#song: lonely night in the park

[brucespringsteencomments]

[dilatorywriting]

Monster Mayhem: Siren's Song

Gender Neutral Reader x Vil Schoenheit Word Count: 6.1k

Summary: What do you call a deaf pirate? Not 'Siren Food' apparently, which is really sort of hilarious when you've been kidnapped by a hungry Siren. Not for the Siren though—he's definitely not having a good time.

A/N: *rushes in at the 11th hour* Happy Mer-May!! I've been back and forth with clinical rotations and also working on some commission things and Leona's Part 4, but like, it's a fanfiction holiday. I couldn't miss out. And for one of my favorite tropes nonetheless. So here we are.

[PART 1] [PART 2]

There was a legend that floated throughout the Sage Island Seas of the Pirate With No Ears. Which was ridiculous—half because such a tall tale managing to survive so long and so wildly really showed just how pathetic the rest of the gossip around here was, and half because you still had ears. They just didn’t work very well was all.

Some said you’d been deafened by a prowling sea sorcerer who had tricked you into trading away your once keen sense for some mortal foible or other. Others whispered about how you’d been trapped in an ice cavern, surrounded by electric eels and sharks, and that the only way you’d been able to weasel your way out was by cutting off your own ears so that you’d have enough wiggle room to escape from your bindings. Which made absolutely zero sense at all.

In reality, all you’d done was stand far too close to a canon for far too long when you were far, far too little, and ever since all you could hear was the dull ringing of post-battle silence. Sometimes it was a bit sad. When the waves crashed against the shore, or when the gulls flew overhead—you were sure all those things sounded very lovely. You remembered music and laughter and sometimes they echoed in your head at a distance—a memory not quite forgotten but certainly fading at the edges. But other times, like now, where your fellow crewmates were bawling into their ales and wailing about lord knew what… well, it was always nice to find a silver lining in these sorts of things.

One of the tipsy lads tottering around the deck of The Rose Queen tripped and landed against the wood with something that looked like it’d be a very loud smack. Your brain helpfully filled the silence with some nonsense noises and park-play-style laughter instead. You watched Cater stumble by out of the corner of your eye. He patted your head and said something that twisted his mouth into a gaping ‘uuuuu-eeeee-oooo’ before he puttered away to leech off First Mate Clover instead. Ace threw a drunken arm around your shoulder and burbled something against your cheek that popped with the scent of stale booze, and you decided to pretend that you were as alone at sea as your muted senses would like to think.

The party raged on long into the evening and you stared down at the rabble contentedly from your perch in the crow’s nest. They were a good bunch—dullards though they may be. You’d heard (hardee har har) that they were planning to raid the Port o'Bliss, and something must have gone terribly right. You only really hung around to scrub barnacles off the paneling and keep an eye on the tides well enough that Deuce wouldn’t run the lot of you ashore, so you weren’t really sure how the whole ‘pirating’ business actually went about. But clearly they were doing a pretty good job of it.

You rested your chin on your crossed arms and sighed into the salty breeze. The night was warm and pleasant, and before you knew it, you were nodding off against the rough fabric of your sleeves. You weren’t quite sure how long you spent dozing there tangled in the ropes of mast, but it was long enough that by the time you snorted back awake the festive lights had dimmed to embers and most of the crew had sidled away below deck to either keep drinking themselves blind or collapse in a pool of their own colorful vomit.

There was a lone figure swerving towards the bow—precariously close to the railing for someone so clearly unsteady on their own legs, if you did say so yourself. You squinted suspiciously at his mused lavender hair, not entirely sure you recognized the head bobbing around below you. But perhaps The Rose Queen had picked up some fresh recruits at the Port, or maybe the crew had gotten a bit too booze happy with some dye. Purple Hair leaned up against the rails and tipped forward on his toes like he was thinking about diving in, or maybe barfing. Either or, you sighed and shimmied your way down to stop him from tumbling into a watery grave.

“Oi!” you called, the shout vibrating up and out of your throat, and the kid jumped half a foot in the air. “What do you think you’re doing? Get away from there. Riddle’ll have your head if we have to send out the rescue rafts this late at—”

The kid turned to face you with wide, wide, glowing eyes. Your own went round as dinner plates as you watched his too-dark pupils pulse like drumbeat. They were so bright, practically illuminating the whole of his delicate face, but there was no light to them. Matte and sleek like a shark’s eyes.

He shouted something at you so whip fast that you couldn’t even begin to make sense of, and then he was glancing nervously back and forth between the roiling waves at his back and the encroaching deckhand at his front—making all sorts of nonsense gestures that had you sighing behind gritted teeth.

“Look,” you said, interrupting whatever indiscernible gibberish he was spouting, “I don’t know who you think you are. But you’ve picked the wrong ship to try and—I don’t know—seize? Pirate? You can’t pirate a pirate ship! But either way, you—”

Then the kid opened his mouth like he was screaming, and you frowned again. There was strange prickle along your arms that had goosebumps crawling up your skin and the hair raising at the back of your neck, but you shook it off and moved forward with another weary sigh. You pulled a length of rope from the belt slung around your hips and held the limp bundle of salt-soaked mesh up like a threat.

