place.

Eddie talked about it sometimes, not a lot, but enough for you to know he wasn’t over what had happened to him there. All you knew was he’d seen some shit, been badly hurt and never wanted to go back. Except… as much as he hated the place, as much as it scared him and he never wanted to see it again, it was like he knew one day he’d have to. 

It was eerie, honestly.

He never took off his shirt, either. Not even in bed. You’d felt that the skin on his ribs and chest wasn’t entirely smooth, and once in bed he’d rolled over in his sleep and you’d glimpsed some shiny pink skin at his waist. You knew it had been bad, you knew there’d been fire, but those scars looked… well, they didn't look like burn scars. They almost looked like... well, it was silly what you'd thought. Besides, it had been dark and what the fuck did you know, anyway?

Glimpsing them hadn’t made you any less curious about him, but it did make you stop trying to get him to take his shirt off in bed.

You didn’t know how to tell him that he was safe with you, that he was the best boyfriend you’d ever had. Kind, considerate, thoughtful; that you thought it was quick, sure, but maybe you were falling in love with him. 

He’d introduced you to his only family, his uncle Wayne, who lived in Wyoming now, but came to visit him a lot, and the guys from his band - Gareth, Jeff and Dave - Corroded Coffin.

He shared a place with them in Speedway, you'd stayed there a few times. You loved the guys, really you did, but it was kind of a dump, so you spent a lot of time together at your studio on Canal Walk.

He wasn’t perfect - he could be impulsive, your dad worried about his “fiscal stability”, and for someone with so many secrets, he sure was nosey. 

Which was why he was currently standing in your bedroom holding your goddamned vibrator with a look on his face like he’d just won the sexual lottery. 

In his defense - not that he deserved any - you are the one who left the draw open, which was practically an invitation to pry as far as Mister Sticky Beak here was concerned. But still, a girl could keep some secrets, couldn’t she? 

You leap off the bed and make a grab for it - or try to - before he can push the little black button on the base of the thing. 

Eddie, being Eddie, holds it above his head, just out of your reach and says, “Now now, let's not be hasty,” as you try vainly to grab it.

“Eddie,” you whine and consider elbowing him in the ribs - but the other thing that glimpse of his scars has given you is a healthy respect for his body. You’d rather die than hurt him. You’ll have to resort to pouting and pleading instead. “Give it back. That’s private.” 

You give him a pointed look and hope he’ll pick up what you’re putting down. Naturally he doesn’t. 

“Is it though?” He leers at you, trying not to laugh right in your face. “I mean, I am sort of in charge of delivering the orgasms around here now, aren’t I?” 

You bark a laugh, despite yourself. “Oh, who are you, again? Cruise director of the love boat? My orgasms are my business, mister!” 

“That’s not what you were saying last night,” he says slyly, before putting on the worst - also the most annoyingly accurate - impersonation of you in the throes of passion, pitching his voice just below a falsetto squeak. “Oh Eddie! Oh Eddie, you’re gonna make me… I’m gonna… Oh, oh, oh!” 

Scars be damned, you poke him right in the armpit, and he drops the vibe with an “oof”. You grab it before it can hit the ground, and make to run away with it, but he grabs you - playfully -  around the waist and mock-wrestles you onto your bed. You land on top of him, both of you breathless and laughing by now, the vibe clutched tightly in your fist, up by his head. 

His hands slip down you back, over your hips and he grabs two good handfuls of your ass. In the six months since you started fooling round he has never missed an opportunity to show you how much he loves touching you, kneading your flesh, tracing all your curves. He likes it almost as much as he seems to like being touched by you. It’s one of the things you adore the most about him - he has a healthy respect and fulsome admiration for your big, bouncy body. 

“OK,” he says. “Let’s settle this like gentlemen. Let’s play a game…” 

You squint at him, not trusting him one inch - you trust him completely, but you also do. Not. Not one inch. 

“Like gentlemen, old sport! What what,” you reply, in a mock English accent.

“Let’s play Quid, Pro, Quo.” 

Now, you’ve never played a game called Quid, Pro, Quo before, but he just took you to see Silence of the Lambs last week - you don’t care what anyone says about psychological thriller, that was a dang horror film in disguise - so you think you have a pretty good idea what it means. 

