#so it would be better to just paint the skin I guess? when its meant to be used for his powers I mean

[koeal]

I didn't forget about his bday what do you mean

[snowballseal]

Hello! I love your writing sm!

If your requests are open may I rq mc taking care of a burned out or overwhelmed Rafayel? I feel like he's always there for mc but she doesn't get to return the favor often.

Maybe her figuring out how to make him relax and feel better after a particularly bad day/week. ty! <3

Taking care of a fishie

Rafayel X Reader

Summary: When you go to visit Rafayel during a storm, you realize something isn't quite right. He's upset, dealing with a storm of his own as he works, and you decide he needs to take a break. It's up to you to take care of him.

Word Count: 3892

Note: So..........this kind of took on it's own life. It got a little angstier than I'm sure you intended for in your request, anon, but it's still mostly just a lot of fluff and comfort. I really enjoyed writing it, though his dialogue takes time for me to work out. Still! I hope you like it!

Also, I will die on the hill of calling Rafayel "fishie". Sorry not sorry, I think it's so cute.

---

Stepping into the studio is like stepping into a storm. Instead of its usual light atmosphere, the air feels thick and heavy. You can almost feel the static tension crackling along your skin. An actual storm can be seen out the windows, creeping along the coast outside at a threatening pace, casting shadows that make the space feel cold and eerie.

“Rafayel?” You call out into the dimly lit front hall.

No response. All you can hear is the distant sound of harsh brush strokes on a canvas. 

Of course he’s working. The world could end and Rafayel would still be working. Though he doesn’t sound…happy about it. Concern slowly twines around your chest as you make your way deeper into the studio, towards the sound. The usual mess is somehow worse - fruits, paints, and brushes scattered everywhere, along with crinkled balls of paper and tape. You guess this storm was a tornado.

As you expect, you find Rafayel where he usually works. He’s deep into a painting, his brush moving ruthlessly across the canvas. His movements are jerky and unnatural, yet robotically precise. Almost…apathetic. 

Unease prickles under your skin.

It’s nothing like the evenings you’ve spent watching Rafayel paint, when his motions are slow and hypnotic, his focus always so intense but gentle. You could watch him for hours as he brings life to a painting, each brush stroke a breath into existence. This - this is nothing like that. This feels more like anger, bristling and hot, just like the colors slicing across the canvas. There’s no hint of the beautiful, dulcet tones of blue he loves to use. Instead, it’s almost a violent clash of fire and steel and blood. 

Your unease grows with each strike he adds.

Something is definitely wrong.

He’s so focused, Rafayel doesn’t even notice you coming up behind him, not until you curl your arms around his waist. The artist goes tense under your touch, brush freezing against the canvas.

“Hey, fishie,” you greet, voice impossibly soft, hesitant, “I think maybe it’s time to take a break…”

Oh, that’s a tempting thought for him. Rafayel’s eyes flutter shut as he takes a moment to focus on the feeling of your body against his. Your touch is so warm and comforting, like being enveloped by the perfect heated blanket, drawing his attention to just how sore he feels. A bone-deep ache settles in his muscles, reminding him of the deep-set anger simmering in his blood. 

His jaw clenches as he levels the painting with a glare, “No time. I have to finish this.” 

You don’t even blink at the bite in his tone. It’s not meant for you.

“Raf, you look like you’re seconds away from stabbing the painting. And like you haven’t slept in days,” you note, scanning the bags under his ocean eyes. A frown flickers across his lips as he looks away. “You need a break and you know it. Come on.”

“This is just the way artists work,” he grumbles, waving his paintbrush dismissively, “There’s no such thing as time when it comes to inspiration. Unless there’s enough money, apparently.”

His comment makes you tilt your head, eyes narrowing. It’s not playful or simply dramatic like he usually talks. Instead, you hear a thin note of bitterness, as sharp as his wit. And it tells you all you need to know.

“Nope.” 

You click your tongue and snatch the paintbrush from his hands. Rafayel squawks, turning to you with an almost offended look as you drop it in a nearby can of paint. His lips part, and you can tell he’s getting ready to put up a fight, but you don’t even let him start, shooing him off the stool.

“Nope, nope, off you go. You’re going to take a break and a shower,” you insist, pushing him towards his room.

Rafayel gapes at you, and then tries to duck out and around your firm grip, “Cutie, I really can’t-”

“Nope, I’m not hearing it, Rafayel,” you chirp, not unkindly, and block his path when he whirls around. 

The man can be more stubborn than a mule sometimes, and it’s best to fight fire with fire. He plants his feet, crossing his arms over his chest with that exaggerated pout, the one that usually makes you give in to all his whims because you can’t deny such a cute, little fish. You hold your ground, though, raising a brow at him. It’s a stand-off. His stubbornness against your desire to take care of him. And you’re going to win.

After a few seconds, Rafayel scrunches his nose, glancing between you and his unfinished painting. If he really wanted to he could probably overpower you, if only for a second, and get back to his work. But the look you give him, eyes wide and earnest, a deep ocean of concern that threatens to pull him under, makes what little is left of his resolve crumble.

“I really need to finish it,” he tries again weakly.

“You need a break,” you respond decisively, “so we’re taking a break.”

“But-”

“Nope.”

“I just-”

“Nope!”

The artist wilts like a kicked puppy. For a moment, though, you swear a flicker of relief passes through his tired eyes. Like he didn’t really want to keep working anyways. It makes your heart clench.

A little more gently this time, you turn Rafayel around and lead him to his bathroom. He doesn’t put up a fight this time, allowing you to leave him perched on the counter of the sink while you go about preparing the shower. You can feel his eyes on you as you move around, the only sound in the room coming from the water steadily hitting the shower’s glass walls, and the distant roll of thunder.

There aren’t many times you’ve witnessed Rafayel being quiet. He usually likes to chatter, no matter what you’re doing, whether it be about a painting, or something he saw on a trip to the city, or a story about Lumerians. This silence is unsettling. Another storm, on the brink of breaking. That feeling grips your chest, tight and cold, despite the warm steam curling around you, filling the room.

When you glance back at Rafayel, your eyes meet. He’s still watching you, an indecipherable look on his face. He looks somehow more exhausted, his skin ghostly pale, eyes dull with a look of…defeat. 

It’s wrong. Everything is wrong. And you want to make it right.

Stepping over to him, Rafayel spreads his knees a fraction wider so you can settle between them. One of your hands finds the line of his hip, the other resting against the soft curve of his cheek to draw him close. Rafayel lets out a stuttering breath. You touch him with such tenderness, such love, it makes his head swim, makes him feel like he’s drowning yet undeniably safe, all at once. Everything else fades away, leaving just the two of you, surrounded by a soft haze of steam and the low light of his bathroom.

“I don’t know what’s wrong,” you murmur, so quiet he can hardly hear you over the sound of the shower, “but you know I care about you, right? I’m not trying to be mean to you, I’m just….”

Worried.

Rafayel softens. Of course you’d worry. You’re the only one that would for someone like him. His own personal angel, sent to drag him from the depths over and over and over again. Reaching up, he traces your brow almost reverently, easing the wrinkle between them.

When he talks, his voice is raspy and low, “What a fool I must be, making such a beautiful face look so concerned.”

“You’re not a fool,” you chide disapprovingly, “You’ve never been a fool, Rafayel. You’re just…a little self destructive at times, like we all are. But that’s why I’m here. I’m happy to be the one worrying about you, fishie. I’m happy to take care of you. If you’ll let me.”

Another emotion you don’t recognize flashes behind Rafayel’s eyes. He hums quietly, the tension slowly dripping from his shoulders, and turns to nuzzle into your palm. You inhale sharply, heart fluttering when his lips press against your skin, lingering yet hesitant. And when he looks back at you, there’s so much warmth, so much affection in his gaze, that you almost feel yourself melt.

“Please take good care of me then, miss bodyguard,” he murmurs, a ghost of that familiar smile on his lips, “ I leave my wellbeing in your capable hands.”

The heat that creeps up your cheeks matches the blush warming his ears. What a pair you are. 

“Then let’s get you in the shower,” you hum, voice a little shaky (though you’ll deny it), and card your fingers fondly through his messy hair. “I’ll get you some comfy clothes and make you some food. I’m sure you haven’t eaten all day.”

“Mmm, am I that predictable?”

“Only to me.”

You lean up and press a chaste kiss against his cheek. As you pull away, though, Rafayel catches your chin, slotting his lips over yours. It's a slow and overwhelmingly gentle kiss, devotion bleeding with fondness, raw and vulnerable and filled with a yearning that makes you dizzy. You can barely catch your breath when you pull away, the heat in Rafayel’s gaze nearly making you toss out the rest of your plans for the night.

“Take a shower,” you whisper, breathless, quickly separating yourself from the tempting man in front of you.

You still catch a glimpse of his smirk as you dip past the door, though.

Closing it behind you, you steady yourself against the wall, taking a deep breath. The sounds of him shuffling inside, followed by the soft clink of his shower door closing, lets you know that he’s at least listened to your instructions. Your racing heart gets a slight reprieve, then.

Alright. 

Slapping your cheeks lightly, you bring your focus back to the present. Even if he seems a little more himself, there’s still a lot to do. Rafayel deserves the world, and you’re determined to give it to him. As much as you can at least. Starting with comfortable clothes and a good meal.

You duck into his closet, picking out a particularly soft looking pair of sweats and a light button up. Maybe some socks too, you think as you remember just how cold he felt. Rafayel usually prefers to go barefoot, but you pick a pair of thick socks, just in case he wants them. Everything gets laid out on his bed, ready for when he finishes his shower.

Next - food.

Digging through Rafayel’s fridge is a mostly fruitless effort. Well, not fruitless. In fact, there’s plenty of fruit, only fruit really. Amusement curls in your chest. You’ll have to take him grocery shopping tomorrow and maybe have a conversation about a balanced diet. Luckily, you find some pasta in the pantry, and the basics you need to make a decent sauce. Maybe you can cut up some of the fruit too and make a little snack board.

Plan devised in your head, you set about making it happen. 

You’re in the middle of finishing the sauce when Rafayel silently pads into the kitchen. He looks a little more lively, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with curiosity as he shuffles up behind you. Slowly curling his arms around your waist, he draws you back against his body so he can nuzzle into the crook of your neck.

“Smells good,” he murmurs, breath tickling your skin.

You hum, one hand falling to rest over his, “I hope so. It’s nothing special, but it should help you feel better.”

“Anything these hands make can be special.” His fingers trace over your knuckles lovingly. “It just has to mean something to you. It’s only when it means nothing to you that a creation becomes insignificant.”

A part of you wonders if Rafayel realizes how transparent he is being. That, or you’ve just become so familiar with all his habits that you can just tell. To you, reading him is like reading your favorite book, and this is as obvious as a missing page.

But you don’t want to address it just yet. “Ready to eat?”

“Hmm, will you feed me?” He draws back to look at you, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

It takes everything in you to smother a smile. While you don’t often entertain Rafayel’s games, sometimes it’s nice to play along, if only to see him blush when you turn it on him. And today feels like one of those days. So you plaster on the most exaggerated, concerned look you can muster, flipping in his arms to cup his face.

“Do you need me to? Are you that tired?” You coo at him, satisfaction washing over you when his ears burn vermilion red. How cute. “Aw, my poor fishie. You’ve been working too hard, I knew it. Guess I’ll just have to tell Thomas that I’m holding you captive to make sure you get enough rest.”

“You’re teasing me,” Rafayel whines, the rest of his face flushing.

“Only partially,” you giggle, leaning up to peck his lips, “You always turn so red, it’s adorable.”

“I’m not adorable,” he grumbles back, “I’m handsome. Some would even say dashingly so.”

“Of course.” Mirth dances in your eyes. “My dashing prince. So I guess that makes me the knight coming to your rescue.”

He turns somehow darker, gaze darting away, “Even a prince needs caring for sometimes…”

“Yes, they do,” your voice softens, and you press another kiss to his cheek, “Now come, my prince, let’s eat and then we’re going to lay down on the couch and watch a movie so you can relax, okay?”

Rafayel is surprisingly cooperative for the rest of the night. You do end up feeding him a few bites, teasingly wiping at his mouth just to watch him blush again. But with every tender touch, no matter how teasing, you can see him slowly start to relax. His smile becomes a little more genuine, what’s left of the tension in his shoulder melting away. And you love it. You love taking care of him, spoiling him, if only for the night.

By the time you’ve finished dinner and cleaned up, the storm has finally made its way over the studio. Rain drums against the windows as you lead him to the lounge, streaks of lightning filling the room with flashes of light. It’s just the two of you, isolated from the outside world, lost in the warmth of the coastal storm. No one’s going to bother you tonight.

Or so you thought.

You curl into the corner of the couch, holding your hand out for Rafayel, waiting. Just as he’s about to collapse onto you, to finally put the day behind him, his phone comes to life on the side table. Its ring pierces through the relative quiet of the studio, startling both of you. Thomas. Rafayel’s face immediately falls at the name, and he hesitates at the edge of the couch, so close but still so far. In the dim candlelight, you watch his eyes waver, glancing back at the doorway.

“Rafayel.”

They flicker back to you. A flash of lightning illuminates his face, and for an instant, you see dread stain his beautiful features, pleading and desperate. It breaks your heart. 

“It can wait, Rafayel,” you whisper, somehow feeling just as desperate. Desperate to take him away from whatever it is that’s making him feel like this. Desperate to let him know he can rest. “Whatever it is, it can wait. Just…stay. Please.”

He glances back at the phone. It vibrates against the marble table, over and over and over, and you wait with baited breath. Until it goes silent. Still, he doesn’t move.

Slowly, so slowly, you reach forward. When your fingers tentatively intertwine with his, Rafayel takes a deep, uneven breath. And when you give his hand a gentle pull, he crumbles.

Rafayel lets you pull him onto the couch wordlessly. You make him lay down, head on your lap, while his arms curl tightly back around your waist. His grip is almost crushing, his fingers going pale as he wraps them in the back of your sweater, like you’ll disappear. Or like someone might try to tear him away.

Not that you would ever let that happen.

A heavy silence rests over the two of you. Not suffocating, but thick with unspoken words. What words, you’re not sure. They seem to rest at the tip of your tongue, but you can’t make sense of what you wish you could say, or even if you should say anything at all. It doesn’t quite feel right.

So you settle for waiting and start brushing your fingers through his unruly, damp curls, working out the tangles. Rafayel shivers at the sensation, the gentle tug at his roots, the pleasant tingle it leaves behind. He focuses on it, breath catching whenever your nails trace along the back of his neck. Desperate for another anchor point, his hands slip under your sweater to press against your skin. 

You gasp at his cold touch, movements wavering.

“Don’t stop,” Rafayel immediately pleads, voice cracking.

God, the things you would do for this man.

You continue without a word, and the artist hums, practically purrs. He’s remarkably like a cat, despite how much he hates the animals. Clingier, though. Much clingier. And you will never admit how much you love it.

You’re not sure how much time passes like that. Time never works quite the way it should when you’re with Rafayel. Seconds feel like days and days feel like seconds. His hair is dry. The rain is light, now tapping a quieter rhythm against the windows. The thunder sounds farther off. His chest rises so steadily, you almost wonder if Rafayel has fallen asleep.

Until he finally breaks the silence.

“It’s a commission from the mayor.”

You blink. The words process slowly in your mind, a frown forming on your lips. He continues before you can say anything, though, and once he starts, it seems he can’t turn it off.

“Thomas accepted it without asking me. He said the money was too good to pass up, as if I don’t have enough already.” Rafayel’s voice bleeds with such pure vitriol, you’re almost taken aback. You’ve never heard him so…angry. “It’s for his nephew. You’d hate him. He’s no better than a wanderer, preying on helpless people for profit.”

Understanding washes over you.

No wonder he’s upset.

Rumors have spread like wildfire about the nephew of Linkon City’s mayor. Sexual assault allegations. Financial fraud. None of it has been proven in court, but that hardly means they’re not true. It just means he has the power to avoid the consequences.

“I told Thomas to refuse it, but he insisted business is business and he’d already taken the money. As if my art is just business and money. As if inspiration can be bought. Like I can be bought.”

“Rafayel…” You start, a lump forming in your throat.

“It’s like when they used to capture us.” His voice remains thick with bitterness, shaking as he talks. “Humans would pay such high prices for us Lumerians.  Just for entertainment, to show off their status and power. Dead or alive, it made no difference, we meant nothing to them. This painting represents the blood of my people, but to him, it will mean nothing.”

You’re not sure if an aether core can break, but you’re certain you feel something shatter in your chest. It hurts. Seeing Rafayel like this, feeling him shake in your arms, hurts. You’ve never seen him so fragile, so trapped.

And you hate it.

“Rafayel, listen to me.” 

You touch his chin, drawing his burning gaze up to you. He looks torn between tears and brutality. The man who’s held you through your worst nights, and the one who can take life as easily as he creates beauty. Always torn in two and living under the weight of expectation. You can’t stand it.

“You have a choice here,” you murmur, tone insistent, “This is your work. It’s the way you speak to the world. You don’t have to share it with people who don’t deserve it. If this is the hill you want to stand on, then I’ll stand with you, and I’ll make sure you always have the freedom to choose.” A weak smile pulls at your lips. “I wouldn’t be much of a bodyguard or partner if I couldn’t do that for you.”

Rafayel’s brow furrows, sharp and conflicted, “But Thomas-”

“-Is a smart guy,” you chirp, “And you pay him well. I’m sure he just got swept away at the business prospects. If we sit down with him and explain the best we can, I bet he’ll understand. And if he doesn’t, we’ll just find a…creative way to fix this deal. Like delivering a blank canvas with your signature. We can say it’s a commentary on the emptiness of human gratification or something”

That gets the artist to snort despite himself.

“Or we could take it a step further - deliver an empty frame. They’d probably force Thomas to return the money at that point.”

His snort turns into a low chuckle. You grin, ruffling his hair.

“Humans may suck, but we’re good at being petty and coming up with ideas for revenge, huh?”

“Mmm, not all humans are so bad,” Rafayel hums, eyes dancing with amusement as he looks up at you. “I know a hunter who never fails to remind me how good some can be. She’s bold and selfless, not to mention compassionate, even to cats. The world is brighter when she smiles, and her touch chases away even the worst of storms.”