“I will throw you overboard. And hogtie you first,” you promised cheerily. “So you actually sink.”

Purple Hair just looked like he was trying to scream louder, and you were sourly tempted to stick your fucking tongue out at him and make petulant ‘nyeh nyeh nice try’ noises at him, but then there was a heaviness behind you. A creak in the wood that you could feel if not hear. You rolled out of habit—tumbling across the deck just in time to avoid a nasty swipe along your back. And oh no. The thing crawling up over the railing was worse than any lavender would-be ship thief. The black tipped claws and flared fins were telling enough, but the sharp-toothed grin was somehow more so. It tilted its unnaturally lovely head at you and spoke politely—clearly and very, painfully, slowly.

“What’s—this—perhaps—” you were able to vaguely make out. Maybe. The dark and your panic were both a terrible hindrance to putting shapes to sound. His lips curled into something wicked before parting far more smoothly than the younger man’s had. Singing. It was singing, not screaming. Hauntingly green eyes glowed bright and you felt the tunk tunk tunk beneath your feet of the rest of the crew starting to move around beneath you. Around you.

Then there were more of them—crawling up over the railings, trilling into the night air. All far too lovely and far too sharp to be anything but predators. The moonlight illuminated their fangs and scales in a ghostly white glow. There were shivers running along your spine, but otherwise nothing but silence echoed through your head. Small mercies. You watched several of your fellow crewmates rush out of the cabins only to double over with their hands clasped over their ears. Others stuttered and tumbled forward towards the railings as if they were being dragged along like puppets on a string. You cursed and ducked between them—looping your rope around their legs as you went and tugging them to their knees like a line of falling dominoes.

You let your hapless comrades collapse to the deck and curled the last throws of rope around your fists. You were decent enough with a knife when it came to dueling an unmoving, completely unaware foe—like a barnacle or some rusted over door hinges. But real people? Sirens?Fucking literal blade-tipped-merfolk straight out of every sailor’s nightmare? No thank you. So the teeny blade stayed sheathed at your hip and you dove into the fray to find something rope-wrangle-able.

At the other end of the bow, you watched Purple Boy straighten from a crouch. There were new, silvery blue scales crawling up his neck and forearms. He was still tottering around on legs that he clearly wasn’t all too used to, and you watched as the little guppy started to make a furious beeline for Captain Rosehearts. Which—no. Absolutely not. You were never one of those pirates who was like ‘oh, Captain, my Captain~’ but Riddle was good. He was tough, and taciturn, and could throw a tantrum that could bring down an entire harbor. But he’d written out all of his ridiculous six hundred rules by hand so that you could have them. And the teeny furrow in his brow as he staunchly taught himself hand sign after hand sign so that he could yell at you in earnest was so endearing that you’d protect that little firecracker for as long as you breathed.

So you went after Lavender Head, and then of course Lavender Head turned and tried to shout at you all over again. When that continued to not work at all, the Siren began to backpedal in earnest. He turned his head and squawked at whoever was around to listen, but in the chaos of the attack there didn’t seem to be many of his pod free to lend him a hand.

You descended on the little snake, rope at the ready and perfectly happy to make sushi out of the fucker, when something big overshadowed the both of you. Another Siren crested over the side of the ship, larger and clearly more impressive than the rest of its kin. Which matched your stupidly terrible luck just fine. Ah, yes, Mister Big Bad. Please. Go for the deckhand rather than the literal trained mercenaries less than ten feet away. Brilliant. The Siren bared its fangs like some great, terrible, beast and tore into the paneling with its curved claws as it attempted to drag you down to your watery grave. You cursed, and kicked, and yelped in a panic when the thing managed to get one of those cold, pale hands around your ankle.

Despite the fact that all of it surely happened in less than a few seconds, your descent seemed to progress in steps. First, the Siren tugged you over the side. Second, you smartly flipped the loops of your rope up to try and lasso yourself a handhold. Thirdly, you outright missed the ship and instead tangled the spools of thin rope all around your Murderer To Be. Said Murderer’s eyes widened in shock as your unintentional trap wrapped the both of you up like a mess of bugs in a spider web. And finally, the pair of you crashed towards the churning ocean in a knotted-up heap and slowly sank beneath the waves.

.

.

You rubbed the grit and salt from your eyes and sat up with a groan. Where were you? Not too far out at sea, hopefully. Washing up ashore had been nothing short of a miracle, and you weren’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth if it meant you got to avoid becoming chum for another day. The sand beneath your fingers was soft and white, and it slipped beneath your palm like water. You moved to push yourself to your feet and froze—a blur of amethyst swiping out and knocking you back onto your ass with a splash.

You spluttered and spat, and had just barely managed to flip yourself over like a turtle who’d been upended on its back when you caught sight of the absolute last creature in the world that you’d ever wanted to see again.