“Ew, Eddie, I am not role playing sexy serial killers with you,” you say, and put up a bit of a struggle to get off him. 

That really makes him laugh, but instead of letting you get away, he wraps his arms around you and gives you a squeeze. 

“Oh Jesus Christ, no. That does nothing for me, either,” he says with a theatrical shudder, that only serves to rub you forcefully all over his body, your soft squishy boobs against the hard, warm planes of his chest. It makes something delicious tingle deep in your core. How’s that for quid pro what-the-fuck-ever, you get plenty of pleasure and enjoyment out of his body, too. 

“No, in my version of the game, we take turns offering each other something we think the other might want, and if they do, they have to…” 

He lifts a hand off your derriere and waves it around suggestively. 

“What like, I offer you a BJ, and if you want one - “ 

“If!” Eddie snorts. 

“ - you have to offer me ‘something of equal or greater value’?” 

“Yeah,” he says with a grin. “Something like that. And then you can counter it with something of greater value again.”

“Like a sexy version of ‘chicken’?” 

“Well, I was trying to make it classy, but we can go with ‘Sexy Chicken’ if that works. My idea, so I start…”

“Nuh huh, Big Fella,” you say, tweaking his chin with the hand not currently holding a goddamned vibe. “Ladies first… OK, what will you give me to get the hell off you.” 

“Oh no,” Eddie replies, nose scrunched up. “I wouldn’t even give you a dime for that. You’ll have to stay exactly where you are.” He grabs your ass again, and kind of settles in with a sigh. 

“Ungh, OK,” you say, rolling your eyes. “What if I… take off my bra.” 

“Without getting off me?” 

“Without getting off you, you perv.” 

He laughs and then bites his lip considering. “OK, I will give you a foot rub. Both feet. On… Thursday, straight after your shift at the coffee shop.” 

You gasp. You work nights at the campus beanery and your feet are routinely absolutely battered by the end of the night. 

Once, early in your courting, Eddie had been waiting for you at your place when you came home from one of those shifts. He’d waited for you to kick off your shoes, and slump in your favorite chair, before kneeling down next to you, and starting to knead your instep, heels, calves and the pads of your toes. Without being asked.

No offence to the many wonderful orgasms you’d shared with each other since you met, but that massage had been better than sex. 

Now that he was working the door at the club more regularly, Eddie wasn’t around when you finish work much anymore, so this offer was kind of a big deal. 

You start reaching behind yourself to unclasp your bra without saying another word -  only to then realize you are still holding the Goddamned vibrator. You chuck it up the bed by the pillows, and he grins down at you cheekily. 

“I’m on a goddamned promise, Munson,” you say, from somewhere inside your tee shirt. 

“Yeah, yeah, you know I’m good for it.” 

His eyes slip over your shoulders and arms as you wriggle and twist, pulling your straps off under your tee shirt and pulling the bra out the sleeve. Through two layers of denim you feel his cock twitch when your unfettered boobs press against his torso. He bites his tongue and sweeps his hands up and down your arms. His gaze is just as warm and soft. 

“Ta dah!” you say, flinging the bra away. You’re immediately jostled a bit by his laughter. “My turn again?” 

“Your turn,” Eddie agrees. 

You take your time thinking, trying to remember some throw away snippet of kinkiness he’d hinted at, or a time when he’d wanted to try something, but  you hadn’t. Finally, you mind settles on a movie you’d watched together one rainy afternoon that had ended in a mind blowing fuck on the floor of your en suite bathroom. 

“I will let you do that - you know - that thing, from 9 1/2 Weeks.” 

Eddie goes very still. “OK, I need to be clear here, are you talking about the striptease?” 

“Nope… the other thing.” 

“With the - the ice and the -” 

“And the blindfold.”

“Holy fuck,” Eddie said, eyes like saucers.  

You cross your hands on top of his chest and rest your chin on the back of them. “I play to win, Munson,” you say, all cocky. 

He laughs at you. “Oh my God, what have I got that would match that?” 

“What indeed?”