Thunder rolls through the house, perfectly timed, and you giggle when Rafayel frowns.

“Well, maybe not real storms. Though I’m sure she would try.”

“For you, I would do anything,” you promise and he softens even more.

“I know, cutie.” Rafayel catches your hand, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. He then moves to start getting up. “And knowing that gives me the strength to finish what I need to do. You’ve inspired me.”

“Nope.” The artist grunts as you suddenly wrap yourself around him like a koala, dragging him right back down onto the couch. You flip the two of you over, so you’re laying on top of him, chin propped on his chest. Stuck once again. “You agreed to listen to me about your health today. And now that we’ve talked about it, you’re going to actually rest. Whatever you have to do can wait until tomorrow, okay?”

“Ah, my apologies,” he says, voice lilting with hardly concealed laughter. “It seems I forgot about our arrangement.”

“Uh-huh. I’m in charge tonight, and that means we are going to cuddle and watch a movie, and then you are going to sleep. For the whole night. Understood?” You try to speak with an authoritative tone, but it also breaks with laughter.

“Of course.” Rafayel leans forward, and seels your deal with a brief, but ardent kiss. It leaves your heart fluttering as he draws back to whisper, “Thank you for taking care of me, my treasure.”

“Anytime, fishie.”

---

This ended up being sooooo long! I wanted to get the atmosphere and stuff just right, and then poof, nearly 4000 words. Anyways, hope y'all enjoyed a bit of Rafayel angst/comfort.

[munson-blurbs]

Living After Midnight (Failed Rockstar!Eddie x Motel Worker!Reader)

♫ Summary: Running an errand together brings out even more sides of Eddie Munson, including one that you wish you'd never seen (5.2k words)

♫ CW: slowburn, strangers-to-lovers, angst, parental conflict, poverty, jealousy, eventual smut (18+ only, minors DNI)

♫ Divider credit to @hellfire--cult

chapter six: the eye of the tiger

Guilt fit like the shoes your mom forced you to wear as a kid, the dressy ones reserved for special occasions. It pinched at you, dug into you, a constant reminder of its unwelcome presence.

And so you did everything you could to alleviate the discomfort. On Wednesday, Dad mosied into the lobby for his shift to find the floor meticulously swept; there was not a speck of dust in sight. If he had any suspicions, he didn’t bother to show them. He was probably just grateful for the help regardless of its cause.

Mom, as usual, was more skeptical of your intentions, raising a disbelieving brow when you presented her with the bills you’d reorganized by their due dates. You’d offered up the excuse of being bored with nothing better to do. Did she buy it? Unlikely. But she also didn’t pose further questions, choreographing another step in your dance.

And when Dad hung up the phone Friday afternoon, thumb and forefinger massaging the bridge of his nose, you jumped at the chance to fix the situation.

“Everything okay?”

He looked up with a start, too wrapped up in his own thoughts to realize you’d been standing in the doorway. 

“That was Uncle Mo,” he said with an elongated sigh. “The delivery truck won’t start; something’s busted, I guess, so we won’t get our wallpaper until it’s out of the shop.”

“I can go after class,” you volunteered. The shop was a twenty minute bus ride from school, no transfers required. Lugging it on the subway back home might prove more challenging, but you could manage it. 

He dashed your dreams with a swift shake of his head. “They close early for the Sabbath.” Which meant they’d be closed all day tomorrow, too. 

Dad glanced around at the walls, lip scraping over his bottom lip. Their barrenness unsettled him; his pride and joy left empty and exposed.  

Imagine how he’ll feel once this place is boarded up for good. Bet he won’t care about some ugly walls then. 

“I’ll go on Sunday.” The promise practically made itself before you could stop it. Your final paper was due on Tuesday, and you had planned to spend your weekend finishing it, but that would need to take a backseat until the wallpaper crisis was resolved.

You could be part of that solution. For now, at least.

Sunlight teased summer’s beginning and warmed your skin. The walk to the subway station required you to cross paths with the mailbox you’d fought with—and humbly lost to—a few days prior. Dejection shot through your chest as you paused in front of it, focusing on a spot of rusted metal where the paint had flaked off. Short of intercepting the United States Postal Service, there was nothing you could do. Besides, your acceptance was probably already locked inside NYU’s admissions office, sitting among a pile of identical envelopes. Most of them, you suspected, were mailed with exuberance and not with the trepidation you carried. 

The station’s stuffiness engulfed you as you descended the stairs, fingertips brushing the railing to ensure your balance. Your return trip would be short of torture, sweat prickling beneath your arms at the mere thought of dragging wallpaper through the thick humidity. You might have to splurge for a cab to avoid melting completely.

Frantic, impassioned guitar strumming grabbed your attention just before you approached the turnstile, echoing off of the concrete and infiltrating all of your senses. Your breath caught in your throat when you saw that Eddie was the source of the noise. He leaned against the wall as he played an electric guitar—the same one he had clutched so dearly when sleeping at the bus stop. There was no microphone, no amplifier; just him and his instrument. The case was open in front of him, now holding a few scattered dollar bills and some loose change. 

He didn’t notice you, not at first, so you took that opportunity to silently watch him. His head nodded along with the beat, his voice a low timbre as he sang. 

Trust I seek and I find in you 

Every day for us something new 

Open mind for a different view 

And nothing else matters

The chords were nearly drowned out by his vocals, and the softer strumming should have clashed with the harsh lyrics, but he made it work. 

It was somehow even sadder than when Metallica played it, though not from a lack of power. Eddie’s version intertwined anger with desperation, a somber reprise of the gritty original. 

Deft fingers pressed into the frets, the pick pinched between the other hand’s thumb and forefinger. He took a step forward to launch himself into the chorus with a combination of focus and ease. This is what he was meant to do, what he was born to do. Whether he was in front of a captivated audience of thousands or a smattering of indifferent commuters, he was a rockstar. 

Never cared for what they say

Never cared for games they play

Never cared for what they do

Never cared for what they know

And I know, yeah, yeah

Heat blossomed in your belly at his gravelly voice, the way he pulled the notes from the depths of his diaphragm and belted them out. The E train came and went as it screeched along the tracks, but you remained as though the soles of your feet were glued to the ground. 

So close, no matter how far

Couldn't be much more from the heart 

Forever trusting who we are 

No, nothing else matters

For a brief moment after finishing the song, Eddie’s chest puffed out with pride. It quickly faltered in the absence of applause, but before he could play another song, his gaze landed on you. He grinned and shook a stray lock of hair out of his eyes. Part of you wanted to fix it for him, to tuck it behind his ear or sweep it all back into a ponytail, but you refrained. Instead, you dug into your purse and tossed a dollar into the case. 

“Was that the one I gave you for the cab?” Eddie asked, fingers absently brushing over the strings in a series of random chords. 

“Nah, this was from the other asshole guest who made me late for class.”

Your jibe caught him off-guard and he actually laughed with such force that he had to stop playing. “And here I thought I was the only one.” He ran a hand through his hair, wincing as it snagged on a knot. “Are you going to the library or something?”

You lacked the energy to explain that the library was in the opposite direction, opting instead to cut to the chase. “Picking up the wallpaper.”

Eddie’s brow furrowed and he cocked his head. “I thought it was being delivered.” As you relayed the whole broken-truck saga, he started sliding the guitar strap up off of his back and crouched down, stuffing the money from the case into his pockets. “Cool. I’ll go with.”

“Oh, I wasn’t–” You paused mid-sentence to consider your words. “I mean, you don’t have to. I can do it on my own.”

“S’fine.” Eddie laid the guitar down with the fragility that one would handle a newborn baby and snapped the case shut. “Didn’t realize this station is basically dead on Sundays. I normally just play here during the week, but I’ve been out of commission.” He held up his bandaged finger and pouted impishly.

The familiar playfulness settled back into the conversation, breaking up any lingering awkwardness, and you snatched up the opportunity to tease him. “Ah, right. Your man stuff.”

“Very manly. Burly, some might say.” He extended one hand in front of him, palm up, to gesture towards the turnstiles. “Shall we?”

You led and he followed behind so closely that his chest smacked into your back when you stopped in your tracks. The uneven weight distribution, courtesy of the guitar case lolling at his side, thrusted him forward, the metal buckle on his belt digging into your skin through your shirt. 

It set off a domino effect, one that had you falling face-first to the ground. Before you could even brace for impact, you felt Eddie’s fingers digging into your hip and tugging you upright. The way he caught you was almost reflexive, his grasp controlled enough to avoid bruising your skin, but strong enough that you realized he could if he wanted to. 

“What happened?” His tone was mixed with both concern and amusement; a crackle of laughter broke up his question. 

An embarrassing adrenaline surge shot through you, bringing with it a chill that immediately preceded a heatwave of perspiration. “The, um…” You lamely pointed at the card swipe machines that had replaced the token receptacles. “I forgot that we need those MetroCard things.” 

Eddie let go of your hip and you felt his absence almost immediately. “No, we don’t.” He left no time for questioning, hoisting the case to the other side and pushing himself up and over the bar, landing on his feet with cat-like dexterity. 

You stared at him in disbelief. Sure, you’d jumped the turnstile a time or two, but that was back in high school, under the influence of friends you hadn’t talked to since. 

“What’re you waiting for?” He called out. A Cheshire-cat grin graced his lips. 

What were you waiting for? It’s not like the transit police were scouring the station. The poor schmuck stuck at the now-defunct token booth was exasperatedly trying to explain the new system to an older gentleman; he probably wouldn’t have noticed a wildebeest stampede. And you certainly weren’t eager to contribute to the politicians who lined their pockets with taxpayer money. 

Fuck it. 

In one swift motion—much more graceful than your earlier stumble—you mimicked his actions. One foot, then the other, your biceps supporting your body weight. 

“You little rebel.” Eddie tutted, his smirk showing off his teeth. You never noticed the way one canine is slightly sharper than the other, and it digs into his lower lip. “This is how it starts, y’know. One day, you’re skipping out on train fare; the next, you’re committing armed robbery.”

If he kept rubbing your nerves raw, you might be more tempted to commit homicide. 

Another E train arrived not long after. You were an expert at scouting empty seats, and you made a beeline for the first one you found. There was another one across the way, just vacated by a woman pushing a stroller, and you assumed Eddie would take it. 

Instead, he shoved his guitar case towards you, parting your legs between the knees, and grabbed onto one of the overhead handles. 

“Can you hold this?” Eddie asked belatedly. He rocked forward onto his toes as the train moved to keep his balance. A guitar pick necklace swung out from beneath the vee of his shirt and swayed above you. 

You drank in the way he towered over you, so close that he was all you could see. The mingled scents of the motel’s soap and a musky deodorant wafted off of him and enveloped your senses. For a second, there was only him, and whatever the outside world had to offer was just shy of meaningless. 

“There’s a seat down there.” You peered around him and gestured to the one you’d spotted earlier, careful not to point at anyone. 

Eddie looked but declined with a shrug. “Nah, I’m good. I like standing.”

“See, that’s the kind of thing that separates the natives from the transplants.” You smiled up at him. “You didn’t even want to sit down after a gig? Or a long rehearsal?”

“I didn’t really ever take the subway,” he admitted. “Maybe, like, once or twice.”

You huffed out an incredulous laugh. “How did you get around?” 

“Taxis, car service.” He ticked off the items on his free hand. “One time we rented a helicopter, but then the label threatened to revoke the company card.” He chuckled forlornly, like the memory was heavier than an impromptu helicopter ride. 

“Sounds like you were living the life.”

Eddie shook off his wistfulness with a cheeky grin. “Hell yeah. Expensive restaurants, swanky hotels…did I ever tell you about the time we trashed our room?”

“You did not.” You’re not sure you want to know, considering he’s currently staying in one of yours. 

He laughed. “Get this: we come back to the hotel after a gig. We’re all fuckin’ exhausted. As soon as we walk into the lobby, the night manager is on us like a hawk. I mean, the guy gave a stink eye like you wouldn’t believe.” He tried mimicking him, but he was too upbeat to embody the manager’s full ire. “Anyway, we’re not in the room for five minutes when there’s a knock on the door. Of course it’s that schmuck, warning us about the noise policy.”

You looked at him incredulously. “That’s why you destroyed a hotel room?” 

“Mhm.” Eddie proudly nodded, not missing the way concern furrowed your brow. “Don’t worry, Heiress. I’d never trash your place.”

“I’d have to get Phyllis after you.” Laughter bubbled out of you at his visible cringe, probably thinking of being on the other end of her baseball bat. “Okay, so what’s the dumbest thing you guys bought with the company card?”

People pushed through the aisle as the train pulled up to the stop, elbows nudging Eddie until he was practically on top of you. Every hair on your body stood up at the sudden change in proximity. “Probably one of those stuffed tiger things for our apartment,” he admitted.

“You and your band bought a taxidermied tiger?” You scoffed. 

His face flushed, and he scratched at his jaw like he’d been caught red-handed. “N-No, not the whole band. Just me and the drummer. We, um, she was my girlfriend, I guess.”

Puzzle pieces started falling into place and interlocking curves. His ex-girlfriend was also in the band, which was probably why they broke up once Eddie quit. “How long were you two together?” You instantly regret not asking about the tiger instead, for his sake and yours. 

“Hard to say; we were pretty on-and-off.” Eddie tried to play it off casually but terse laughter gave him away. The subway lurched and Eddie swayed forward again, his knee grazing yours. “But it was about a year from start to finish.”

You let the information sink in. He had a girlfriend in Death’s Echo, but he seemed to be unattached at the moment. Made sense, considering he was living in your motel rather than with a partner.

“That’s what no one tells you about money: it runs out.” Eddie continued. “It’s like, common sense or whatever. But when you have no money and then you get a shit-ton of it, it’s hard to imagine ever going back.” 

His eyes found yours like he had been searching for them, and you held his gaze until a monotone voice crackled over the speaker, announcing that the train was approaching the Forest Hills-71st Avenue station. 

“We have to transfer here.”

Eddie wrinkled his nose, clearly not thrilled by this extra step, but he followed your lead without any audible protest.

“Y’know,” he said as the doors opened, the two of you joining the swarm of people pushing their way out, “my neighborhood back home was also called Forest Hills.”

“Seems fancy,” you quipped. 

He laughed, head thrown back. “Oh, yeah. It’s the most glamorous trailer park in all of Indiana.”

The faux pas curdled in your stomach. What were you thinking? He had just confessed that he was broke before Death’s Echo. 

“Sorry, that was stupid.”

He shrugged off your comment, seemingly unbothered. “How many stops is this next one?”

“Just two.”

He hummed his acknowledgment, and with the R train less crowded than the E, you found seats adjacent to one another.

You did your best to ignore the way his right leg brushed your left, the worn denim against your bare skin as the train jostled him. He murmured a barely-audible “sorry.”

There was no reason for him to apologize, and you almost told him this, but you substituted a tight smile for words. Truthfully, you were glad he confirmed that the touch was accidental. You’d nearly nudged him back, a secret handshake of sorts, and your body burned with the mere prospect of embarrassment.

The train screeched to a stop in front of a sign that barely read 63rd Drive-Rego Park, most of the letters covered in colorful graffiti tags. 

“This is us,” you said, handing him back his guitar so you could stand up. 

Eddie stepped aside with a small bow, equal parts awkward and endearing. “So, uh, where are we going, exactly?” He stayed close enough so you could hear him over the cacophony of commuters. 

“S’just a few blocks.” You maintained your fast-paced stride so as to not get bowled over. 

He kept up with you surprisingly well for someone unused to navigating the city’s public transit. The fresh air welcomed you as you ascended the stairs, leaving behind the station’s mugginess. Conversations and traffic replaced metallic clunking while you weaved in and out of a sea of pedestrians, checking every so often to ensure you hadn’t left Eddie behind. 

Bold white letters on a maroon awning proudly proclaimed Eisen’s Paint and Supply, and the faint sound of bell chimed when you opened the door. A middle-aged man stood behind the counter, eyes lighting up when you walked in. 

“Uncle Mo!” You exclaimed, wrapping your arms around him in a hug. Uncle Mo wasn’t your father’s brother, but their bond went beyond blood relation. He was part of nearly all of Dad’s stories since they’d met in high school: the good, the bad, and the ugly. 

There was more gray in his hair and in his beard than the last time you’d seen him, the lines from his lips to his jaw more pronounced, but he still wore the same cologne that you’d remembered. The familiar scent was like home, a reminder of all of the Thanksgivings your families had spent together before the motel engulfed your life. 

He beamed, his hands bracing your upper arms as he got a better look at you. “Look at you; so grown up!” His eyes misted over for a second before he blinked the moisture away. “How long has it been?”

“Too long.” You turned back to Eddie, waving him over and introducing him. Uncle Mo politely extended a hand that Eddie shook quickly before shoving his fingers back in his pocket. 

“Before I get your paper,” Uncle Mo said to you with a mischievous smile, “I have a bit of a surprise.” The stockroom door swung open on cue and a young man stepped out from behind it. 

Your hand flew to your mouth in shock, every bone in your body vibrating. “Ben?” The name was muffled but still audible, and Ben opened his arms just in time for you to tackle him in an embrace.

His gangly teenage limbs had been replaced with hard muscle, his chest straining through his t-shirt. There was no trace of the wispy excuse for a mustache he’d once proudly sported; his face was freshly shaven, only the slightest evidence of his stubble scratched against your cheek when he pulled you to him. 

“I couldn’t believe it when my dad told me you were stopping by,” Ben said, finally letting go after a few moments. He looked at Eddie as if noticing him for the first time. “Ben. Nice to meet you.”

Eddie said nothing in response, his jaw set and his arms crossed over his chest. Whatever friendliness he’d shown Uncle Mo was clearly not being granted to his son. 

“Ben, this is Eddie,” you hurried to explain before the tension became unbearably dense. “He works for the motel, doing different repairs and odd jobs. Whatever we need, really.”

Your old friend nodded and brought his attention back to you. “Do you guys need help bringing the wallpaper back? I don’t have anything to–”

“We’ve got it.” Eddie cut him off curtly, clipping the conversation’s wings. His eyes narrowed in judgmental assessment and their milk chocolate hue turned dark.

Ben had evidently stepped on his toes; you thought back to the wasp’s nest and his adamance to clobber it with a baseball bat despite your insistence to wait until you bought the spray. You shot Eddie a look that he either disregarded or didn’t notice, because his clenched jaw never loosened. 