He looks at you thoughtfully, reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear tenderly, and then in the smallest voice you’ve ever heard him use, he says, “The next time we fuck - I’ll take off my shirt. I’ll take it off. For you.” 

It’s so not what you were expecting, so not where you thought this teasing, titillating game was going, that for a second you’re too shocked to say anything. Your voice just deserts you, until finally…

“Baby, you don’t have to do that.” 

“No, I know,” he says with a sigh, his eyes slipping away from yours, to focus on a tendril of your hair he’s playing with. “But I also know it’s weird - ”

You do push away from him then, because you’ve suddenly got this horrible weight in the pit of your stomach. Did you give him that idea? Had you made him feel pressured? 

“It’s not weird,” you say. He sits up too, as if he’s going to argue the point. So you stop him, with a hand to his chest. 

“It’s not weird,” you say, firmly. “It’s private. It’s none of my business, it’s - you don’t have to tell me or show anything you don’t want to.” 

He covers your hand on his chest with one of his own. 

“But what - what if I want it to be your business,” he says. “God, that sounded way better in my head. I mean - “ 

You turn your hand, take hold of his and squeeze, nodding for him to go on. 

“I don’t want us to have secrets anymore. I feel like I’m keeping something from you every time we fuck, and I don’t want to any more.”

“Then I’m happy for you to tell me anything you want to tell me. But Eddie, you have to know -” 

His eyes are so big and limpid in the dim light of your room and you just - you don’t want any secrets any more either. 

“You must know I l-love you,” you say finally, tripping over the biggest four letter word in the language. 

He smiles, warmly, but you can’t help noticing there’s sadness there too as he scoots up the bed. 

“Sweetheart,” he says, reaching behind his head to pull the back of his shirt over his shoulders and off. “You really do play to win.”

The tee shirt sails off the side of the bed and then there’s just him, his arms out wide, head lowered so you can’t really see his face, just his mottled torso and the top of his dear, beloved head. 

You knew it was going to be bad, but it’s actually even worse than that. He’s not looking at you, so you have time to school your face into a placid, relaxed gaze, to not to show what you’re really feeling, because you know the shock and horror would hurt him, even if he pretended it didn’t. 

Now you understand exactly why he’d never shown you before; why it took him half a year to trust you with this. You’re honest enough with yourself to admit if you’d seen the ruin of his chest in the first few blushy weeks of your romance, you might have run for the hills. 

Low, on his right side, there are gouges - not burns - angry-looking welts of pinkish, reddish skin that bulge and buckle like an infection that’s healed badly. Dotted around this scar are little rosy contusions, like blood has burst under the surface and congealed there. Deep scores - healed, but puckered - rake across his hip. They look like they could pop open again at the slightest provocation. 

You can’t keep back the gasp that comes when you take in the extent of the damage to his right side, though. There’s almost nothing there but scar; no nipple, or curve of skin over fat, muscle and bone. Instead it’s just a horribly twisted rent in the flesh where those parts of his anatomy should be. 

Without thinking, you reach out - to what? Sooth? Map? Verify? You don’t know - only to pull back before you can touch him. He catches your hand, pulling it towards his ruined pec, flattening your fingers, gently, like he’s trying not to spook you, and pressing them to the skin. 

“It’s OK,“ he says. “It doesn’t hurt. It’s healed. It’s actually…I was going to try and say it’s not as bad as it looks. But, ah, it is - it was - exactly as fuckin’ bad as it looks.”

“Oh Eddie,” you whisper, because there’s really nothing else you can say. The skin under your fingertips is warm and hard, feels rubbery and artificial. You feel what’s left of his muscles flex a little under it.

He lets go of your hand and takes hold of your shoulders. 

“You can’t tell anyone,” he says, urgently, whispering your name rather than one of his many pet names for you, squeezing your shoulders for emphasis. “Everything they say about Hawkins, the - the fire, the chemical spills. It’s all bullshit. I’ll tell you all of it, one day, if you want. But, it’s a long story. Can we - another time?”

You nod as if you understand, but you don’t. You’re not sure you ever will, or even want to.

“Do they - can you feel me?” You ask, sliding your hands so gently over the scars, touching. mapping each one. 