“Right, yeah.” A blush crept into Ben’s cheeks, the other man’s brusqueness catching him off-guard. “But we should catch up soon,” he said to you, “maybe grab a cup of coffee?”

It was an effort to ignore the way Eddie tensed up; even more so to pretend like his reaction hadn’t stirred something inside of you. Everything between you and him, and you and Ben, was strictly platonic. Whatever melodrama he’d conjured up was his problem, not yours. 

Your relationship with Eddie teetered between acquaintances and friends; he was in no position to get bent out of shape over you going for coffee with Ben or any other man.

You pushed the intrusive thought away long enough to answer Ben’s question. “Yeah, of course! You’re home for the whole summer?”

“Actually…” Ben’s grin widened, harboring a secret he was eager to spill. “I’m back for good. You’re looking at Dr. Benjamin Eisen, D.D.S.”

“That’s amazing!”

He nodded happily, enthusiasm unrestrained. “Thanks. I’m hoping to open up a practice nearby, so I’ll be sticking around for a while.”

That was the best news you’d heard in a while. The pair of you were once inseparable, always devising plans to convince your parents to extend their visits. When you were six, you’d almost started a fire trying to put on a pot of coffee, hoping that it would coax the Eisens into staying longer. 

Too bad you’d forgotten to add the water. 

Uncle Mo returned from the stock room with rolls of wallpaper, and his son shuffled towards him to take one from his grasp. 

“Are you sure I can’t help out?” Ben tried again. He only looked at you when he spoke. 

You almost took him up on his offer, the reply sitting on the tip of your tongue, but Eddie answered for you. 

“We’re good,” he said flatly, taking the rolls from the other men. “I used to lug around amps all the time. This is nothing.”

He’d uttered the same phrase before taking a bat to a wasp’s nest, and he’d ended up hurt. Still, inviting Ben along would almost certainly guarantee an awkward commute home. At best, you’d force stilted small talk; at worst, Eddie might shove Ben onto the tracks. 

“Thanks anyway,” you said politely, trying to temper your irritation. 

Ben gave a tight smile, brows shooting up when remembered something. “Let me give you my new phone number so we can set up a time to meet up.” He plucked a business card from the little plastic container on the desk, flipping it over and scrawling his number on the back. 

“Sounds great.” It truly did, save for Eddie’s glare that made you grateful looks couldn’t actually kill. 

Tucking the card into your purse, you held him in one last hug before bidding them goodbye. 

Eddie said nothing the entire walk back to the subway station. He strode there despite heaving around a guitar case and cylinders of wallpaper. You suspected he could have flown there if he wasn’t so bogged down. The closest he came to acknowledging your presence was the scoff he let out when you veered off-course to buy a MetroCard. 

You ignored him, still fuming over his behavior towards Ben. With trembling fingers, you dropped your change into the coin slot, acutely aware of his presence as he stood beside you. He was close enough that you could hear his tense sigh, as though his frustration was justified.

Yanking the card out from behind the swinging Plexiglass, you silently stalked over to the turnstile, Eddie begrudgingly hot on your heels. The tiny diagram showed the magnetic strip facing downwards and you did your best to emulate it. After two failed swipes, the machine relented and gave an approving beep.

“Go,” you told Eddie, and when he stared at you blankly, you repeated yourself with considerably less patience. “Go.”

“Okay, okay.” There was no hiding his surprise at your insistence, the sharpness of your tongue. He obviously wasn't accustomed to taking the attitude he dished out. His eyebrows crashed into his hairline as he maneuvered through, wallpaper bumping up against the metal gates. 

There wasn’t enough money left on the card for you, so after a brief glance at your surroundings, you once again lift yourself up and over to the other side. The metal barrier seemed laughably obsolete beneath you.

Eddie blinked twice in rapid succession but composed himself before you reached him again. A peculiar expression graced his face; not so much amusement as much as admiration. If you weren’t so annoyed with him, with his antics back at Eisen’s, you might have cracked a joke about his bad influence rubbing off on you. 

The first leg of the trip—the shortest part, as it were, went smoothly. It was once the E train departed from Forest Hills that it almost immediately halted, the exasperated conductor announcing that extensive track work was causing delays. 

“Fucking great,” you muttered. Experience told you that the remainder of the ride would be stop-and-go, which meant more time spent with Eddie. 

He’d exhaled an exasperated sigh of his own, eyes flickering over the subway car and foot tapping to a beat only he could hear. When he finally spoke, it was the last thing you’d expected him to say. 

“Wanna play I Spy?”

“Um, what?”

“Y’know, I spy with my little eye…” he explained, as though you were confused about the game concept.

It took every last ounce of energy not to burst out laughing at his odd request, though it helped that annoyance still tarnished your mood. “All right. Sure.” 

“Cool.” He glanced around again, rubbing his palms over his thighs in concentration. “Okay, I spy with my little eye, something purple.”

Squinting, you searched for shades of lilac and violet. “That woman’s shirt?” You jutted your chin towards an older woman sitting across the car. 

“Nope.”

“That little girl’s shoes?”

Eddie just shook his head, his dimples gradually deepening with each wrong answer you gave. 

Your next three guesses were also incorrect, and Eddie triumphantly pumped his fist when you admitted defeat. 

“It’s the words on that sign,” he said, pointing to an advertisement for psychic readings. 

It was your turn, and it didn’t take you long to find your target. 

“I spy with my little eye, something…douchey.” Your gaze never left his face, watching the skin crease between his brows as he connected your implication. 

Eddie threw his head back and cackled, drawing the ire of your fellow commuters. You shushed him with a hiss, his apathy only fueling your anger. 

“Fine, I guess I deserved that.” He leaned back in his seat and stretched his arms upwards. For a second, you thought he might drape one over your shoulders, but he brought them right back to his lap. 

“You guess?” You gawped, and he laughed even louder. “You were a total asshole to Ben for no reason.”

Eddie’s voice got feather-soft; you had to lean in to hear him. “Trust me; I had a reason.”

You snorted. “What, him offering to help carry the wallpaper threatened your ‘man stuff?’”

“Something like that.” 

Crossing your arms, you shot him a bemused grimace. Whatever testosterone-laden excuse he concocted would just strengthen your irritation, so you saved yourself the headache and  plundered on. 

“Ben and I have been friends since I was born.” That wasn’t an exaggeration; a photo of one-year-old Ben holding newborn you was tucked away in one of Mom’s albums. Dad had snapped the photo while Uncle Mo sat next to his son, helping cradle your head. You were only a few hours old. “Whatever your problem is, don’t make it mine. Or his,” you add.

Eddie had no response to that, and you preferred it that way. Maybe he was learning not to argue with you, especially when he was so obviously wrong.

Your response halted all conversation for the rest of the extended ride and continued during the short trek back to the motel. The quiet was necessary, but not peaceful, and you refused to buckle when an invisible pull urged you to talk again, to push past the discomfort. If you couldn’t outright tell him that he’d upset you, the least he could do was feel that anger.

“Where do these go?” Eddie asked once the motel’s doors closed behind you. You pointed to the supply closet and he ambled over, wincing as the hinges squeaked in a plea for lubrication. “All right, so, I can get started on this tonight if you want.”

You considered this for a moment before shaking your head. The lobby could survive another night with bare walls, but you needed a break. A break not just from Eddie, but from his naivety to his actions having consequences. 

“Tomorrow’s fine.”

He stilled, his hands halfway in his pockets. “I mean, I was going to stop by anyway; I might as well—”

“I think I just need some quiet tonight.” It was the nicest response you could muster, though the way the words passed through your clenched teeth gave away your annoyance. 

“Oh.” His cheeks puffed out as he exhaled a breath of air, his eyes refusing to meet yours. Confusion tied his tongue, but if he didn’t realize the mistake he’d made, you were in no mood to spell it out. He waited a beat for you to follow up, to iron out the creases with an explanation that had nothing to do with his earlier behavior, but that never happened.

The lack of reassurance pained you, too. You despised leaving matters unfinished; part of you wanted to apologize—for what, you weren’t sure—just to have some resolution. 

Eddie raked his fingers through his curls. “Well, I’m sorry for pissing you off, or whatever.”

Or whatever. Those two words almost had you smacking him upside the head with the wallpaper tubes. Maybe sealing his lips with the glue, too. 

The worst part was the shock on his face when you’d wordlessly stormed out of the supply closet towards your room. Like he had no idea what he’d done wrong or why his non-apology fell flat. 

No, that was a lie. The worst part was actually the pang of disappointment in your chest when there were no footsteps pounding down the hall, no knock on your door, no attempt to talk through the situation. As much as you wanted to be left alone, you’d clutched to an optimistic sliver that he would follow you. It was a pathetic need for proof that he cared about you as more than just his employer. As his friend.

But there was nothing.

That silence hurt most of all. 

--

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[mossmotif]

when you and kento first start dating, it takes him a bit to adjust. he isn't sure about his approach towards his affection, of how it has him hesitating; the honesty of it is burning even to him.

he’s constantly thinking of you. its in little ways, but that sort of thing adds up, sneaks up on a person when they least expect it.

how’s he meant to go about his day normally when he keeps passing a boutique with heels that would look perfect on you? another with a blouse that would flow off you like it wasn’t made for anything else. another with classic winter gloves that look fashionable but warm.

the thought of dressing you doesn’t come out of any malice. there isnt anything wrong about your choice of clothing, it matches you, even links arms with his the slightest bit. but the thought still occurs, and he still walks by those boutiques thinking about you.

eventually though, he must stop thinking. because he’s walking back home with fancy bags and placing them on his kitchen counter. he forgets that you’re waiting for him at home that day.

you’re curled on the couch with a magazine in your hands. kento doesnt catch the title before you set it down on the coffee table at the sound of him entering. you’re up and kissing his cheek before he can second guess the look of the paper mache sticking out of the delicate bags.

“welcome back.” you loosen his tie for him when you pull away, pluck his glasses off his face and set them aside for him. already he feels less tired. “how was your day?”

“shit.” he deadpans. you simply hum as a response, a little smile painted across your lips. “how was yours? any better?"

your hands are off him now, the two of you are divided by the small kitchen island. you haven’t made note of what he’s bought, either purposefully or because you feel like taking things slow this evening.

“too fast,” you sigh. “someone spilled coffee on me. it got all over my blouse.”

kento’s eyebrows peak, and you respond with a knowing pout. “the white one?” he asks.

you nod solemnly, hanging your head defeatedly. “the white one,” you confirm. your voice is whiny, frustrated at its tired core. “i had to borrow this from a coworker.”

kento hums as a sort of comfort, lays his hand over yours. oddly, this shared fatigue between the two of you makes the place feel more like a home.

“did you go shopping? the bags are beautiful.” you twirl his hand in yours so that his palm is up to the air. before you let go, you trail the creases in his skin.

“new ties?” you ask, your smile a little smug. he may or may not have splurged a few weeks back, much to your amusement and delight.

"no," he replies, only slightly exasperated with you. "they're for you."

"oh!" your hand covers your mouth but it does nothing to hide the smile on your face. "were you thinking of me?"

"yes, i was," he confesses. the blush that rushes to the tips of your ears can't be missed, and suddenly, he wonders why he had been second guessing himself in the first place.

kento nudges the bags toward you, gentle and slow. its almost like he's scared of spooking you, even though you dip your hands in with the eagerness of someone who's never been scared in their life.

"kento," your voice is shocked, anything but quiet in its appreciation. "these are lovely. i don't—to be completely honest, i'm not sure what to say."

"you don't have to. just—" he pauses. "try everything on for me."

your face brightens. its like a new light in the room, soft and warm and his. your hands leap over the counter and grab his loosened tie, tugging him toward you and pressing your lips to the corner of his mouth. he wants to say you missed, but he's gone soft with content.

[imamotherfuckingstar-lord]

fate

opla!sanji x reader, fluff

a/n: gif request by @sweetheartlizzie07

The ship rocked steadily; waves quiet as the moon lit the small ripples. Staring out to sea, you thought of all the little steppingstones that lead you to this ship. To the crew that took you in like the lonely orphan you are. Were. A smile made its way to the corner of your mouth, and you wondered if luck finally was turning its head your way. A cool breeze sent a shiver down your spine and then a warm blanket fell onto your shoulders.

“You’ll catch a cold and while the idea of healing you back to good health is enthralling…” Sanji tightened the wool blanket around your body and smiled, hands falling to his side. “I’m sure Chopper would disapproval.” “I don’t know, a week in bed sounds great.”

A charming smile graced the cook’s face, and he angled you back toward the sea, the two of you quietly staring out into the dark abyss. For minutes, a peaceful silence played between the small space left between Sanji and you. Neither of you needed to say much, quiet company had often been what you offered each other. He’d be cooking in the kitchen while you read at the counter, occasionally looking up from your book to steal a mental imagine of Sanji. Sleeves rolled up, a concentrated fiery in his eyes, a relaxed pout on his face – it was your favorite painting.

“Can I ask you something, Sanji?”

His eyes drew away from the sea to you. “Anything.”

And he meant it.

“Do you believe in fate?”

“Not really.”

Your facial expression must have looked disappointed because he began to backtrack, but you stopped him with a laugh. “You’re allowed to have your own opinion.”

He relaxed and edged closer to you, shoulder against yours. Watching as he pulled out the small tin, he kept his cigarettes in, you waited patiently for him to offer one up. When he did, you took a slow inhale and gave it back, once again staring out beyond the waves. “I always felt like my life would always just be. I was stuck on this island, waiting to be married off to someone I would never love. Have children that I would try to love. Just like my mother but then, Luffy found me.”

Sanji nodded, letting out a low chuckle. “He sort of found all of us, didn’t he?”

“That he did,” you replied. Turning to face Sanji, you asked him if he thought this was his fate. “Being on this ship, with this crew? Do you really think this is where you’re supposed to be?”

“Yes,” he answered swiftly, his hand moving to find yours. When his fingertips touched the outside of your wrist, you held his stare. “We can think we don’t deserve better than what we had, but maybe the universe has a way of remedying things.”

His hand moved down to lock with yours and he crushed the cigarette into the ledge – freeing himself to grab a hold of both your hands. Sanji held them gingerly, rubbing his thumb against your skin.

“So, you do believe in fate then?”

He shrugged playfully with a grin. “If fate led both of us to this moment, on this ship, then I guess I believe in it. What do you say?”

The waves gathered some courage to make noise against the ship, rocking it ever so gently as you held your balance – hands in Sanji’s. The moon shined brightly; the smell of sea salt filled the air as you squeezed your palm against his. All your life, you had begged and pleaded for something more than you had. A life worth living for, a family worth dying for. A love worth loving…

“I say I’m all in, if you are.”

Sanji let out a sigh of relief, gathering you in his arms. He kissed your forehead, rocking you under the gathered stars and for what seemed like a wonderful lifetime – the two of you remained that way, enjoying the little moment fate had gifted you.

[kitkatscabinet]

Jealousy never looked so good

Pairing: Dean Winchester x gn reader

Prompt request from @crash-and-live: "Hey, is this asshole bothering you?"

Summary: Celebrations following a completed hunt take a turn when Dean gets a little protective.

word count: 1.8k

warnings: oral (m! receiving), slightly sub Dean, cringy smut

The noise filtering through the bar was comforting. Not obnoxiously loud but still lively enough to remind you that the people surrounding you enjoying their night were alive. Free and careless in their mirth, unaware of the dangers that lurked in the dark that they couldn’t even begin to comprehend. 

It was exhausting sometimes, being surrounded by the ignorance of the general populace. But on nights like this one, when you’d finished a hunt and were celebrating a job well done, you could allow yourself to enjoy it. Even Sam hadn’t been opposed to spending an extra night in town, promising to be the designated driver for you and Dean. 

Leaning against the bar you flagged down one of the bartenders, only to recoil in disgust at the stickiness of the wooden tabletop. Grabbing a napkin you dabbed somewhat clumsil, courtesy of the four drinks coursing through your blood, at your arm. Frustration threatens to overwhelm when you can’t seem to get rid of the lingering stickiness and you quickly turned to watch disinterestedly as the man behind the counter poured Dean’s beer. Scrunching your nose up in slight disgust at your friend’s drink of choice. 

“Not a fan of beer?” The masculine voice suddenly speaking up from your left startled you slightly, some remnant nerves from the hunt making you a little jumpier than usual. 

“Not at all,” you snorted, turning back towards the bar and hoping the curt response would give the stranger next to you a clue. Unfortunately, as was common with men in bars he didn’t seem to catch the hint, sliding in even closer to you. 

“You know I’ve seen you around, this past week,” he stumbled over his words a little, rushing to elaborate when you’d raised a brow at his somewhat creepy statement. Your initial outlook on him changed slightly then, and you allowed yourself to turn and face him fully. He was cute, not at all your usual type. Not Dean.

You quickly banish that thought from your mind. Traveling with the two brother’s for so long meant opportunities like this were few and far between and well, beggars couldn’t be choosers. 

“Yeah, its uh, my last night here actually,” you smiled flirtatiously, leaning on the bar once more this time ignoring the lingering sticky feeling on the skin of your bare arm. 

The man faltered a little at that news but quickly regained his nerve, leaning in so there was hardly any space between the two of you. “Really? Guess I better make the most of it then.” You aren’t given the chance to respond, the flirty retort dying on your tongue when a muscular arm wraps around your shoulders, tugging you into his side so you can smell him. 

“Hey, this asshole bothering you?” His words are punctuated with his signature smirk that you both want to knock right off his face and kiss. Dean’s apple green eyes are gazing over your face, not even bothering to look at the now floundering man standing opposite you. He’s trying to be casual but you can feel the tenseness of his warm body against your side and his usually mischevous eyes are painted just a little too dark to be lighthearted. 

“Hey man -” the stranger, who’s name you hadn’t even gotten, was abruptly cut off by Dean finally turning his now deadly glare towards him. The two stare each other down and though you should be offended by the alpha male bullshit show happening in front of you, you can’t help the way your heart beats furiously against your chest because Dean’s the one doing it. 

“You still here?” Dean scoffed and you watched with just a little bit of sick amusement as the man quickly scampered away, evidently not willing to get into it with the larger man. 

Suddenly coming back to yourself you turned with a raised brows, “Um, what was that?”  Dean simply shrugged, grabbing his beer and attempting to eturn to the booth where Sam was waiting but you weren’t willing to let things slide that easily. Grabbing his arm you spun him back around to face you, arms crossed and eyes narrowed like you were scolding a child. “Dean?”