“Yeah, I can feel you,” he says. “I always feel you.” 

With your hand still on his chest, you kneel up, straddling his thighs, press yourself closer to him, leaning in to kiss to his mouth, slowly and thoroughly, so he knows - so he can be certain - this knowledge changes nothing except to make things more real, more sure between you. 

“I'm so sorry this happened to you. And I am so glad you survived.” You hear your voice catch on that last bit, feel the tears choking up at the back of your throat. 

He makes a soothing sound and wraps his arms around you. 

“I was mad about it, for a long time,” he says, his voice muffled where his face is pressed into your neck. “But - this is going to sound fucking insane - everything that happened brought me here.” 

He leans back and looks up into your eyes. You cup his dear face in your hands. 

“I don’t think I’d change a fucking thing - not even losing my goddamned nipple - if it meant I didn’t get to have you.”  His voice is gentle, soothing, and so full of love he’ll never need to say the words if he just keeps talking to you like that.

You kiss him then, because you’re not sure what will happen if you try to speak. You don’t want to cry all over him. He’d only end up taking care of your messy feelings, when you’re pretty sure he’s got big enough feelings of his own to deal with. 

You lean back and smoothing your hands over his bare shoulders and back to his neck, you say, “so, I guess that makes it my turn again, huh?” 

He barks one of his big braying guffaws, wraps his arms around you and squeezes. 

“Oh, we’re still playing? OK, OK, sure, babycakes. Whaddaya got?“ 

Out of the corner of your eye you catch a glimpse of that goddamn vibe sitting by your pillow. The idea pops into your head before you’ve really thought about the logistics, but once it’s there, you almost can’t get it out. Could you? Should you? Really? 

You pull yourself off his lap and crawl up the bed, collapsing onto your back, the pillows under your head. Eddie twists to watch, and his eyes go soft when you pick up the vibe and turn it over in your hands. 

“What if I… ride the lighting, right here, right now, while you watch?” 

You both stare at each other for a second, until Eddie cracks, snickering like a naughty school boy. 

“Ride the what now?” 

“Ride the - the lightning, baby,” you say, giggling and waving the vibe. “That’s what they call it right? ‘Cause it’s electrical? “ 

“Oh my God, seriously? What the hell have you been reading?” 

“Wouldn’t you like to know? 

“I’m pretty damned sure I would,” Eddie says, bemused. He crawls up the bed after you to lie on his side looking down at the little pink vibe in your hands. 

He reaches out, and thumbs the little black button on the bottom. The little thing starts up with a buzz that makes the breath catch in both your chests. Eddie hmms, and runs the tips of his finger over the soft, curved edge. You know he’s picturing it, picturing you spread out for him, pleasuring yourself while he watches. 

“OK,” he says, lifting the vibe out of your hands, and gently rolling it over the curve of your breast. It feels so good, even through your tee shirt, you can’t help squirming a little at the sweet, tingling hum of it. “I see your offer of a wanton display of feminine lust, and I raise you… me fucking you with this - where does it - oh, I see where that goes - me fucking you with this, while we both watch.” 

“Mmmmhmmm.” 

Without saying a word, you start pushing your sweatpants down your legs and trying to wriggle out of your tee shirt at the same time, which ends up getting you all tangled, so Eddie has to put the vibe down and help you get the shirt off.  

“Leave your panties on,” he says, breathless as he lies on his back to thumb open the button on his own jeans and start kicking them off. 

“I think we messed up the game,” you say, as you scoot back on the bed, and watch Eddie pulling off his boxers and socks. “I think I got too many turns.” 

“Hmmm?” Eddie hums, thoroughly distracted by your breasts and thighs, and his eyes are fixed on the damp patch you can feel slowly spreading across the crotch of your white panties. He’s not thinking about the game or his scars, or Hawkins. Just you. The joy floods through you like sweet honey in your veins, warm and delicious. You get to have him, have this. Fuck, yes. Life, God, the Universe - whatever - may suck ass sometimes, but sometimes, it’s also this good. 

He guides you to lie back as he slides up next to you. His cock, half hard and leaking, is pressed against your hip as he leans over you to kiss your mouth. Then there’s a click, and a hum as the vibe starts again. Still kissing you he starts to roll it, so gently from your collarbone, over the swell of your breast, to your nipple. 

“Eddie,” you hiss, arching your back. He pulls away from you, to turn his head and look down the length of your torso to the stiff, pink peak of your tit. 

He hums again, almost to himself, like he’s considering where to go next. When it seems like he’s decided, he drags the vibe slowly across your sternum, to your other nipple, and rolls the buzzing silicone over your tender flesh. He looks down at your chest. 

“God, baby, look at these pretty little titties,” he says, biting his plush lower lip. 

You look down at yourself, but the sight of him holding the buzzing tip of the vibe to your quivering nipple is too much. You mewl, and grip the sheets beneath you in your fists, pushing yourself into the warmth the vibe is creating. 

“Do you - oh, God - do you like them, Eddie?” 

He leans down to suck the stiff peak of your other nipple into his soft, wet mouth and lets it go with an obscene pop. 

“Oh Princess, you know I do.” 

You’re just holding on as the buzzing against your tender flesh starts to verge on pain. But it’s the kind of pain that shoots right through your core to your aching cunt, makes it flutter and clench. 

“Fuck, Eddie,” you whine, arching your back and rubbing your thighs together, before letting your legs fall open and tilting up your hips. 

“Hmmmm, so sensitive,” he says, his voice deep and rough. He tilts his face again to look down your body to your sex and his hair brushes across your cheek like a butterfly’s kiss. “Oh ho ho, what do we have here?“ 

“Please, baby," you whine, canting your hips again. “Please.”

“Needy girl,” he sing-songs, and starts dragging the vibe across your sternum and down, over your belly to the edge of your white cotton panties. “Oh no, you’ve made a bit of a mess here, Princess.”

You know that by “mess” he means the damp patch. You’ve been wet since he started this game, and now you’re practically flooding. Any other time you’d be embarrassed about that, and the noises you're making as he rolls the vibe across your pubic bone and your mons, but you just can’t summon an ounce of shame right now. All you want is that vibe where it belongs, buried in your pussy, or on your clit. You fucking want it. 

“Please, Eddie, don’t tease me,” you say, and your voice sounds so shaky, you’re shivering so hard your teeth are almost chattering. 

He slips the vibe over the thin cotton, to the damp patch. He rolls the vibe around pressing in. It almost makes you jerk, like he’s touched a live wire to your core. 

“Oh yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah,” you start chanting, pressing your hips up into that hot buzz. “Fuck, yes. Right there, oh, oh Eddie.” 

Your head is thrown back, eyes clamped shut as you chase that feeling, fisting the sheets under you. You can feel it building so you chase it. If he keeps this up you’ll come just like this. 

“Hold on there, sweetheart,'' he says, not removing the vibe, but easing some of the pressure. “We’ll get you there, but not too soon, OK?” 

You can’t help the whine that follows. It sounds so needy and pathetic. Again, you’d be embarrassed, but it’s all you’re capable of right now. It makes Eddie chuckle, and worse, lift the vibe away from you altogether. 

“Edd-ie,” you pout. But he just taps your hip and starts to slowly peel your panties down. You lift your ass long enough for him to get them out from under your butt, and then he’s drawing them down your thighs, and calves, over your feet and off. And then, like the wild goddamned animal he is, he smooshes them against his nose and mouth and breathes deep.  

“Fu-uck, baby, you smell so good.” 

You respond to his teasing by spreading your legs wide and slipping your fingers between your wet folds. “Yeah? How does it look, Daddy?” You ask him, as his eyes fix on your cunt. 

He knows what a fucking buzz you get from him looking at your sex. You don’t know why, or what it means, but any time he looks at your pussy, you feel yourself get exponentially hotter, infinitely wetter. Part of you thinks you could just come from him watching you spreading while he tells you how good your little kitty looks, how much he wants it. Which is kind of what’s happening right now, God have mercy. 

He throws your panties over his shoulder, and leans down to nose your hand out of the way and suck your little rose bud into his mouth. It’s kind of an awkward angle, but that just makes it feel even better, unexpected and strange.