“I didn’t like the way he was looking at you,” he grumbled, still barely looking you in the eye and you scoffed in disbelief. 

“The way he was looking at me?”

“Like you were just a piece of ass.” You rolled your eyes so hard at his hypocrisy that you were afraid they’d fall out of your head. 

“You look at people like that all the time!” 

“Well sorry for trying to look out for you.” He turns away, starting to walk back towards Sam in what you know will be his attempt to pretend the conversation never happened. You know how he works far too well and you’re not willing to back down and let him weasel his way out of this. 

“Right because that’s what you were doing. Looking out for me? Not being an annoying cockblock?” He spins around, fire in his eyes and a nasty sneer on his face that you’d never once seen aimed your way. He stalked back towards you and just as you fear he’s going to continue this ridiculous argument he takes your face in your hands and kisses you. 

Your brain stalls for a few seconds, eyes wide and staring at Dean’s unfairly pretty lashes before he pulls away just as quickly. "I don't like when people touch what's mine." He looks at your deer-in-headlights gaze before smirking so cockily that the urge to smack him rises once more. 

If it was anyone else, you probably would have. Jealousy had never been a trait you'd found attractive in a partner. But like most things, you let it slide, hell you enjoyed it because it was Dean.

Channeling all your pent-up frustration and longing, you pull his face back down against yours and mash your lips against his violently. His hands make quick work of grasping your waist, squeezing just a little as he smirks into the kiss once more. Even after wanting him for so long the action pisses you off even more, and you reward him by biting down on his bottom lip hard. 

Suddenly there’s a hand clasping down on your shoulder and pulling you back from your lip locking shenanigans, “Ok. I think it’s time to go.” You want to cuss Sam out for taking over the role as the family cock block but Dean beats you to it. 

Nonetheless, you follow Sam out to the car like a dejected puppy, which in turn makes Dean follow you, one of his large hands wrapped around your own. When you slide into the backseat the older Winchester follows and you let out a displeased grunt when he squishes you beneath him. Though your displeasure quickly turns into a laugh as he manoueveres you until you’re practically sat atop of him. 

From the drivers seat Sam gags a little, though your pity for him quickly evaporates when Dean pulls you into another kiss and you forget everything else outside the feel of Dean’s lips against yours. 

Luckily for everyone involved, the drive to the dingy motel was short and you barely notice Sam’s hasty exit until the impala door slams shut. “Finally,” Dean groans against the skin of your neck, you’re not entirely sure if he’s talking about Sam leaving or the fact your hands are working on freeing him from his jeans, but you don’t particularly care right now. 

His own hands are making quick work of your clothes, a satisfied grunt escaping him when he finally lays eyes on your bare chest. Mouth dipping to nip at the new expanse of skin on show, “gorgeous, fuck, wanted this for so long,” he pants between kisses and bites. 

“Oh yeah? How long?” High on the power his words have given you, you don’t really give him a fair chance to answer before your hand wraps around the base of his cock. You stroke him leisurely for a few seconds before stopping, heat pooling in your gut when he practically whines. “I asked you a question baby.”

“Fuck.” He whimpers into your ear, hips bucking up into your hand until you force him to stay still with your free hand, “years, since I first saw you in those tight ass jeans.” 

“Guess we better start making up for lost time.” It’s somewhat awkward given the lack of space in the back of the impala, of which Dean’s bulk is taking up most of, but you drop to your knees and take him in your mouth with no warning. 

Dean throws his head back so hard he smacks it against the window but it hardly deters him from letting out a broken moan. “Oh, fuck yes. Just like that baby,” he starts to babble, one hand gripping the front seat of the impala like a life line as the other snakes around the lay on the back of your neck. 

Suddenly his hips buck up once more, causing you to gag and pull back, your hand once again pressing down on his waist to keep him still. At the loss of your touch his eyes fly open, looking down at you in desperation. “You wanna cum? Then be a good boy and stay still,” you command. 

To your surprise he nods frantically at your words, “promise. I’ll be good. I’ll stay still, just please touch me.” There’s a slightly pathetic need in his laboured words that has you impatiently taking his cock back into your mouth, suddenly desperate to pull more of those noises from him. 

You can feel him struggling to stay still below you, his thighs trembling as you bring him rapidly closer to the edge. Swirling your tongue over the tip of his throbbing dick, you take notice of the way his body suddenly tenses, pulling back a little as he cums on your tongue. 

Your hands massage his thighs gently and you give him a few seconds before you pull away, swallowing as Dean watched the action with wide lust blow pupils. The impala reeks of sweat and sex already and is filled with sound of you both attempting to catch your breath. 

Suddenly Dean’s pulling his jeans back up and you only experience a few seconds of confusion and hurt as he awkwardly opens the door. Though he’s quick to assuage you as his hands tug insitently at yours, trying to pull you towards the motel door even faster, “bed, now.”

You don’t fight against that and you definitely don’t fight when he all but shoves you onto the mattress in your temporary room, ducking to his knees before you and tearing your pants down your legs like a man possessed. 

You’ll apologise to Sam for the noise in the morning.

Taglist: @ghostslillady @dumb-fawkin-bitch @jumpofmyclif

[cecedownbad]

Warmth

Summary: A mystery man stumbled on to you, his gestures alone changing the dim scenery into a bright fantasy. [Spencer Ried x GN! Reader] CM meet cute (or not) Challenge by @imagining-in-the-margins

Prompt: Characters both duck for cover under the same tiny storefront when it starts pouring.

Warnings: No Y/N, fluff, I actually do not know how many research papers this man has read but I guessed. This is just so fluffy it had me smiling as I wrote it, I got a little carried away though, not proof read but I will do that later.

Word Count: 2.2k

Enjoy

The dim sky, like that of a faulty light bulb in a room that held photographs, locked away with a key lost to time. All that was bright now despondent to many, the sudden crystal like shine of streets drove away the few that knew staying any longer would cause a soaking mess and a cold to care for after.

Did that ever stop you from pacing by the side walk? With shoes scraping the fallen fire like leaves, a sign of a need for comfort and warmth. The ground wafting off a smell that should be telling enough for you to take cover but time was never one to wait.

Scraps of paper, terribly crumpled simply from agitation, held up to the very corners of your hands held largely a final draft of an assignment, meant to land on the Dean's desk this morning. This was the reason for due ignorance of the foretold scene yet to pass. Be it the wailing hums of the wind, or the dreary clouds, heavy with their low rumbles, much less a warning, more so a threat to parade a flood down the barren streets.

Then one fell.

Then another.

Every touch to the skin made you shiver, every drop ran down the outline of your face, tracing a path of yet another endless stream of worries. Shifting over, your hands shoved the sheets into the backpack you wore, a bag that now held evidence of lost sleep.

Squinted eyes now looking for cover, a refuge before the entirety of the flood gates open. Then, your eyes landed over a small, plainly described, old candy store. It had just the worn down, crooked, awning meant to cover you for the remainder of the downpour.

The store had worn down colours painted over the sides of the entrance, now locked with a chain rusted, abandoned to the elements. Though it did have an air of remembrance, a sudden haunt of the past had crossed you. It no longer had a sweet fragrance of chocolate, the twists of gummies or the sour rock candies. You'd stepped closer to the door, eyeing the cash register that must have seen better days, shelfs and boxes now empty, dust settling to fill in the air. It was displeasing to see the forgotten but whatever comes next should clear in a new sight to witness.

All that nostalgia popped, to the sound of sudden splashing, much like feet scurrying, heavy with each sound. Your head on a pivot, caught sight of the source, a person, one who looked like they too needed shelter from the rain. It was the direction said person had walked in that caused your initial frown, they wanted to take cover right where you stood. Of course, the tiny awning was perfect for a company of two, but it was you that preferred the solitude. By then, they made it, right infront of the store, one foot away from the much needed protection, but with a wobble, their lanky but lean feet, was on its way to meet the drenched street.

Quick as you were, you'd long discarded the frown, now your arms outstretched to catch the stranger, once latched on you pulled them towards you.

A sudden flash of hazel met you, you found the mystery man of the cause of your frown. Honeyed on the insides of the pupil, much like sun rays on a summer's day but rather dark, like that of a cool sunset. In that, he'd now looked at you with widened eyes, a tell enough for you to steady the stranger, parting your arms from his side.

"Thank you." He let out, clearing out the scene from seconds ago. Just like his eyes, his voice, was like a drizzle of honey over buttered toast. Soft, yet so endearingly warm. "Don't mention it." You consented.

Words no longer exchange between the two of you but your brain could not replace the Hazel eyes of the man stood next to you with a new memory. So, you glanced at him, observing, denoting, deducing his nature. His hands rubbed together, wiping it against the grey sweater, discarding the touch you'd shared in the time you grabbed him. That was when you reached in your pocket, grabbing a hold of a bottle of sanitizer and in an attempt to offer good will, you displayed the object to the man. He looked at your hand, then back at you, rather shaped brows now knitted at your gesture.

"You can use this, if you want to, you know, clean your hands." Hands still outstretched, a slight tremble befell them. "Thank you...again. You know, sanitizers usually contain 60-70% of alcohol, which is very high as compared to alchohic beverages. Since they are easily portable, fast and effective, it's often used when there isn't a handwashing station available but studies show that washing your hands with soap and water is still more effective than using an alcohol based sanitizer."

"...uhuh."

"Sorry..." The man hung his head low, a guilt riddled face bent over, possibly from rambling in what many made him believe were uneeded facts. "Oh, don't be sorry, I just had to take a moment to process that, you're right, I myself prefer using plain old soap and water after a long day." You squeezed the bottle over his hands, gazing as his finger rubbed in the solution.

You then watched as delight slightly brightened his face, his long hair now pushed back. A few disobeying strands fall on to the sides of his face. His hair reflected a burnt wood colour, paired with the colour of his clothes, he gave off a cool undertone but you couldn't help but feel the comfort of a blanket from his eyes alone.

"Were you going somewhere?" the question slipped out of you, a means to solidify a connection to the pretty stranger that slipped into your arms, but the question landed as odd as you met eyes with him. "It's totally okay if you don't want to answer that, I just, um, yeah." Your feet now relentlessly tapped on the ground, each sound echoing scores of annoyance. The cold touch of the wind hadn't helped much, hands now strongly gripped onto the straps of your bag, "I was actually on my way to work...What about you? I can tell that you are a student solely based on your attire, you must have something important to submit if you were willing to walk out here despite the signs of rainfall." He deducted, eyes peering at you. They were clear and sure of their focus, almost causing you to wander through all the reaches of the honeyed rays.

"You have excellent observational skills, I have an assignment draft to submit for approval, the Dean had said and I quote, 'If I don't see the papers on my desk at precisely 9:15 in the morning, none of you will be rewarded credits or be given a chance to redeem scores lost.' So, well you can imagine." You explained, he smiled at your impression of the aforementioned Dean. Another denotation had been made, the colour of his lips, a soft pink hue, the sharp but perfect lines that formed around them. In that short observation, your mind had run miles imagining a scene where you were the only cause for his otherworldly smiles.

"Would you mind if I take a look?"

"What?"

"At your draft? I may be able to spot mistakes, I can offer suggestions, I have read a lot research papers, 6,846 to be exact, so this might be more efficient than having to wait for your dean to look over them." As he offered, your mind took a leap at the sheer amount of material he had gone through, "You read 6,846 research papers? How did you keep count? How do you read that much anyway?" Disbelief laced your voice, the man it was directed to, however, was used to the lack of trust his words produce. "I have an eidetic memory, simply meaning I can remember something that I read or heard for good and I can read 20,000 words per minute." His mouth formed a flat line as his lips were pulled in.

"So, you are what society calls a 'genius', to think I'd meet one in the flesh." A grin spread across your face, "Okay, let me guess, you have a high IQ too? Say over 180?"

"You are a really good guesser. Yes, my IQ is over 180, it's 187." The both of you smiled at one another at this exchange. The worry within you washed away, much like the rain before you that seemed to clear away the history of the many that walked the pavements. "But before I hand over a very important assignment, could I get your name, sir genius?"

He lightly laughed at your intentions but responded no later, "Spencer Reid." You engraved his name to all crevices of your mind, manually sorting through today and labeling each new memory made under a new category. With formalities out of the way, you handed over the sheets of paper, having remarked that you have written worse so this should be okay to the eyes of a person you just met.

Less than two minutes later, just when you got lost to the drops of water breaking every reflection it made. Spencer declared that he'd read the draft, "There are 5 grammatical errors, 17 sentences with unnecessary words. If you take a look at this passage, you can add a line that compares the topic given to the opposite end of the spectrum it represents." As his fingers grazed the words present on the paper, his voice lowered in volume. An effect of this leading you to lean over to him, convinced all movements made for just the reason to hear him clearly.

All the bells rang through your ears, realisation now screaming through you. When the last word had been uttered, a sudden loss had built up inside you, the pleasant dips of his voice had struck a need for more. You could listen to him speak for time unnumbered, if the world let you.

"Thank you, for helping me and for making standing in the rain less tedious." You graciously smiled at him. His eyes turned up, letting you witness that beautiful smile once again, a graceful 'you're welcome' that require no words. This time you will remember to keep your imagination from expanding on futures one would have no have no sure way of proving.

"There is actually a way to get less wet in the rain, it's been scientifically proven." Spencer stated, "There is?"

How quickly seconds became hours in the two words that left your mouth. Your eyes watched as Spencer's hand grabbed on to yours, his smile now turning to excitement of that of a teenage boy. Each action was slow to your sight but before all else, you were running with a man you just met under the rain. And his response to your question?

"Run!"

The cool but harsh force of the downpour fell to the once dry face of yours. Unlike the traces they carved before, they painted your face with a new shine.

Could that ever stop you?

He led you on and with a white flag raised, you let him. Wherever he may take you, let him, that was your conclusion.

Cold and dreary as the scene may reveal, all you saw was the bright rays exuding from your mystery man. You had his name, you engraved it, no requirement for force needed to remember his name, but Spencer will be your mystery man. A touch of curiosity to learn from him and about him only added to the remark.

Before you knew it, you'd been brought in to another store, though this was alive in all its glory. Nothing worn down enough to make any assumption of abandonment, no remnants of a past forgotten, but the present that shone a colour you began to love, hazel. The smell no longer lost to time, burnt and welcoming, ground coffee beans, fresh and ready to be served. A café.

"It's been proven the faster you run in the rain, the drier you’ll be, regardless of the additional raindrops you run into." Spencer breathed out, your head snapped at him, looking away from the new scene you ran into. A few seconds, that's all it took, a hearty laugh left you at the revelation.

"A-are you okay?" He asked, mostly out of concern for the sudden change in behaviour you displayed. "I- Yes, I'm fine, geez, phew!" You sighed, catching your breath, "You are one hell of a genius, Spencer."

"Uh, thank you?"

After clearing your throat, you walked further in the café, finding just the right spot to dry off. You gestured for Spencer to come over, he followed, taking extra breaths as he dragged his feet to the empty chair.

Unbothered by the looks you both received, you sat, heaving out a heavy breath. Your eyes meeting hazel, only this time surprise didn't engulf them, they looked, no, they gazed at you with endearment. With each passing second, you couldn't rid yourself of the imprint he left in your hand. The warmth that laced over it, all the while shielding you from the icy brush of the rain.

[feraliminal]

Skin

(Content warning for robot body horror.)

So, you know how some Alliance seemed to have some patches of human skin, but it seems to be less common now? What if it wasn’t just a consequence of squishing models together, but because they were originally designed to have a little skin to look less creepy to humans? With few humans around, they’ve decided to lose the skin because it’s a nuisance to take care of - it needs nutrients, gets damaged more easily than metal, gets sunburn, etc. In well-stocked Alliance bases, it would have been a relatively quick procedure to remove it and replace it with metal or plastic casings. There’s even a few weirdos who want to keep it or replace it with skin-toned rubber. In less well-connected areas though, skin removal has been a matter of necessity.

—

“I mean, scarves do cover up the creepy skin.”

Immediately, Barrow realised he’d said something wrong. Dent turned its head away, and pulled on its sleeve, which was already too far down to expose any skin anyway. ‘Am I…’ it signed, with another sign that Barrow guessed meant something like creepy.

‘You’re not creepy,’ he signed. ‘You’re good.’ He wished he’d had the signs for something like an all-round decent fellow, but what he’d learned so far had been minimal and focused on practicality. It didn’t look likely that backup would be arriving any time soon, the small army of camera heads had been facing up to the possibility that they could be here for the long haul and preparing accordingly. And Barrow was getting used to sharing his apocalypse hideout with them. He didn’t know the words to comfort the dented camera, but did know the words for car battery, generator, and barricade.

Dent gave a little nod, its way of confirming that Barrow had made sense. ‘This is creepy,’ it signed, rolling up its sleeve a little. It poked the pallid skin on its wrist, and the spot it had poked went paler. Barrow didn’t remember it looking that bad when he’d first noticed that some of them had it, but he’d never looked closely. ‘Skin,’ it signed, repeating the word a few times.

‘Why skin?’ Barrow asked. Or maybe the sign was flesh. Meat even, that was probably a better descriptor of the unhealthy-looking stuff. He’d noticed that signs didn’t always correspond to his mental translation of an English language word. The ‘why’ sign could be used as a general question signifier, he’d seen camera heads using it when he’d have wanted to say where, what, who, how, and so on. He suspected there was an invisible form of communication they were using for added context. The question sign and the name of another camera head, for example, could result in a number of answers - it’s fine, it’s outside, it borrowed your car battery, and so on.

Dent answered with a barrage of sign that Barrow didn’t fully understand. He recognised ‘human’, ‘creepy’, and a sign he’d seen used in the context of concealing entrances they used often and keeping curtains closed at night when the lights were on, maybe ‘camouflage’.

Making his best guess, he used the signs he’d spotted as he spoke out loud. “Humans think robots are creepy, so you had to cover it up with skin?”

Dent nodded.

“Nah, we don’t think robots are creepy. We love robots - you know, the Terminator, Star Wars, Transformers.” He wasn’t going to mention that he’d been in the protests, that he’d seen two hunched-over camera heads being rushed past a baying and booing crowd by a police escort. He’d came back the night after and spray painted ‘shut them down’ on the storefront while the two little creatures had huddled together on the floor under a desk, watching him. He’d thought they’d just been programmed to act cute, now he knew they’d been terrified. “We’ve all been lied to,” he said. “So you’d do the jobs that nobody wanted for nothing. You don’t have to look like us.” He didn’t have the signs for that.

Dent tilted its head, swayed a little on the balls of its feet, and made a soft whirring sound from somewhere in its chest. It raised its hands to speak, then paused, and slowly, clearly signed ‘We both don’t like this.’ It rolled its sleeve up completely - the flesh didn’t look right at all, going bad even. It was mottled a sickly purple, and seemed to be receding from where it started at mid-forearm. It hadn’t been obvious when Dent had its sleeves down, but now there was a faint whiff of a supermarket meat counter. ‘It’s dead.’ That was the same dead used for toilet zombies, not the broken used for damaged robots.

Barrow remembered a scene from some gruesome sci-fi, maybe The Terminator in fact. “Can we get rid of it? Would it hurt you?”

Dent shrugged, and started peeling at the edge of the skin sheet closest to its elbow. Then shook its head.

‘No,’ Barrow signed quickly. “Okay, don’t do that, we should probably find that one who does repairs, just in case…” But it was too late. The gremlin that compels humans to do things like shave their heads at three in the morning apparently had a counterpart for robots.

—

Characters from here - they’re both kind of underdeveloped and more an excuse for cute cultural exchange scenarios, but I’m starting to make a whole little plot plan!

[kebriones]

Okay here we go.

Reviewing all old paintings of Alcibiades I can find, part 1

Starting off with the classics. THIS HELMET, I HATE IT I HATE IT. What is it supposed to be?? He's wearing it like one would wear a Corinthian helmet in rest (pushed back on the head rather than down over the face) or at least from the shape of the metal part I would assume it's a corinthian helmet, but all the golden thingies on its front?? Are you meant to be blind when wearing this thing in battle? New technique?? And anyways why is he even wearing it. And one last thing about the helmet which you'll see is a reccuring theme: why does it have feathers. Unless i am forgetting something, fancy helmet crests were made from horse hair.

Moving on from the helmet, i have to say that even though I don't agree with it, his color choice for the outfit is....brave. green with pink. It works I guess, because he looks so confident in it. The sash tied around his middle is kinda whatever but the way he's holding his clamys???? I'm swooning. Very good hand.

Socrates' color choices are also quite bold today. Were they going to a fashion show? Is he advertising IKEA? Who knows. His skin is vet nicely painted though, I like it a lot.

Now of course we need to mention the angel behind Socrates who has a bit of fire on their hair. Is that the holy spirit? Is this some criminal anachronism??!! The angel seems to be judging Alcibiades' "sinuous" pose (i learned a new word yesterday and I feel like I'm using it wrong but I wanted to use it okay. "Sinuous". Idk. Sinuses.)

Moving on to something different. Alcibiades and Pericles! How cute is that, they're bonding like family. Or they're discussing the grocery list. I like Alcibiades' chiton and his hair and how his hand is casually draped over a helmet. Speaking of helmets, look how nice and accurate these are. No feathers anywhere. Also Pericles is wearing his helmet to hide his weird alien head presumably, so this is very legal and we won't execute the artist for drawing Pericles with a naked head.

Here's one of many depictions of Alcibiades' death. The anatomy is good, I very much enjoy that. I also really really like his face. Dark haired Alcibiades works better in paintings imo. His pose is kinda wayy too dramatic, that or he slipped on some lube i mean olive oil on his way out. Anyways he's not doing a very good job defending himself. The lady is trying, I'll give her that, but she's not doing enough. The attacker guy is.... wearing pants, but his top isn't very Persian so that's off-putting.

And of course we can see the javelin sticking out of Alcibiades' side but in my professional opinion, if he was lucky he could survive that wound if it didn't pierce any major organs. He just needed some bed rest and he'd be good to go. Alas, he died. But yeah overall I like this one a lot.

Okay so this one I'm 99% sure it's Alcibiades, if I'm wrong let me know. The dark figure on the left is definitely Socrates, I would recognize him anywhere. I really like this even though Alcibiades looks like his twelve, because he's sitting on some lady's lap, surrounded by other ladies, as he's having his actual lesson with Socrates. Like he's taking notes and everything gfhdgsj he's raising his hand he has a question let him speak.

Also how cute is his hair?? Someone give this child some ice cream.

Here we have no Socrates, which is quite rare. BUT we once again have a very stupid helmet that makes zero sense. And a vey stupid sash that also makes zero sense. But at least we have some drama, like, what's going on here? Is she refusing him??? Is she offended?? Who knows. Anyways very cool fabric rendering but why is Alcibiades so.... barrel-chested. It's kinda scary. Also who's that snitch back there. Does she wanna join.

Overall, I like the colors and the environment here, and the poses are fun. Alcibiades looks like he's reciting poetry but he's so drunk the only thing he remembers is the ship list from the iliad, so that's what he's reciting, and his girlfriend is having a hard time enduring this torture.

Old painters really like putting helmets on head that didn't need them. Like they're IN A BEDROOM why is he in full tactical gear.

This one is one of the weirder ones. I don't know why the vibes are just weird. Socrates is holding his oscar. What did he get an oscar for. I like his outfit it's like he's wearing a shower curtain or a beach towel. Alcibiades on the other hand is straight up naked. Like, that's the level of confidence and comfortableness we should all aspire towards. But I don't like his face, they didn't even try to make him pretty.

Not to mention that Socrates fell into a tub of bleach apparently. Blonde Socrates is even more illegal that unhelmeted Pericles. Maybe that's why i find this piece so strange. This isn't Socrates, this is santa claus.

I do however think the pose is very Alcibiades-like. He would absolutely look at Socrates like that.

Last one for part 1, we have this one! The classic, beloved theme of Socrates taking Alcibiades away from his girlfriends. "Why don't you go play with the boys, Alcibiades? " said Socrates.

No wait wrong story.

Anyways i like this because it has some davinci-ness to the colors and faces and Alcibiades' hair is cute and the girl in white is really trying her hardest to pull him back.

I also like that gigantic column in the back, suggesting that these maniacs were planning on having an orgy right at a temple. They even brought a whole bed over there.

Last thing i like about this one is the way Socrates isn't even really holding onto him. Alcibiades has this haunted/far away look and Socrates can make him follow him just by touching his arm, rather than pulling on him like the girl is. That's because Socrates was half siren, his father had actu

[mpxnoel]

Shattering pt. 1 ; ᴬ ˢᵉˡᶠ ᵖᵃʳᵃ

A/N: Just a piece of Noel's 'memory diary' from the first time he experienced pain. It's supposed to be messy as I tried to mirror the ragged and sort of erratic (I guess) thoughts and sensations he was going through at the time. It's also not meant to make much sense, so if something just seems like ????? then it's doing its job skdjgnjf. This is just something to get me outta writer's block. TW; the mind blabber of a heartbroken man experiencing heartache and pain for the first time.

noel, sometime around late 2019 - early 2022

Fresh paint dripped from his fingers and onto the wooden floors, the colors lost under the pale moonlight and the emptiness that plagued him and clawed at the canvas in front of him– what monstrosity claimed life on it, he dared not say; his insides turned if he attempted the smallest of glances and his mind blinded his senses to not remember it. 

It felt like the void swirling in his chest, gnawing away at his lungs and making breathing near impossible; each inhale crushing his every bone up into his beating heart and raging to burst from his throat. Life was at war with every fiber of his being, making his body ache as a rush of cold flooded from deep within, holding him captive in eternal seconds in that damned room. Silence screamed in his ears, drowning every thought with the sound of his clenched teeth. 

No, he couldn’t stand looking at it. He had no name for it – not when other wonderful things had come from the same touch that only birthed the nameless now. 

If time kept on ticking, he didn’t know. 

He made no sound, the ink in his skin lifeless in his sorrow. Was this what it felt like? 

Frustration and something else boiled up in him until he could no longer hold it in, shoving the ruined painting away. It didn’t matter where it landed, he just needed it as far away from him as he could get it. 

He felt foreign in his body, disconnected – the remnants of his reality seeming more of a fever dream in the burning cold that made his muscles tense. His world had crumbled into nothing and something entirely new; he’d lost himself in a fantasy of what he wished would be only to have reality cut through him without any warning. Noel had to be to be better than this, better than the whims of the boy he didn’t get to be, fantasizing of a love that was never supposed to be in the first place. 

But he wasn’t.

A small taste of freedom was enough for him to bite into sin, the once fluttering of his heart now shattering like glass under the crushing weight of the world he belonged to. He was not meant to love, not when red stained his inked hands and soul. 

“Not–” meant to. No.

Numbness followed, hollowing out the raging storm inside him in one swift breeze and taking his body down with it. His knees hit the floor but still no sound reached him, not even as he agreed with exhaustion and allowed his body to rest against the comforting coldness of the floor.

[factorialsfandoms]

Whumptober day 7! Maybe. Alt prompt: Quicksand. This time we’re shifting from LU to @kjpurplepineapple‘s, au @linkedkeysau-official for a brief trip! I have plans for day 6 and tomorrow, but... it may be a bit before I get around to everything, tbh.

In this fic, big bad Nihrie kidnaps young Mask from the group while they’re under a sleep enchantment, and drops him in some quicksand. Rescuing him, however, proves a challenge...

CWs: harm to a child, heat stroke, heat exhaustion, dehydration, not 100% medically reliable

Fun fact: factorial lives somewhere where how to deal with quicksand is a legit thing its recommended you learn and there’s mini courses on it. Mask is not dealing with it well. Understandably given he’s a literal child not from this sort of place.

Less fun fact: this is 4000 words. It will go on ao3 when I can bring my self to proof read and spell check it so, um... bear that in mind if trying to read here?

Another fun fact: what Mask calls gross water is homemade oral rehydration solution. it is, indeed, very gross water. I know, summer is hell with my medical stuff.

So I guess... enjoy???

Too hot, too hot, too hot!

The thought was in Mask’s mind before he was even conscious, it forcing him awake. Sweat poured down his face in the midday sun, making him gasp for air. Despite just waking he felt faint, dizzy and nauseous as though the still world was instead rotating violently. His throat burnt in a desperate need for water, choking him slightly.

On instinct Mask reached for his water skin, only to find his hand trapped.

The horror woke him up a little more - what did he /mean/ midday sun, it had been dark when he went to bed! Dark and so cold that Paint had lent him his fire rod to try warm him up! And nobody would let him sleep so long! He felt a bit sick, yes, but it was probably just from not having had any water in so long.

And- And-

And his hand was trapped!

He tried to move, desperately squirming. Quickly he found that his legs and right arm were entirely trapped, as were his hips and left hand. Paint’s fire rod was still clasped tightly between his fingers, impossible to let go of as something pressed in.

That had been it, it really had, but somehow, in his struggling, Mask had managed to trap himself down to his left elbow below the… sandline?

Sandline.

Quicksand.

Oh… Oh no…

Mask wriggled more, desperately trying to escape. But the sand was just too strong - everything that went below the sandline was quickly trapped, able to be moved down but never up. In his desperation he only made things worse - he had turned somewhat to the side, his hips even deeper and his entire left arm had been trapped by the sand. While most of his torso remained free, part of it was trapped, a triangle carving out most of his tummy, but narrowing across his chest.

Breathing was tight, but enough of his ribs remained free that it was possible. Suddenly realising the possibilities, Mask fell entirely still.

If his ribs slipped further, it might not be an option.

The thought terrified him - the whole situation terrified him. Where was the chain - where was his /dad/? Surely they would not have left him here?

No, no, even panicked Mask knew the obvious solution; he had been taken.

But if he had been taken… That meant they would look for him.

Maybe not everyone, but Warriors would, right? Warriors was his dad, and his dad /always/ came for him. As soon as he was missing he always looked, and he always made it ookay.

So… It… It would be okay, right? Dad would be here soon.

That thought in mind, Mask lay back against the quicksand, trying to limit the dizzy feeling, and just focused on trying to breathe.

Dad would be here soon, and he would make it better. He always, always did.

---

Mask had been lying out on the sand for a long time. He hurt - everything hurt. Or, no, not everything; at some point he had lost sensation in his hands and his feet, anything deep in the sand. Everything else felt like agony, either crushed by the glooping sand, or burning hot.

The sun was lower now than before, but he did not feel any cooler - perhaps hotter, even. His exposed skin felt all crispy and sore, feeling more painful even than Shadow’s had looked, and there was no more sweat to calm it.

His pulse pounded in his ears, a reassurance his heart was beating at least, though it remained too hard to get air.

He was not sure how much longer he could wait; his dad would be coming, of course he would, but… But how much longer would he be?

Mask was hurting, and he was so, so, so scared.

“...Dad?” he tried to call, a dry sob breaking through his throat.

There was, of course, no answer.

---

More time passed, and Mask lost track of it. He was feeling even worse, barely able to think.

All he could comprehend was the fear and the pain, and the deep uncomfortable knowledge that something was very wrong.

His pulse still pounded, now deafening in his ears. His vision was turning black, and as much as Mask tried to fight, he could not.

Once, twice more he tried to call for his dad, but - even if anyone had been there to hear him - he could make no sound.

Unable to hang on longer, the child passed out.

Up above, the vultures swirled.

---

Mask awoke to his heartbeat and to agony.

He could not even focus on it before he slipped unconscious once again.

All he had time to do was vomit everything in his stomach into the quicksand, and scream on a raw, bleeding throat.

---

A vulture pecked at Mask’s face.

The sensation of being eaten was just enough to force him back to life. He could not even comprehend the pain, only able to huff a little in the bird’s face before immediately passing out again.

The bird pecked him again, strangely gently for he was not really a vulture, and, getting no response, flew away with a red, red fire rod between its claws.

---

___

---

It had been too long. Knowing this in his heart and his gut, Warriors returned to walking in a random direction.

“Warriors!” Ravio called, chasing behind him. “Where are you going? We need to wait for Sheerow to get back.”

“I’m not waiting for your bird while Mask might be dying!” Warriors did give Ravio the benefit of turning a little to him, hiding his sob in a yell as he began walking again.

And… It really had. Despite it already being early afternoon, no member of the group had been awake for more than a few hours. Like a button had been pressed all of them had awoken at once as the sun hit its zenith.

A quick headcount and it was obvious what had happened - Mask was missing, and the group had clearly been cursed.

But with so long having passed, who knew what state the boy was in? What sorts of things could have happened to him in the twelve hours - Warriors prayed it was only twelve hours, not days - that he had been missing, and then in the hours since.

The group had, of course, immediately split up, searching for any sign. There had been a little hope when Twilight had found a trail leading from camp, only for it to vanish into nothingness.

Portal. Or teleportation. Or maybe even taking a flight on a bird - it did not matter which, only that they did not even know which direction to go in.

And then Ravio had noticed that his bird was missing.

Warriors… Was really, really struggling to care, and it looked like some of the others were too. The only reason that they had agreed to stop at all was that Mask had been holding Paint’s missing fire rod last night, and Sheerow apparently could hunt it down.

The chances of Mask and the fire rod being close by… Meant it might give them a direction, which was better than aimlessly wandering, Warriors knew that, but waiting when Mask - his son - was in danger was an impossible task.

Warriors refused to let the frustrated tears fall, though it took a moment for him to get them under control; Ravio reached gently out to him, surely about to offer some sympathy.

In the same moment Paint’s fire rod fell from the sky, landing heavily in Ravio’s hands. He umphed a little he caught it, immediately looking up.

Sheerow divebombed Ravio, stopping just millimetres from his face and chirping rapidly. Ravio said something back in a series of clicks and whistles, only to get another reply. The conversation lasted a few moments, before Ravio turned, looking frantically around.

“Hyrule!” he settled on.

Their healer jolted in surprise, having returned to trying to find anything that might be of help in the mud.

“Sheerow… I can’t quite make sense of it all, but he says Mask’s hurt, and there’s no monsters or people nearby but it's dangerous? And the place is bad? I- I have directions for us, but… It might be best if you flew on ahead…?” He trailed off, looking at Warriors, before his eyes snapped back to Hyrule. “he’ll give you a ride! You don’t need to try remember directions yourself!”

Before Ravio had even quite finished, Hyrule had grabbed his bag, shoved in a few extra potions, and transformed himself.

Warriors was still processing the burst of information and flurry of activity when Hyrule flew up to and mounted the small bird, but the fact their healer was already headed to his son both worried him and soothed his fears in equal measure.

“This way,” Ravio called to everyone remaining. “The terrain is a bit tricky, though…”

Nobody objected to following along behind him.

---

When Ravio had said that the terrain would be a bit tricky, this was not quite what Warriors had expected. Hacking through undergrowth, yes, but being led out of the trees into a desert, then Legend halting the entire group with an urgent call of “quicksand!”? That had not been it.

The call also caused even more fear; according to Sheerow’s information… Dangerous but not monsters or people… And Mask was apparently close…

Desperate, Warriors squinted out across the quicksand. There were… some shapes around, but between the damp slush of the quicksand and the distance it was difficult to tell specifics.

“I see him!” Wind called, spyglass in hand. “I… Don’t think we can get there, though…”

Warriors held out his hand, and the spyglass was immediately placed into it. It did not take him very long to find Mask. His head was above the sand - thank the goddesses - but he was clearly unconscious. His skin burned an angry, blistered red, and his lips were slightly parted almost as though he had been struggling to breathe. At this distance… At this distance he could not see if he was. Fear seized his heart a moment before he noticed the soft glow of Hyrule’s magic being cast from somewhere tucked by Mask’s neck - if he wasn’t breathing, if his heart stopped, if he was /dead/, then Hyrule’s magic would not work. And there was no flickering in the light implying desperate but hopeless attempts, rather a steady glow.

Handing the spyglass back, Warriors felt the fear in his throat, and relief settle into the pit of his stomach.

“How do we get to them?” Minish was asking. “I can run on quicksand, but I can’t stop.”

It was more than Warriors could do.

The relief was crushed by more dread - even if Mask were still alive now, he might not be by the time we got there.

“If we find some big planks, we could build a floating bridge!” Wind suggested. “It’s what we do when the tides make quicksand on the island.”

“Too far,” Legend shook his head. “Maybe if we used it as a raft, but the wind is too still, and oars would get stuck.”