“Taste fucking good, too,” he says, pulling off your clit, breathless and a little dazed. His cock, hard and red, is jutting up from his lap, the tip wet with pre-come. You want to suck it, but before you can ask for it, he rolls the vibe over your mons, and presses it hard, against the left side of your clit. 

That really does make you jackknife up off the bed. You can feel the buzz everywhere, in everything, all at once. It’s humming in your cunt, your ass, even your nipples, it reverberates through your teeth and out the top of your head, where every single follicle is standing on end. There are thousand tiny bubble bursting under your skin, and you never want it to end. 

“Fuck yeah, baby,” you hear Eddie say, as if from a distance. “Fuck yeah, fucking ride it.” 

You realize there’s someone in the room wailing… it takes you a second to understand that that someone is you. You’ve got one hand fisted in the sheets, and the other is gripping Eddie’s knee. Your toes are curled into the blankets, and your eyes are clenched shut as the orgasm arcs through you like he’s just flicked the on switch and lit you up. 

It seems to go on forever, every muscle in your body going into spasm for long, hot seconds of pleasure, until it slowly starts to ebb away. 

You slap feebly at Eddie’s hand when it’s too much, when the intense pleasure has melded into a keen pain. He gently lifts the vibe away from you, thumbs the button and leans over to put it on your bedside table. 

For a couple of minutes, you can’t open your eyes or move a muscle. It’s like all your bones have turned to jelly. You lie there, spread eagle, panting, your hand still gripping his thigh.

“Fucking hell, Eddie,” you whisper, finally. “Fucking hell.” 

“Yeah?” 

You peel open one eyelid to look at him, leaning by your side. “Yeah,“ you breathe, only just able to nod your head. 

You attempt to sit up and turn to him. It’s a pretty pathetic attempt, all things considered and you end up sort of limply rolling towards him, the vision of that big, red, weeping cock of his is still fresh in your mind. “What about…” 

He’s got one arm across his lap, covering his groin. 

“Yeah, about that…” 

“Oh my God, did you just bust a nut from watching me come?” 

“You make sound so romantic,” he says wryly, reaching over the edge of the bed and snagging his Metallica shirt to cover his slowly deflating junk with. 

“Eddie,” you say, reaching for him. “Baby, that is the hottest fucking thing that has ever happened to me.” 

“Sure, sure,” he says, as he wipes up his lap and throws the tee shirt into the far corner of the room. But he lets you pull him on top of you, your loose, sweaty bodies sliding together a perfect fit. 

“You’re just too… God,” he says, snuffling into the crook of your neck and wrapping his arms and legs around you and under you in a sticky, sexy bear hug. “Too fucking sexy. I had to bust.” 

You both laugh, giddily. 

Eventually he rolls off you, and leans up on his elbow, his tousled head resting on his palm as he looks down at you. He’s so lovely, those chocolate eyes, and his plush, beautiful mouth, even the road map of pain on his chest that leads all the way back into his past, all the way to you two here, in this bed… even that has a kind of raw beauty. He’s a survivor, your man. 

“Eddie,” you say, reaching up to twine a lock of his hair around the finger. “I think I was wrong.”

He grunts a little as he leans over you to grab a pack of smokes from the bedside table. He pops two out and lights them both at the same time, like some Beatnik from the 60s, one for him and one for you.

He takes a lit smoke from between his lips and holds it out for you. You take it, wait for him to take his own out of his mouth and blow a plume of smoke over your heads, before you lean in and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth.  

Leaning back again, you take a drag, blow a plume of smoke of your own, and smile. 

“Yeah,” you say, stretching languidly. “I think you are in charge of dispensing the orgasms ‘round here now.”

______

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[somethingsomethingwords]

Good evening *said sliding down a ramp*! Here's another fic. It started as a study of shadows and light, then it got derailed. As always thanks for reading. Enjoy 💜

When Fernando raises his eyes to the window, he is surprised to see it is already late at night, his watch reading at 00:30.

The moon shines, yellowish and full, creating a path of bright squares and dark lines.

The desktop in front of him is starting to become blurrier and blurrier, and he definitely needs a break.