“I have some gust leaves!” Wild offered.

Most of the group began discussing the feasibility of putting a raft on quicksand, and how they could even make a sail - none of it sounded like a fast solution, only a possible one.

And then, after rooting around in his bag for a bit, Paint looked up. He squinting at the sand, and measuring something with his thumb. After a moment he nodded to himself, grabbing Warriors hand and beginning to drag him east.

“Paint?”

“I have an idea, but we need to get closer,” Paint continued tugging him, and Warriors began to run behind him. “And higher - there’s a cliff just this way.”

Warriors had no idea what Paint was talking about, but he sounded like he had a firmer idea of a plan than anyone else; Legend was abandoning the raft group to join them, though Sky had been left to supervise.

“Sand rod?” Ravio questioned, running a little slower and behind Legend.

“Sand rod,” Paint confirmed, patting his bag even as they ran.

Warriors was unsure what a sand rod was, but… It sounded like the most hope they had. If it failed, there was the raft plan, but that really was a stretch.

Trying to swallow his panic, he followed and he ran.

---

At the closest point between the cliff and Mask, they stopped. Paint let go of Warriors hand, pointing the yellow rod out across the quicksand. In a series of strange motions the sand began to rise, almost pulsating as the water slurped out of it. The very beach itself twisted and warped to accommodate, until a steady bridge led out across the quicksand. Still made of sand, but solid and dry.

Warriors did not stop to check that before he sprinted out onto the bridge; a few hundred metres and he collapsed to his knees at Mask's side. His son had been raised up alongside the sand, unconscious and still half buried. Panic in his throat Warriors began clawing at the sand; with every sweep some fell back in, making it hard to get any sort of grip on him.

"Warriors, you need to breathe."

In his panic, Warriors had entirely missed Hyrule; still in fairy form, their healer had tucked himself onto Mask's shoulder. A little magic flowed between them, though it was clear that Hyrule was pacing himself.

Nearly sobbing in relief to see the fairy there and already treating his son - of course he was, Warriors knew where Hyrule had gone, but seeing it was something else entirely - he none the less continued scraping at the sand.

Mask remained unconscious, and his face was covered in cracked and split burns, sand aggravating the injuries. His breathing was shallow and rapid - part of the boy's ribcage was below the sand line, and Warriors had no idea how much that accounted for it - and his heartbeat was just as fast. Not shallow, though, instead it pounded against scalding hot, dry skin. Warriors’ heart stopped for a moment, looking scared towards Hyrule; there was no good reason for a child to be so hot without sweat, nor their heart trying to escape their body.

"We need to get him to camp," Hyrule chimed as softly as a fairy could, face carefully blank. "Do you have a shovel?"

Warriors had been about to shake his head, when another figure - a little breathless - appeared behind him. Legend fell to his knees at Mask’s side, biting his lip as he dug through his bag. A moment later, he pulled out the requested shovel.

"I'll move the sand," Legend left no room for argument in his tone. "Warriors, grab him when I say. Rulie, can you-?"

Whatever that sentence was supposed to end with, Legend cut himself off with a glance at Warriors. Whatever he meant, it surely had to do with Mask’s condition, and something grim.

"I can," Hyrule's expression was not entirely confident, though his words were firm. And if there were one person in all the worlds whose words could be trusted, they were his.

Legend did not leave Warriors with time to question the pair; as soon as he had confirmation from Hyrule, Legend dug the shovel in close to Mask and used his weight to drag back the sand.

As soon as the blade of the shovel was keeping enough sand back, Warriors lurched forward. He grabbed Mask tightly, pulling him up, gathering the unresponsive child into his arms, and clung tight to him.

The glow from Hyrule's hands picked up, wrapping around Mask as the fairy frowned in concentration. After a moment he moved to land again in the crook of Mask’s neck, before bringing back the glow and continuing to channel life into the the hurting boy.

With only a moment to check that the extra passenger would not fall, Warriors stood up and hurried back across the sand bridge. Legend used his Pegasus boots to run on ahead, surely to brief the others; as Warriors jumped up onto the cliff, Paint lowered the rod. The sand bridge shuddered once more, collapsing back into the watery mess.

Warriors paid it no mind as he ran towards the camp.

---

___

---

It was dark when Mask woke up again. Dark and too bright both the same. Uncomfortable in every way, he tried to shuffle. Whatever was wrong caused pain to spike, and he could not help but moan.

“It’s okay,” a hand stroked over his hair. “You’re safe now, Sprite, I’ve got you safe.”

… Dad?

Hearing the voice, Mask did his best to approach the surface of his brain and open his eyes. Everything was still a bit hazy, but the fear and the deep need to see his dad remained.

Struggling against his body he cracked open his eyes, finding the tense form of Warriors resting him on his lap.

"Dad?" He whispered, lips cracking as he did. Everything about speaking hurt his throat and face, so he stopped.

"Mask!" Warriors seemed almost to drop, bending low over Mask as he stroked his hair and squeezed his hand. "Oh thank the goddesses. It's okay now, it's all going to be okay, I'm here now."

Weak and in pain, Mask whined pitifully, trying to convince his dad to hug him. His head hurt and his legs hurt and his everything hurt, and he just wanted everything to stop.

"I'm sorry," and Warriors really did look it, reaching out to stroke his face rather than pick him up. "Could you drink something for me? It tastes bad, but I promise it'll help."

Not wanting to speak again, Mask gave a tiny nod - making his head pound as he did so. He whimpered at the pain, trying to reach up with grabby hands - only to find his arms immobilised.

"Shhh, you'll be okay," Warriors did not sound entirely confident as he slipped behind Mask, raising his head to his lap as he pulled over a bottle. "I know it hurts, I know, I know, but it'll be over soon. Just drink this for me?"

Trying to comply - there was only one person in all the world that Mask trusted completely, but that person was Warriors - Mask opened up his lips. Warriors brought the bottle to him, gently pouring it into his mouth.

For a moment all was fine, and then the taste hit.

Potions he had long agreed were disgusting, but this? It tasted like someone had dumped a salt shaker into the bottle, then tried to use sugar and apple juice to hide it. It was not even badly cooked, it just never could have ever tasted good in the first place.

Despite the pain it caused, Mask crinkled up his nose in disgust.

The action earnt him a watery laugh from Warriors, but no release from the liquid - another sip's worth poured in each time he swallows.

"Yeah, it's not nice," Warriors agreed. "But I promise it'll help - after this you can have a potion, then if you drink some more of this after I'll let Legend take you out for more ice cream once you're feeling better."

More ice cream?

As much as the bribe was meant to make Mask comply, he knew how scared his dad had to be to offer that, and whatever scared Warriors had to be very scary. More worried now, Mask looked around; everyone else seemed... Fine? There were no other bandages and no other visible injuries, though Four was looking a bit sick and Hyrule was clearly sleeping off the worst of some magic exhaustion.

Still... If the fear was about him...

Mask let Warriors give him more of the gross water. He refused to stop pouting about it, but he still took it willingly.

Next to the gross water, the potion he was given after was almost, almost /tasty/.

Definitely still nasty, but not as gross as appley gross water.

And then came another bottle of the novel concoction.

The process of drinking three bottles was painstakingly slow, Warriors very careful to let Mask do no more than sip at them. By the time he had finished, however, the pounding headache had lessened to a dull ache, and it felt a little less like his skin had shrivelled up.

Then came some very familiar looking cream. Not because Mask had had to use it much before, no, but because Shadow was constantly using it.

From the one time he had had sunburn before, however, Mask did know just how badly it would sting.

"Just let me put this on, then we can cuddle," Warriors promised. "Once the potion has taken effect it should be safe… Just make sure to drink a lot, okay?."

Mask did not want to sting, especially not with everything hurting already, but he did want cuddles...

Still unhappy he let Warriors smear the cream all over his face and ears and neck. Trying to deal with the discomfort, he went to wriggle his toes.

Only to find that they would not move.

In a panic he looked down to see his lower body entirely bandaged up, presumably tight enough that he could not wriggle. With a lot of effort he managed to shift a knee, but it took far, far too much effort.

He remembered the pain, and then the way all sensation in his legs had cut out. That was bad, wasn't it? Stopping feeling your legs, that... that was when they stopped forever, wasn't it? What would he do without his legs? The group was travelling, and even if not, how would he manage to-

"Mask!" Warriors voice cut into the fear. "Mask, Mask, its going to be okay. The sand hurt them, but they will heal, I /promise/; Hyrule promised me, I promise you. You'll be alright, you just need to heal. Just need to drink and rest and heal, I promise."

That... If... If Warriors promised? Warriors wouldn't lie to him, not about this, right?

"I /promise/ you," Warriors repeated, leaning down so that Mask could see the sincerity in his expression.

"Promise?"

The word slipped out without permission.

Warriors nodded, a whispered 'yes' on his tongue as he scooped Mask into his arms, and cradled him to his chest.

Mask did his best to wriggle closer, not caring for a little more pain so long as his dad was close.

"It's alright to be scared," he whispered. "Like this... Its /sensible/ to be scared. But you'll be okay - Hyrule just needs to rest, and he can fix more of it. We found you, we've got you, we'll always find you... I'll always find you."

Mask tucked himself away in the strong arms, trying not to think of the ordeal of the past day. Instead he curled up in his father's arms, listening to the promises.

"... How did you find me?" Mask whispered.

Warriors clung a little tighter, nodding into Mask's hair, "Ravio's little birdy found you, and told him how to get to you. Paint has an item that stopped the sand from hurting us while we got to you, Hyrule flew out to keep you safe, Legend helped me dig you out... Wild made the water solution from Hyrule's recipe for you, too. Did his best to make it less gross - and /everyone/ was looking. Everyone."

Mask would remember and thank them later, but for now... "You came?"

"Of course I came," Warriors hugged a little tighter. "Nothing - nobody - can stop me coming for you, Mask; I love you. I'll always come. I'm just... I'm so sorry it took so long."

"But you came."

It did not matter how long Warriors had taken, not really - he had gotten there in time. Mask was hurt and scared and shaken, but... Warriors had come for him.

His /Dad/ had come for him.

And that's all he needed to know that everything was, truly, going to be okay.

[annoyingstupidmiracle]

L.A. Confidential- l.r.h

CONTAINTS SMUT

Word Count: 1876

“My girl might leave me if she hears about this..” That Aussie accent mumbled under his breath as you left marks down his neck in a heated session behind his hotel door. You wouldn’t dare say a word as long as is hands would continue lingering on your skin every other night. 

“She won’t,” you told him as he unzipped the back of your dress. 

Your eyes blinked as you came out of your daydream from only a few nights prior. You stood in line at the red carpet waiting to take pictures of the band of 5 Seconds of Summer. You had began a job of being a professional photographer for popular bands or singers like them and it paid well. The only downfall was the fact that you had fell head over heels for the front man who also had a girlfriend.

Luke Hemmings was all around perfect, especially in your eyes. The way he laughed at your jokes in order for you to take a good picture of him just made your heart stop. His eyes had always lingered on you whenever you were in close perimeter. His girlfriend, Chloe, was a stunning blonde with tan skin and a perfect white smile. She was drop dead gorgeous, but Luke just couldn’t help himself when it came to you. You weren’t famous, only the people in your pictures were, but to Luke you were something else.

As soon as the boys stepped out into the light, Luke’s blue hues scanned the crowd in front of him in search of your beautiful form. You had always surprised him with the dresses and outfits you pulled off at the red carpet walks, interviews, or photo shoots. Tonight; however, you had decided on tight leather pants and an off the shoulder white blouse which had paired with your skin tone perfectly. The shoes you wore had really thrown him off. They were thick, black stilettos that crossed over your feet and allowed for your hot pink painted nails to be shown off. Luke had always been a fan of how you highlighted the best features of yourself. That’s exactly when he decided on how he was going to fuck you senseless over the-

“Luke! Luke, over here!” The paparazzi screamed over the flashes of cameras from every direction. The only camera he looked at was yours. 

*

“Well, that was a crazy crowd, Jesus.” Calum said while stripping himself of his suit jacket and plopped himself in the couch of your hotel room. 

“Yeah, well the afterparty is going to be worse.” Ashton breathed out as he unbuttoned the top few buttons of his dress shirt. You had your laptop out at the desk with the memory card inside it, scrolling through the hundreds of pictures you took for the night in order to send them to management for the band. 

They had officially hired you for the full time job for their photographer early last year so, you had made it your full duty to make sure they got the best pictures and publicity you could. Ever since you got the job, the guys instantly made you feel like you were a part of a family. They were your best friends and you couldn’t be any happier. 

“Crystal and I are going out for dinner tonight.” Mikey said as he fixed his hair in the mirror. “And no, I’m not skipping.” He adds before his friends could convince him otherwise. 

Luke took this as his chance to speak up. “Yeah, I’m going to skip out on the afterparty, too. I haven’t gotten that much sleep lately.” Your eyes dart over to the blonde just to see that he was already staring back at you. A blush made its way to your cheeks as you turned back to your computer.

Calum and Ashton rolled their eyes. “Guess it’s just you and I tonight.” Calum said with a sigh.

“Alright, well we’re gonna head out then.” Ashton announces before ushering Cal out the hotel door. Mikey bids his goodbye as well before he’s out the door as well.

Arms reached around the back of the chair, wrapping themselves around your shoulders as lips pressed against your jaw. “Real smooth.” You joked and closed your laptop before sliding around the chair and standing to your feet. You were then pushed back down, but against the bed this time and a gasp left your lips. Luke was smirking down at your vulnerable form while your elbows were the only thing giving you some sort of angle to look at him better. You stared up at him through thick lashes innocently, waiting for him to do something. His hands ached to touch you through those leather pants, he just didn’t know what he was going to do yet. 

Instead of waiting on him, your hand reached out to grab his own and placed it over the leather material between your legs. Luke’s body shuddered with pure excitement as he lowered himself over you against the bed. An elbow plopped down beside your head as a hand stroked your (h/c) hair out of your face. His eyes bored into yours and for a second, your heart beat changed pattern. You had silently hoped that his did the same as you smiled up at him. The smile that got him weak in the knees, which led to his next step of pressing his lips against yours. 

You could feel him growing hard against you as he pushed himself farther against you. Luke pulled away from your lips only to leave kisses down your jawline. There was something about the way he was acting tonight that was different than any other night. Instead of dwelling of the thought, you cleared your throat.

“Is something wrong?” You question while running a hand through your hair.

“You know I got somebody so I can’t fuck with just anybody.” Luke mumbles next to your ear which causes your cheeks to heat up. What is he saying? “But sometimes I get lonely.”

You’ve heard those words before, and it only made you angry. It meant that he and his girlfriend had been arguing. She might’ve been pretty, but she was manipulative and often left Luke a drunk mess, but ever since he met you, he hasn’t touched a drop. You were his distraction, and he loved it. He loved how you made him feel important, and needed. Chloe was independent and would rather spend her time with friends at the club than to have a night inside in bed next to Luke with a movie playing, or to go out to dinner.

“Lu, you know you can always come to me.” You soothed. Although it made you guilty that he was cheating on his girlfriend, you were also glad because there had been so many rumors about her cheating that you’d believe it. He kissed your lips in response and lost himself against you. In that moment, you cupped his face in your hand and flipped so that you were now straddling his waist. In a swift movement, he pulled the blouse you wore over your head and to the floor. A grin took over the frown on his face as his hands roamed over your curves. 

Your hands reached down and began unbuttoning his dress shirt as well as his pants while he shuddered under your touch. A hand reached behind and groped your rear, pulling you against the hard body beneath you. “Hold up.” Luke says while pushing you up to a standing position. He then curled his fingers on the inside of your leather pants and yanked them down your legs. A blush made its way to your face as you laughed. Luke then lifted you from the ground, wrapping your legs around his waist before putting you on your back. He fit in between your legs perfectly. You reached a hand down in between you and pulled his pants down just enough down his legs as he moves the lace covering you to the side. 

Kissing him, you muffled the sounds of your moan as he pulls himself out of his boxers and enters you. He pulled away and placed his forehead against your own, looking in your eyes. “Fuck, Luke.” You breathed out while looking down between your bodies as he pumped in and out of you. His white teeth shined down at you as he grinned. With a swift movement, he wrapped his arms around your torso and flipped so that you were now on top of him.

“Ride me, (y/n).”

You did as told, wincing as his nails dug into your hips. It hurt, but you loved it. He knew how he made you feel while he fucked you senseless. Speaking of, he reminded himself what went through his head at the red carpet. Before he could get too close, he quickly pulled out of you. “Lay over the desk in front of the mirror.” He demanded. This excited you, so you hurried over to the spot he told you to. Grabbing the edge of the table, you tilted your head to the side in order to look at him. 

“Like this?” You asked, but he shook his head. He entered you again causing a gasp to escape your lips. Luke reached around your head and wrapped a hand around your throat, forcing you to look in the mirror. 

“Like this, I want you to watch me fuck you senseless.” 

“O-Okay.” You stuttered, unable to contain yourself as the feel of his hand around your throat caused a different kind of feeling in the pit of your stomach. 

He then began to thrust in and out of you at a fast pace as the desk bumped against the wall repeatedly. There was sure to be a noise complaint. And thank god the rest of the band decided to go out for the night. Your climax began to draw closer as he drilled into you.

“Are you close?” He asked, getting close as well. You nodded, unable to form words as he watched you in the mirror. “I wanna hear you scream, baby.”

“Fuck, Lu.” You cursed while adjusting yourself as the desk dug into your skin.

“Louder, I want everyone in the hotel to hear you scream my name.”

“What about-”

“(y/n).” He warned. You were nearly tipped over the edge as his hand tightened around your neck and your stomach flipped.

“Luke!” Your strangled voice screamed nearly at the top of your lungs as the two of you came together, him filling you up. After a few seconds, he let you relax before pulling out of you to get stuff to clean up. He disappeared in the bathroom, and soon came back to help you clean up. Leaning against the desk, you watched as he wiped the liquid from your skin.

“We’re gonna have to go to the pharmacy before they close.” You mumbled embarrassingly. You often had to make a trip there in order to get plan b.

“I know, why do you think I got out clothes for you to change into?” Looking over, you saw a small pile of folded clothes which belonged to him causing your heart to melt.

“Thank you.”

“You know, I can’t leave her right?”

Frowning, you nodded. “I know.”