He raises his arms, stretching and hearing the pops of his back. He stands up, deciding for a reinvigorating midnight snack, when he remembers he is supposed to have company.

The screen on the desk in front of his own is still on, but from his position he can't see anyone looking at it.

It is only when he walks around the table that he solves the mystery of his missing companion: Lance is sleeping sitting at the desk, face on his bent arms and soft breaths leaving his slightly parted lips.

The bright artificial light gives him a white hue, ghostly pale. It only serves to highlight the bags under his eyes.

He's pushing himself too hard, Fernando thinks, feeling worried seeing the toll the season is taking on his teammate.

Sighing slightly, he reaches for Lance's shoulder. He wants to lightly shake him, but in the exact moment he touches the other, Lance flinches away, waking up and looking around, searching for the disturbance.

When his eyes land on Fernando, he relaxes a fraction, before diverging them and starting staring at the screen, not saying anything.

"Lance, is late. Let's go home" he says softly, not wanting to disturb the quietness of the room.

"It's ok, you can go. I'll just stay for a couple more minutes" Lance tries to smile, but Nando can see it doesn't reach his eyes.

"Lance, we came together, remember?"

They didn't. They are strict about trying to keep their private lives separated from their professional ones.

But Lance seems so tired Nando isn't sure he can drive back home. And with the silence stretching, with Lance trying to figure out why he doesn't remember it, Fernando is sure it is the right call.

"We... did...not?"

Fernando is actually going to pick him up, put him on his shoulder and carry him to the car.

"No, we didn't, but you thinking about it this long tells me you shouldn't drive"

Lance has the audacity to look annoyed, before sighing and admitting defeat.

"Yeah, fair enough. But I still need to analyse the data from the last race. I'll call an Uber" he says, before turning to his computer and seemingly starting ignoring Fernando.

I love this man, and arguing will lead to nothing, Fernando has to remind himself.

From the look of it, Lance wouldn't stay awake for long. So Fernando simply leaves him alone to retrieve a water bottle from the adjacent kitchen, forgoing his snack.

When he comes back, he can see Lance's head slowly losing its battle against gravity, lowering and then rising up, each time deeper and slower than the previous one.

He waits until he is once again in front of the Canadian, leaning back against the desk, then taps Lance's cheek with the cold bottle.

Lance flinches again, but he doesn't seem to have the energy to look angry or even annoyed. He simply takes the bottle and drinks a little bit, before giving it back while offering a small smile.

Fernando takes it, and waits. Still as a statue, he can see Lance looking up at him from time to time.

Lance could be patient, but nothing compares to Nando's psychological warfare methods. If he put his mind to it, he could wait until next year.

"I know you think I can't do it. But I have to. So just, please, leave. I'm enough of a pathetic show already, there is no need for an audience"

Lance's words cut deep, fast and cold, straight to Nando's heart.

"Lance, I'm the first one who believes in you. But won't solve anything on a Tuesday morning at one a.m."

"There is no more time, Nando. I've done anything I could think of, and nothing changed. I feel like I'm just wasting time and resources here. I need to get better, to do better. If not, then all I've done, the sacrifices and the things lost and the time spent would have been for nothing. I need this to work" he is basically vomiting the words, rubbing his eyes in the vain hope the tears he can feel filling his eyes don't actually leave them.

Fernando feels like he can't do anything for his lover. He can't promise him a better car, a better strategy, a better season. He can see his partner being crushed by the pressure put on his shoulders, and he starts searching for some kind of sign of when it had started.

He knows how people talk about Lance, what they say and think, but it never seemed to bother the younger man. He starts wondering how he had been so blind to not realise their words had chipped a hole in Lance's armour.

Anyway, the damage is already done. He can only pick Lance up, and support him while his shield is under maintenance, lending his own.

"Lance, it's not going to work right now. You are tired, we both are. Let's just go home, and tomorrow we start fixing this"

Lance has a moment of hesitation.

"What if there is nothing to fix. The car is ok, the tires are ok. You have good results. What if I'm the problem, and I cannot be fixed?"

Enough is enough.

Fernando takes the face of the man he loves in his hands, forcing Lance to look at him, his grip firm but still gentle.

"Lance, listen to me. The car is shit. We know it, Mike knows it, the mechanics and the engineers, even the waiters know it. I have results because I see a problem and hammer at it so hard until it goes away. You are not the problem. Doing what we do, is difficult. Training, travelling, racing. It never stops. We keep going but is hard. So just stop, for tonight. Tomorrow we start again, but for now, let's just rest"

Fernando knows it's over when he feels Lance's head falling against his chest.

He won, but at what cost?

They stay like this, Fernando caressing Lance's hair while the younger man just breathes, trying to hide his quiet sobs and the light tremble of his shoulders.

When his watch starts vibrating, reminding him time is real, Nando gently pushes the other up, wiping the tears away.

"Let's go home" he repeats, and helps Lance get up.

With their hands intertwined, Fernando leads them outside, not turning around, sure of Lance following him, close behind.

They'll be back tomorrow, so they can leave Lance's car for the night.

Once in Fernando's car, the ride is quiet, neither needing any more words, just needing each other.

They fall asleep pressed against each other, united in a mess of fears and tiredness and love, because no matter what will happen tomorrow, or the day after, they are sure they will continue to have each other's backs.

So, when they get home, and start settling for the night, it's no brainer that Lance attaches himself to Nando's body, in need of being reassured through touch and presence. Fernando is more than happy to comply, the need in him to provide and protect finally calmed when Lance is in his arms, watching the boy falling asleep, calmer and more settled, with just the light of the moon to illuminate half his face, and for the first time, he looks real and solid and alive.

He pressed a kiss to the crown of his head, not able to limit his affection anymore.

[starlight-archer]

Talk by Hozier is the Charles x Edwin song to me

[revvethasmythh]

I just love if you're contemplating turning illithid to save the world, durge's line of logic for doing it would easily be "this is the perfect solution. it will wipe the slate clean. i started this, I should end it with my sacrifice" meanwhile gale will literally pull everyone aside to say he thinks we should rethink using the orb, that it's the perfect solution, it'll wipe his slate clean. two people so self-sacrificing who both want to give themselves to save the world because they think they deserve to die for their mistakes and the only reason they DON'T is for each other.......and also because lae'zel is in the background going "would you two stop being IDIOTS for just FIVE SECONDS and FREE ORPHEUS ALREADY" and she's right

[sunflower1experiment]

Orpheus

Talking to him was like talking to a pompous rich man, he sounds so full of himself but when serious: his quick grab and gentle hush made my eyes widen. “Sorry.”

He walks past me and helped Alice, she looks my way, her eyes still full of wonder and determination. How many years ago was it? Watching these two as the eldest we were all just kids and I swore my oath to protect Orpheus and her.

“Place the box down and stand over there. Don’t move until you hear a gunshot…”

When Fredrick left, my eyes go to Orpheus who acknowledged my presence and I grab his face gently, “Are you hurt?”

“No I’m fine.” Backing away, my gaze hardens, wanting to redeem my incompetence for failing him and yet he still was gentle with me. Even going as far to press his head against my own. “Please signal me to protect you.”

“You’re my priority |Name|.”

“Both of you are my priority.” It was quiet, Alice looked at them with a slight wonder. Did she recognize them? Did they know her? Maybe not.

She knew Orpheus had someone beside him but, she wasn’t planning to press further. And this woman wore an outfit for someone who’s proud to be of the class they were in yet she called herself a bodyguard, how can someone so sweet, quiet and even confident with her allies and even in Alice.

“She’s too sweet for this world…yet quiet and reserved in the right moments. Almost as if deciphering when to act.”

Orpheus chuckles, “I see my partner has colored you curious? Yes she is my guard but I consider her my spouse.”

“You both are together yet have no ring?”

“Her culture isn’t like mine. Rather she refers to me in another way. As for the bands of marriage we also have specific clothes, she gave me a neck tie and I gave her a lace for her hair.” Orpheus smiles softly.

“I truly do love |Name|, she helped me at my lowest.”

|Name| looks back at the two. “Lets get going you guys.”

He follows her and they lock hands for a second, before Orpheus nuzzles her. “Don’t worry.”