“L.A Confidential.”

You nodded again and sighed. “L.A. Confidential.”

[toiletwipes]

and i'd give up forever to touch you

chapter seven. opening up, inside and out.

Summary: Wilbur joins you on a late drive and knows you better, finding out just how fast he is becoming attached to you.

ao3 link. ~2.1k words. masterlist.

---

he’s sitting outside, on the curb when you pull up in a compact car, music pulsing through the speakers and when you roll down the window, the volume too, and smile at him with half-awake eyes, he’s up in an instant, heart racing when he thinks back to just moments before.

to the moments when he doubted the continuity of your friendship, where he was so resolute that you would abandon him once he would become comfortable, once he showed himself to you completely.

you don’t give him a chance to think that again as you leaned over and gestured for him to get in, “it’s cold wilbur, get in,” you chortled as he scrambled to his feet, as if he forgot to move for a second. giving the door a solid shut, he rolled the window up and moved the seat back a little, feeling more awkward than the cold you had warned him about outside.

“thanks for coming with me, will, i was going nuts with how quiet it is.” you offered little more than turning up the music as you pulled into the street.

“is there something... troubling you?” he asks, keeping on the dim light on the road, the sparse cars that pass them by.

you exhale deeply, eyes trained on staying in the painted lines on the road. “doing this cover and its responsibilities have dawned on me, and trying to figure out if this will be worth it- worth scheduling weeks, maybe months of time to even reach maybe the first two minutes, with our own two parts. maybe we should think about making it simpler, narrow it down to a piano and vocal duet, or a single guitar and-” you cut yourself off, pulling into the lot of a closed-down store, one of the few in this college-centric town.

“is that what you want to do?” you turn to him, your face sullen and eyes wandering over his figure, like he didn’t need to show himself at all, and that you saw him as he is already. and you had no qualms about what you saw.

“no, i don’t want just a simple cover, done in three sessions and- and have not a single drop of substance behind it. i want to feel the love sewn into frequencies every time i listen to it, i want to feel-”

you cut yourself off before smiling at him, “i want to feel alive when i hear it, because i know that’s how good it could be.” you trail off, looking out towards the windshield. “and i’ve only felt truly alive when making music, alive in a way that is beyond the pulse of my beating heart, you understand that, don’t you?” he stares into your face and finds it.

he sees you, bearing your true intentions behind this project. he wonders if you’re trying to share this intimate experience you feel with music with him.

he wonders how special you find him to want to share such a thing with him only.

“i don’t think i’ve ever felt it.” he admits.

“not even when you wrote your songs?” you question, head tilting to lie against the headrest.

he shakes his head, “i wrote those songs to help me cope with my life, something i didn’t understand at the time.” he wonders if you’re trying to do the same.

“i could show you, if you want, but fair warning, you’ll get addicted to the feeling.” you joke, and he smiles, but he knows you’re serious in the offer. with this cover, you’ll probably show him something he won’t forget for as long as he lives. it’s curious to see if he’ll survive it. “well- now that’s off my chest, how about some early morning mcdonald’s?” you say, as if trying to cut the thick layer of intimate honesty about oneself into diced cubes.

he blinks but you’re already driving to the closest mcdonald’s before he has a chance to respond. and you’re reaching into the cup holders, holding out your phone to him and telling him a pass-code. “play some music, it’s connected to the bluetooth already. or a podcast, though you don’t seem like the guy to listen to podcasts to me,” you speak and you’re giving him a quick grin before turning back to the road.

his heartbeat quickens when holding your phone, knowing your pass-code and knowing you have this solid trust in him to have given both to him. even if you didn’t know he has had thoughts that are dark in nature, it was.. exciting to say the least, he would almost say heartwarming.

but he does what you’ve asked of him, opening up the green music app and typing in the name of a song he thinks you might like.

though, when it plays out in the speakers, you spare him a glance. “you like sleeping at last?” speaking as though you were leaning towards dislike.

“is it- is it bad?”

you clicked your tongue, “not bad, just-” you hum, giving a soft laugh, “-just curious, didn’t think you’d like them, is all. we’re still new to each other, and yet, it feels like we’re old friends reconnecting.”

“you’re a big part of that, to be fair.” he folds his arms and tucked his back adjacent to the window and seat, turning to look at you fully.

you shrug, pulling into the parking lot and into the drive-thru. turning the music down as you rolled the window down, you give him a short look and he is turning his eyes on the painstakingly bright menu.

telling you what he wanted, you nod, and talk to the exhausted employee over the speaker about y’all’s order, pulling up into the second window.

reaching towards the back you are surprised to see will holding out a card towards you, you meant to deny it but he nudges it in your hands, and you just hand it towards the employee. the next few minutes are quiet, waiting for the food and handling both it and the drinks towards the passenger, passing the receipt and card back to the owner, and you drive off.

finding another empty lot, with a little less buildings in the area, you two begin to eat in the quiet of the night, sleeping at last smoothing out the edges.

when you crumple the wrapper in a ball, and toss it in the bag, you turn to face will yourself.

he faces you too when he’s done, trying not to show how the intensity of your stare is affecting him. “can i help you?” he asks, turning his gaze to the time. 2:47.

“this is the longest time we’ve spent talking to each other, and i realize you have a nice voice speaking as well as singing.” his mouth opens a little bit and his skin heats up more than any properly working heater.

“thank you- i guess?” he’s confused, he knows that, it’s on what he’s flustered about is the confusing part. is it the fact no one told him he has a nice voice, generally? is it the fact that it’s late and you must be focusing hard on his voice to stay awake? or is it the fact that you’re looking past his defenses once more and seeing him as he is? your honor, he’ll say it’s probably all three.

“you’re welcome.” and that’s when he focuses on you. you’re wearing his beanie, his jacket, and some shorts that ride up your thighs. and as you turn your gaze to your phone, turning it on to change the song probably, he glances at your collarbone. bare, save for his jacket. were you only wearing his jacket on your torso?

picturing you without it was already a bad idea, but imagining what he’d do to you like that- he moves his head forcibly, staring out into the darkness.

“do you want to go home or do you want to come over? rosie won’t mind you being there as long as we’re quiet because i don’t know what it is about you but-” you yawn, covering your face, “-i’m getting too tired to drive but you’ve only just gotten here, so, whatever you decide is pretty good with me.”

he thinks about going home alone, and slipping under the cold and unkind covers, shivering till the blankets warmed. and then he thinks about going home with you, and possibly sleeping on the too small of a couch for him and you there with your comfortable, soft ambiance. thinks about rosie waking the two of you up in the morning in her pajamas, making or picking breakfast up.

and he offers to drive for you, leaving you to doze off in the passenger side with piano notes trailing off in your ear.

~~~

parking in front of the dorm building, he leans over to shake your shoulder only to falter in his movements, your hunched over figure leaning against the window and your breath fogs the glass.

then you’re stirring awake, and you’re blinking the sleep away from your eyes and you’re looking right at him, for the third time, and he doesn’t know if he should be endeared by it or frustrated on how you can see him so easily.

but he’s turning the car off and walking around your car to open the door, helping you out and letting you lean on him for a second, never mind his skin itching to burn. you two walk to your dorm, unlocking it in the silent hallway.

the door creaks slightly as you push it open and aside, “you can have the couch or the bed, i’m too tired to care,” you walk to the kitchen and you open the doors to find something to drink, will recognizes it as an apple juice container. “though, you should try my bed, it’s too good to be true,” seeing will’s face you wave at him to follow you, though your movements sluggish, you prove you’re still conscious.

pushing your bedroom door open, he finds the papers from earlier stacked and he finds you hopping up onto your bed, with the apple juice between your legs and you patting the space next to you. he doesn’t make nearly the amount of effort you put in to sit beside you, and he begins to regulate his breathing to calm down, being near anybody really would put someone like him in a tizzy, he rationalizes.

“after i finish this, i’m going to pass out, you can do the same wherever.” and in a much more alarming speed, you chug the half-full container and cover your mouth when you’re done, giving a slight burp. “and i won’t say i told you so,” your lips lift up as if you meant to smile briefly but you were too tired to commit to the action.

leaning over to put the jug on the desk, you are left with shuffling in your spot until you’re covered by your blanket with your feet underneath will’s legs.

“night, wilbur, see ya in the morning,” you mumble to yourself mostly, but he hears you and he mumbles something similar, leaning his head against your wall and arguing with himself internally.

he has a chance, now.

when he looks straight at the dresser, he can see the camera, almost tauntingly.

though what sends chills down his spine isn’t your cold, uncovered feet touching him, no it’s the fact that the things he moved to cover the device, they’re gone and it’s almost noticeable.

it wouldn’t be hard to miss and it’s the fact that if he does take his chance and move it, you’ll know it was him. know that he was the one to put it there and take it away.

and then you’ll hate him, cut him off, take him away from the project, keep rosie away from him, and so much more. and nights like these won’t happen ever again. he won’t get these quiet moments with you, won’t get to appreciate a person like you.

so as he leaves to grab a blanket from the linen closet, and pads his way to your room, he decides that he’ll leave the cameras there, and he’ll take his chances.

maybe in a few months he can take it and put this whole thing behind you two, maybe you never even noticed it.

whatever happens later, he thinks, at least he had this night with you, tucking himself under the blanket and curling just nearly against you, and he feels at home next to you.

is that what you are, though? home? he wonders as he listens to your breathing for a few minutes, thinking that’s what you’d had to be. so open, so warm, and so comfortable to be around.

even if you hadn’t meant for it to happen, wilbur was swiftly becoming dependent, some would say addicted, to you and everything you’ve offered him.

but that would be a problem for a future will.

for now, he would sleep. and he would do it next to you. his worries can set themselves aside for a few hours.

...

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[words-writ-in-starlight]

day 3: "insults"

Zetian came back to their chambers an hour earlier than she was supposed to, and the black-winged line of her lashes couldn’t quite hide the red rims beneath. She was sitting stiff and straight in her wheelchair, the way that Yizhi had learned to read as a kind of pain, like an arm tensed thoughtlessly to protect a bruise. And—he noticed it with some alarm—her golden robes, laid carefully out over her legs with his own hands, were spotted here and there with blood. There was some on her knuckles, spotting her right sleeve, and she held her hand delicately in her lap, as if it hurt her.

“Zetian?” he was already asking, concerned, as the door swung shut behind her. “Are you all right? Did something happen?”

“I’m fine,” Zetian said, and buried her face in her hands.

Yizhi crossed the room in a rush, and knelt in front of her, so that he could look up at her face and her hands. One, her right hand, was bruised, two of the knuckles split, as if she had punched something with enough force to break skin. He didn’t think she was crying, but her hands trembled, just faintly, as she lifted them, briefly, and closed her fists against her face.

“Zetian,” Yizhi said again, reaching up toward her hands. He caught her right hand in both of his, avoiding the worst of the bruising, and tried to gently pull it down. She resisted for a moment, then caved, all at once, letting her fist fall open so that Yizhi could rest her palm on his and get a look at the damage. “Zetian. What happened? Did someone do this to you?”

“No,” Zetian said, voice very flat. Her eyes were closed, and her left hand was pressing against the crease between her brows without regard for the formal makeup on her face. She had been due to give a speech this morning, and it had gone off without a hitch, his steel-eyed Empress the perfect combination of untouchable magnificence and cold, mortal ruthlessness. Yizhi had kissed her hands and told her as much, and she had scoffed, pinched his arm, and told him to go do his job instead of doting on her like the protagonist in some saccharine romance. He had chuckled, and she had smiled, and they had parted ways with one more affectionate kiss to her knuckles. She had seemed—not fine, she hadn’t been fine in a while, but she had been clear-eyed and sure. That had been maybe six hours ago.

“Come with me,” Yizhi said, standing slowly and keeping a light hold of her hand, cradled in his palms like a wounded thing. “I’ll wash your hand off, and we can get you into some clean clothes, okay?”

Zetian opened her eyes, staring at their joined hands like she wasn’t seeing them, and reached out with her left hand to touch her split knuckles, investigating. Yizhi closed his hands over her injured right, frowning protectively, and Zetian pulled back, blinking at the half-dried blood on her fingertips.

“I punched a wall,” she said neutrally.

Yizhi blinked himself, twice, and then said, just as neutral, “Okay.”

She was fingering at the blood on her right sleeve, now. There was some paint coming off her hand onto the fabric, the vermillion of her huadian smudged on her forehead and the heel of her thumb. She didn’t seem to notice, absorbed in the act of rubbing the gold, heavily embroidered silk between her fingers.

“Zetian,” Yizhi repeated, softly, and crouched back down so that he could look up into her face again. “Please, tell me what happened.”

Zetian took a breath, a long, shuddering thing, and let it out in a weary gust.

“I—was trying to avoid—people for a little while,” she said, halting. “So I was in—the study. The big window, with the curtain.”

Yizhi nodded. He knew the one she meant—there was a deep window ledge, made up with cushions and a blanket, so that someone might sit there comfortably for a while. If that person was, say, an Empress in need of a moment to herself, the curtain could be closed to mostly conceal the window ledge and the person inside.

“I heard a pair of maids come in. I should have told them I was there, but I didn’t want to deal with the—everything.” Zetian made a communicative gesture to indicate the nervous prostrations and scraping that most of the servants directed toward her. She unapologetically relished the same behavior from the more insufferable upper class, but it made her uneasy to face it from those who had once been her peers. “So I stayed quiet. I left my wheelchair at the desk. I don’t think—I guess they thought it was supposed to be there.”

She paused there, tongue touching her front teeth, breathing. Her gaze was fixed on some nowhere place over Yizhi’s shoulder, and the lines of her face were hard, angry, but also oddly uncertain. Yizhi didn’t move, just waited, holding onto her injured hand.

After a moment, Zetian stirred again, and said, “I heard them—talking. About…”

She didn’t finish, but then, she didn’t need to.

Yizhi had loved Zetian for a long time, now that he let himself think about it. He had thought, somewhat ashamed of himself for his favoritism, that losing anyone else would be easy, as long as she was with him.

It had not been easy.

They didn’t dare to say his name during daylight hours, unsure of how the raw wound would show itself, too afraid to let anyone else see the depth of their loss. They were both as defensive as lost children, unwilling to let an outsider even look at their hurts, let alone try to touch them. Instead, Zetian and Yizhi curled together and talked in whispers, in the dark, and hid their bloody hearts in each other’s hands.

“Oh,” Yizhi said, quietly. “They—what did they say?”

Zetian’s eyes snapped to his, and all the confused distance was gone, leaving a flame that burned white in its place. Her meridians stirred, he could feel them through his touch at her wrist, and the simple spirit metal headpiece she wore in daily business glimmered as if it was under a brilliant light.

“They said,” she said, a deadly hiss, “that the best thing he ever did was die. They said that he had nothing worth living for. They said,” she went on, voice getting louder, “that he was a murderer, and an animal, and a stupid one at that, too stupid to run for his life. They said that he—he probably raped all his concubine pilots, and they must have been grateful to die just to get away from him, and that I abandoned him to die in the Bird, and that I was right. They said that I was a hero for leaving him behind!”

Zetian was shouting now, almost screaming, throat raw and eyes red and running with the force of her anger. She had reversed Yizhi’s grip on her right hand, and now she was clutching him so tightly it hurt, grinding the bones together, while her left hand was clawed in the cloth of her robe, twisted, knuckles standing out pale against her skin.

“They said that I haven’t held a funeral for him because he didn’t deserve to be remembered—that he killed his whole family and he should have just—”

She stopped, choking on her words, as if she was forcing them out through a stranglehold. Then she spat, “They said that he should have just let the army shoot him, and then all his concubine pilots would still be alive, and we’d all be a lot better off.”

Zetian was shaking, her whole body vibrating under Yizhi’s grip, so that she looked almost like he had, shuddering while his system fought to survive withdrawal. She was crying properly now, ragged sobs of rage and grief, and that awful look of lost, helpless confusion was back beneath it all, and Yizhi—

Yizhi didn’t know what to do to make her feel better, because he was feeling a sudden upswell of sympathy for Zetian’s decision to punch a wall.

He wanted to punch a wall, too. Or, even better, he wanted to go down to the security office and demand every surveillance video from the entire building, and go over them with a fine-toothed comb to find everyone who had ever spoken a single one of those thoughts aloud. Then he could deliver them all up to Zetian on a silver platter, and maybe that would make the glaring emptiness, where they had all-too-quickly come to depend on another person, less painful.

“We haven’t held a funeral because we don’t know he’s dead,” Yizhi finally said. His voice was weak, fragile-sounding, and he realized when he spoke that he was crying too. Not Zetian’s wracking sobs, but a steady trickle that dripped from his jaw and clogged his throat.

“I told him that!” Zetian said, the words torn out of her chest. She was curled over in her chair, clinging to Yizhi like he was the last hope of rescue after a shipwreck, and crying almost into her knees, hand pressed over her mouth. “I said that right to his face, I said that he should have just taken a bullet rather than let them force him into piloting! I said—I said he had nothing worth living for, and those girls had everything, and he should have died rather than—and he agreed with me! He agreed with me, and then he—and then—”

Yizhi gave up on grace and pulled Zetian bodily out of her chair, into his lap on the floor. He wasn’t big enough for it to be comfortable, for either of them—his shoulders too narrow, his limbs too delicate—but she didn’t hesitate to follow his lead. She pressed her face into his shoulder and he fisted one hand in her robes, and felt her take a great shuddering gasp of air, every fiber taut and shivering with emotion.

“I told him,” she said into his robes, as if confessing a capital crime, “that if he was going to rape me, he should at least be honest about it. I didn’t say it like that, but he knew—he knew.”

Yizhi closed his eyes, resting his cheek on her hair, and felt his own breathing hitch. Zetian kept talking, like she couldn’t stop the flow of words now that she had started.

“What if he—what if he thought I still thought of him like that? What if he saved me because he thought—he thought that he was worthless, or a monster, or that we’d be better off? What if—”

“Stop,” Yizhi said, barely a whisper. He wasn’t even sure Zetian could hear him, over her own voice, her own guilt. But she stopped, and just sat and shivered in his arms.

Yizhi took a moment to breathe, her headpiece digging into his temple as he tried to find words.

“He saved us,” Yizhi finally said, slow and careful, “because he wanted us to live. Because he loved us. We can’t—it’s not fair to him, to spend all our time trying to decide if he loved us because he hated himself. That won’t—it won’t help us. And it won’t help him.”

“I was so awful to him,” Zetian said.

“Well,” Yizhi said, managing a brittle laugh through his tears, “sometimes you’re awful. Sometimes he was too. And me, every now and then. What matters is that we try to fix it.”

Yizhi shifted his weight, and carefully lowered both of them down onto the carpet, curled up on their sides, face-to-face. Zetian’s makeup was ruined, her blotchy flush showing through, and he was sure he didn’t look much better. He thought, for a moment, about how they had slept curled up like this the night before the attack on Zhou province. But then, they had been framing another body between them, hands lightly linked over his abdomen, his hands touching them hesitantly every once in a while, anxiously, as if he thought they might disappear.

Now, in the Empress’ quarters, they laid there together on the floor. The light outside the window began to darken, and Zetian’s tears dried, leaving her makeup smeared in ghoulish streaks down her face, and Yizhi kept holding her injured right hand to his chest.

Yizhi didn’t know how long they had been laying there when Zetian spoke, quietly, her voice clear and her eyes closed.

“I miss him.”

“Me too,” Yizhi whispered.

“I want to find those maids and kill them.”

“Me too.”

“We probably shouldn’t do that.”

“No. I could have them reprimanded, though.”

“Do that.”

“Okay,” Yizhi said, and bent his head to kiss the tips of her fingers. “If you let me clean your hand.”

“Okay,” Zetian said. “In a little while.”

[mssirey]

More SuperReign Knights AU!! (A follow up to this)

The rains had mercifully held off for the summer games, but were not so gracious as their duel—called a draw the day before to keep them from taking the whole fairgrounds down around them—resumed in the training yard. There was no ceremonial garb to be concerned with and after the sun had been on their skin all morning, the rain was almost welcome. 

The singing of their blades was momentarily drowned out by calls to clear out—lessons abandoned around them—and the disgruntled shouts of curses at any god that might listen as hungover knights stumbled for shelter. But all it took was one glance while their swords locked to know that Kara had no interest in postponing the conclusion of their duel. 

The challenge that always managed to define them—both the tie that connected them and the bounds of what they were—reared its head in the fires she saw in Kara’s eyes, just as it had shaped her words the night before. Sam could still feel the imprint of Kara’s weight in her lap; the way her knees caught against the outsides of Sam’s legs; the way she relaxed back; the smell of her hair—it refused to leave her, but she couldn’t find a hint of its meaning, or its mirror, in Kara. 

The other knight wasn’t as graceful as Sam knew her to be capable of—her parries sloppy, her timing off by a hair—but Sam was too sluggish to press that advantage, the night’s ale lingering enough in her system to dull her reflexes. But they fell into step, following the familiar dance between them, the ring of their blades clashing joined by the patter of rain on soft soil. 

As the skies grew darker and the rain came down in sheets, they were left without witnesses—no one to judge a victor—and still they continued. Sam tried to steer Kara towards a slick stretch of mud, swinging in a wide arch—allowed herself to be predictable, easily avoidable if Kara stepped correctly—and then a turn of her grip would allow her to follow with more aggression, push the other knight back, direct her to where her footing would be compromised. 

Kara was sharper than Sam gave her credit, already noting the shift in the terrain—a lesson both J’onn and Alex had been sure to drill into her and the others in her class—and she knew to disengage, to take stock of their surroundings. “You’re going to have to do better than that,” she called as she put a few paces between them, competing with the shower to make her voice carry across the yard. 

Just as Sam felt the water running down her neck and beneath her leathers, Kara’s short hair was getting flattened, falling over her eyes. A quick swipe pushed it back in a messy sweep and still more rain coaxed it forward again. They were both blinking, adjusting to the rivulets that streaked their faces, each testing their grips with a few easy swings, knowing that it was only a matter of time before it was hard to keep a handle on their blades. 

The rain was hard enough to distort the image of Kara, and perhaps that was for the best as her tunic clung to her abs beneath the line of where her leather chest guard cut off. It had never been quite so distracting and Sam couldn’t bring herself to examine the interest her eyes showed. 

“You can forfeit here,” she offered, a laugh forced from her lungs to cover how the words had teetered on her tongue, nearly tumbling from her lips to die in the gathering mud. “I wouldn’t hold it against you.

“Never!”

It was always the same. Kara never chose to back down, and it had been thrilling to have someone who wanted to cross blades, who took every chance to stand opposite her despite the names she had been given—Black Reign the one that had stuck, shortened eventually to Reign. Most young knights feared her, would bow out of duels or take early falls to avoid truly testing her, but not Kara. 

Kara. The golden knight of high noble birth, who could have easily chosen to be a knight in name only, but who instead stood fiercely behind the codes she upheld. The woman who was bright in spirit and wit; who could turn a room with both action and song; who was greeted by everyone, but also took the time to greet in turn—even those whose voices were lost in the crowd or those who struggled to get anyone to meet their eye. 

Kara was the one who sought Sam, relentless and insistent, and through her Sam found it easier to hold her blade proudly. She enjoyed the rivalry they shared, but somewhere along the line it had become something different… or perhaps she wanted it to and instead it remained just that. She couldn’t decipher it, couldn’t understand it. 

And so Sam leaned into what she knew. She strode forward to close the distance between them, boots already feeling the suction of fresh mud, careful to watch the turn of Kara’s grip and the shift of her weight, to check which foot was planted. 

“Come on, Sam, don’t hold back!” 

Only Kara could demand something so boldly and genuinely want it. It was foolish, brash, but also welcome. 

Sam let the fire caged in her chest bleed into her arm, dropped her grip to the one hand and swung, hard enough to crack bone through armor. She trusted Kara to know how to handle it, her heart rising with the shriek of her blade dragging down the length of Kara’s as the angle directed her momentum away from the other knight.

Kara shouldered her to the side, tried to unbalance her, to find an opening after her aggression, but her own footing made quick maneuvers tricky. They danced apart, righted their stances and then circled, each watchful for any slip. 

Sam’s blade was longer and heavier, and she knew the bones in Kara’s hands and forearms would feel the sting of each clash, until numbness reached her shoulder. If she could keep Kara at a distance, keep her on the defensive, it would only be a matter of time before she couldn’t hold her arm up. 

But Kara knew that as well as she did, knew to not let her control the pace. So to provoke Sam meant she was studying, gauging how steady her blade was in the rain and how fast her swing. She needed to know the windows of opportunity, and Sam couldn’t let her learn them. 

Sam charged, put her body behind her blade and caught the twist of Kara’s grin--a brief glimpse as she was sidestepped--the revelry at her full effort setting her heart out of rhythm. She couldn’t understand what joy Kara got out of it, but that smile made her knees unsteady. 

They continued, going even with what Kara redirected and what she avoided, each stumbling and slipping more and more as the earth soaked up the rain, until Kara found the opening she was looking for. 

Sam got too close and the pommel of Kara’s sword came down on her hand, wrenched her blade from her, and if she had been steady enough to get away, Sam would have lost. But favor turned, and Sam swept her feet out from under her, gratified by the wet impact as Kara’s back hit the ground. 

Sam kicked her sword from her grip and took advantage of the knight’s struggle for breath, getting over her and pinning her arms. 

“You look good on your back.” 

Sam said it in the spirit of competition, but the hitch of Kara’s breath and the flutter of her lashes brought the possible meaning into glaring focus, the realization painted in broad strokes across her skin. A splatter of mud touched Kara’s cheek and Sam released her wrist to gently brush it away, her gloved thumb lingering after, hovering, drawn by a yet unnamed force towards parted lips. 

Sam’s hand sank into the mud by Kara’s head, braced as she felt the pull of her own heart, the gravity that called her towards the other knight. The rain added the barest gleam to Kara’s lips, enough to keep her gaze trained and narrowed in. 

She watched as Kara’s lips moved, formed around words she didn’t speak, tried to guess what she might say—if it would be a remark about how she should move from where she straddled the other knight. She hoped that wasn't what Kara wanted, but the peek of tongue she witnessed kept her from truly considering the consequences. 

Sam leaned down, only to pause, her breath heavy as it shuddered from her lungs. Her cheeks burned hot, the rain on her neck not enough to cool her. She didn’t catch Kara’s fingers as they slipped into her leathers, at the opening for her arms, but the tug overcame the last of her hesitation, and she let herself fall into the cushion of those lips, to taste the heat that scorched its way through her skull and licked down her spine.

There was no reason to be found. No question to be answered. Sam knew how to follow instinct, how to let her body move for her, and so when her mind sought haven in the comfort of the other woman’s presence, her tongue pressed for what it wanted, drank deeply as Kara met her with just as much desire, a groan spilling into her mouth. 

A boom of thunder drew them apart, laughing and breathy. 

“This isn’t defeat,” Kara panted, and then her face pinched into that endearingly regretful expression she got when she tripped over her own tongue, her ears bright red. 

Sam exhaled a laugh. “It never is with you,” she noted with a shake of her head.

[starshipsofstarlord]

The Sheriff and the Murderer

Part Four

Previous Parts | Part One | Part Two | Part Three

Series Masterlist

Summary | car rides come to a gruelling end, leaving you and Sandy with the dirty business of burying Simon’s limbs. Though, when Lee enters the station, he hears the news of a weeping widow, that has been touched unfairly by your husband. He has to find Simon.

Warnings | mentions of death, mentions of rape, mentions of pregnancy, angst, mentions of sex, includes smut, swearing, fingering, blowjob, titty fucking, dirty talk, anal sex, squirting

Quick link to my masterlist, if you’re interested in reading more of my crap 😬

Dirt moulded upon the seams of your knees as you knelt, placing Simon’s hand upon the pile of his scattered body parts. There had been many holes dug in the woods, and it was beginning to get dark, as you and Sandy finally finished hiding the evidence of your crime.

A sigh of relief escaped your lips as you had finally finished stowing away the parts of your life that haunted you, and with much pleasure, buried it deep within the ground. “Surely now you’ll be looking for a new husband...” Sandy snickered, grabbing a rag to wipe the grime from her well adversed hands off on.

“That would not at all be suspicious.” You rolled your eyes at your friend, grabbing the shovels and moving towards her trunk. “But I’m going to need a story for his disappearance, Lee among others will certainly find it strange to never see me worrying of his return.”

A light scoff emitted from the blonde, as she shook her unruly curled head. She placed a hand upon your shoulder, giving you a tender smile to soothe your thoughtful nerves. “Ain’t nobody gonna wanna find that poor excuse of a man. And if they do, you’re gonna be the last person that they suspect.”

She had a point, the people in town that knew of you, were aware that you were nothing more than a simple housewife. You were forced to depend on Simon and his income, and without either, you would fall into squalor. But a life of difficulty, fighting against sexist poverty would be better than living with that monster.

Because that is what Simon was, a monster. He had no recollection nor care for the value of you being a woman, like many men in the day and age. And now, with his bones hidden in the middle of nowhere, far form citizen eyes, you were free, though you were unsure of what to do with your newfound freedom, and how you would manage it.

“What about that wife of his?” Lee snapped his head around, as he looked between the door that held the victim, and Deputy Reeves, who had decided to bring the woman that owned his heart, and another man’s ring upon her finger, into this case. But it was inevitable, you were to be dragged into it, Simon had a hell of a nerve for putting you into the corner.

“And what may your point be to bring y/n into this inconvenience?” The sheriff snapped at his co worker, containing his anger concerning the situation. Reever reeled his head back at the sound of Bodecker’s tone, frowning at his commander’s voice.

“I meant, she may know where Simon Priot is! I’m not assuming that she is the reason that he has gone off the grid, hell knows he wallows in the dark corners of this town. You need to make your likening towards that lady less obvious, I remember back during our training days, you’d carry around a picture of her, and now look at her... she’s bound to have be with a child in a year or so, she moved on Lee, and you’re still stuck on her like gum on the bottom of her shoe.”

Lee bit his lip, restraining the need to explode on this man that was below him, yet was still talking down to him. It was true, it was a fear of his that he’d watch you balloon with an heir, that Simon would raise under his manipulative thumb. And the chances would be, that the baby was genetically identical to his genes, having been made from the pair of you sexually intermingling.

“So your concern is that y/n may know his whereabouts, and not what he may do to her behind closed doors? This woman that we are interviewing may be from a wealthy family, mourning her own well established partner, but because y/n and Simon are married, it surpasses over your thick skull!”

He steadied his breath, holding his hands upon his hips as he tried to control his authority, though, Reeves did not entirely seem impressed with Lee’s words. Instead, he simply bellowed a laugh, finding his sheriff’s prejudice to be amusing. “That is one way to act jealous. Guess I’ll just go over to her home, and see if Simon is present.”

“I’ll go.” Lee grabbed his mug, glaring at his coworker as he walked profusely away, sending a point of his finger towards the door that the widow was concealed behind, prompting that Reever best continue his work, whilst he perceived to do the same.

A series of knocks had you bustling out towards the door, clothed in nothing more than a towel, as you had just left the premises of the bath, finding it to be only Lee on the other side. “Hiya sheriff, is there anything that I can help you with? Maybe you’d like to come inside for a cup of something smooth and sweet.” You bit your lip, giggling as he pushed you through the door.

He shut it behind himself, pinning you against the wall, as his face tucked into your neck, planting ravishingly kisses against the column of your neck, making you revel your head back. “You do feel smooth.” His hands ran up the length of your leg, worming it’s way beneath the rough fabric, sliding his fingers up and into your entrance, causing you to moan up and toward his chin. “I’m finding this suspicious...”

At his words you froze, becoming paranoid that he had found something out. You stared up at him as he thumbed at your clit, as you rutted your hips down and upon his fingers. “Lee, you have to listen to me, there is nothing to be - fuck!” He shoved another two fingers into you, stretching you open, as your hands stroked against his sleeved biceps.

“Every time you answer that damned door, you’re dressed in practically nothing. It’s like you’re trying to seduce all the men around here.” He smirked, using his free hand to tug off the towel, leaving you in nothing more than your own nude skin.

“Just one.” You played with his tie, wincing as the sheriff removed his fingers from inside of you, raising them to your lips as you tasted your own juices from his flesh. “He’s quite the charmer, that smile of his, well that’s contagious. And don’t get me started on that plump belly of his, I love to feel it pressing against me as he fucks me into the mattress. He’s so handsome, and has such a big, pulsing cock.”

With that said, you dropped nakedly to your knees, tugging at his belt, looping the leather out from its holsters, and dragging the layers of material down, so that you could expose his erecting cock. You grasped his base, instantly moving your mouth down to his balls, sucking his left one into your mouth, causing the man above you to grit his teeth.

You stroked his length, moving back up towards his tip, tapping it against your tongue, moaning against him as he began to comb his fingers through your hair, before sinking his fat cock down your throat, feeling his taste upon your buds, as you stared up at him with your innocent eyes.

“Such a talented mouth.” He moved his hips, sinking further into you, as you muffled your noises of gagging on him. “Simon really is a lucky man.” He muttered to yourself, the words being inaudible to where you were below him. But where was Simon?

“Love sucking your cock.” You popped him out of your mouth, swiping your tongue up his shaft, as you continued to pump him. “So big Lee Lee.” His eyes rolled to the back of his head, as he handled himself, moving himself of out your grasp, as he watched you press closer to him, a breast on either side, as he rested on your chest.

You grasped your breasts, a hand upon each, as you suffocated his length with your tits, bouncing on your thighs, as you fucked him with your assets. “Y/n.” He breathed, humming at the sight of you, licking his lips, as he felt swarmed with pleasure.

He remembered back in the day, when he would come over to your house and help you study for mid terms. Those sessions ended rather similarly, with one of you performing some kind of pleasure on the other, keeping as quite as you could so that your father would not hear.

But of course he knew what was going on, which was why he had decided to introduce you to Simon, so that his blessing would sway you into choosing him rather than Lee. “I’m going to cum, baby girl. Gonna soak your lovely tits with my spunk.” He groaned, watching behind heavy lidded eyes as he spilled over your chest, painting it white, as he stepped slightly back, and turned soft.

“Oh my - Christ!” You squealed as you were held chest first against the dining table, remnants of Lee’s cum sliding upon the surface as you were pounded back and forth, Lee behind you as he took you from that angle. “Harder baby, har - ah!”

A light scream reckoned from your throat, your fingers grasping the corners of the surface, as he slipped his cock out from inside of your pussy, pressing his tip against your tighter hole, using no lubrication except your own natural essence that cloaked his skin, as he began to press into your ass.

“Honey, you’re so tight.” He squinted, as he began to slow down, allowing you to adjust to his girth within your asshole before moving slightly faster. “You’re ass feels so good. Never let your horrible husband in your back door, have you?”

The thoughts of ways that Simon had never brought you pleasure, times that you consented to it, made him pulse harder within you. Lee had been permitted to do more socially unacceptable things with you, in your home, and it completely turned him on. If anyone knew that adultery, and all these other things that Lee did to you, they would even look down on him, the sheriff.

“No. Only you Lee Lee.” You threw your head back, moulding with the pressure of his hand upon your back, forcing you to be flat against the table. “I want more baby, give me something more sweetie.” Giving you a light spank upon your ass, making your tighter walls clench around him, he trailed his hand to your front, pinching your clit, before delving his fingers within your contracting walls.

“Holy heaven.” Lee groaned, feeling at how your wetness seeped down his hand, as he hammered into you. This session had been going on for so long, and if he weren’t mistaken, he’d think it to be one of the best. “Cum baby, cum all over me. And I’ll feel this ass up, yeah?”

Feverishly nodding, you continuously clenched around his thick fingers, until a flow of clear liquid squirted out from your pussy, creating a puddle upon the kitchen floor as he removed his hand from inside you, shoving it in your mouth to mute your screams. His balls slapped against the middle of your ass cheeks, as he thrusted, falling back against you as he filled you up.

Grasping your hips lightly, he pulled back, watching as his cum dripped out from you, cascading down the back of your thighs, as your pussy withered from emptiness. He bit his lip at the sight, and for a moment, he forgot why he had visited you this early on the day for an exchange, and then he remembered, it all flashing back to him.

Perhaps another round was in order, to numb the reminder of your marriage, and the case that he was on duty for. As you returned to your senses, he helped your get up, carrying you towards the bathroom to partake in more fulfilment and cleanse the both of you.

Tags;

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