The big Siren had washed up nearby.

Because of course it had.

The creature narrowed his eyes at you and immediately set about lashing his rope-twisted tail against the sand like a rattlesnake. He bared his pointed teeth in a hiss and you were dowsed in a barrage of saltwater ammunition.

“Stop! Stop!” you begged, spitting out wayward chunks of seaweed, and shells, and gods knew what else. “I get it! I won’t come near you, jeesh! I wasn’t planning on it to begin with!”

The Siren curled his lips unpleasantly, putting that wonderful row of dagger-like pearly whites on display. He spat something completely indiscernible—the line of his mouth so harsh and flat that you couldn’t have even begun to pick up the shape of things if you tried—and you scooted as far back as you could without toppling yourself over again.

He dug his clawed hands into the sand and said something else, just as clipped and tight. You assumed it was an accusation. You were very used to recognizing the glare that accompanied those. When you didn’t respond, his brow tugged down low and he snapped something else—this time jabbing those pointed, black, nails in your direction. Ah, so definitely a complaint then.

You cocked your head at him out of habit and that griping turned into a snarl so ferocious that you could feel it racing up your skin like static. Which was definitely pretty trippy.

“I don’t know what you’re saying,” you told him honestly. Which just made the spiked fins flatten all along the side of his head and another wave of those zippy sneers dance up your arms. “Literally,” you tried. “I—”

The Siren opened his mouth and that sparky static from earlier amplified into something near painful. It was strong, and prickly, and left the imprints of invisible shackles all along your already aching joints. You could feel his voice carrying on the breeze—brushing against your cheeks and playing with hair. Thin, icy, fingers digging their way into your brain and yanking. But there was something missing from all that ethereal hypnotism. Something pleasant and sweet to complete the circle of temptation. A voice, you’d guess. There had to be a call after all, or else it hardly mattered how deep and all encompassing the need was to answer.  

When you didn’t immediately, like, fall to your knees in subjugation or drown yourself in the inch and a half of tepid water pooling at your hips, the Siren’s eyes dimmed with something that almost looked like hesitance. His brow pinched tight and he parted his red lips wider. A seagull dropped from the sky. Three different crabs crawled out of the sand to bow down.

“I can’t hear you!” you tried again, loud enough to have your teeth aching. His mouth went wider, and an entire ass tuna beached itself to flop pathetically near your ankles. “It’s not a challenge!” you wailed. “My ears literally, actually, do not work, you fucking overgrown anchovy!”

The static disappeared all at once, and the Siren’s lips slipped into a small, surprised sort of ‘o.’ He blinked his too-long lashes at you and stared you down like you were some sort of escaped alchemical experiment.

“There,” you huffed. “Finally.” And then went quiet and a bit concerned. Because apparent Song Immunity or otherwise, the thing was still hugely impressive and scary looking. His claws definitely wouldn’t have any problem picking the leftover bits of you out of his teeth, and you knew well enough that if he dragged you into the depths with that powerful tail of his, there would be no resurfacing.

The Siren too was using this time to glare at you like you were somehow a threat to be taken seriously. Which was half flattering, half pretty funny.

“Well…” you said after a long moment. “I should get going, I suppose.”

You made your way to your feet in the mucky sandbar and started heading off to see where you’d been stranded. You could feel the Siren’s heavy gaze on you the whole while, and decided he was probably trying to figure out if you’d taste better paired with seaweed or a nice jellyfish spread.

.

.

The pair of you had been stranded on a small, crescent, islet that couldn’t even rightly call itself an island. You were able to walk from its curling east to west coasts in just under fifteen minutes, and that was at a meandering pace where you stopped to peer into all kinds of little grottos and rocky formations. There was some vegetation at the heart of it—short palm trees and tufts of grassy knolls—and thankfully a few deep divots that had collected some still rainwater, but otherwise it was entirely boring and stupid. Not even any weird tortoises or anything meandering about to make friends with.

By the time you circled back around to your original stranding point, you had fully expected the Siren to have flipped you the metaphorical bird and fucked off back into the ocean, never to be seen again. Instead, he was still stretched out in the shallows of the bay, carefully fanning his long tail out in the seafoam and picking through the mess of it with his pointy claws.

He reminded you of a beta fish—with wide, flowing, fins that looked far more like silk than skin or scales. The tips were a deep, plum purple that gently faded from near black to violet and finally a vivid sort of lilac at their junction. The bulk of his tail looked like it could be made from literal gemstones with the way it shimmered in the morning light (gems that had perhaps been a bit dinged and/or literally torn out in chunks from where he may or may not have been smashed into the rocky shore curtesy of your terrible hogtie, but who’s to say).

There were jagged cuts lining the right half of his pale torso. They oozed a strange sort of silver ichor that was probably some kind of mystical merman blood, but you absolutely refused to get close enough to try and find out. The fins framing his pelvis were tangled and thin looking, and the sweeping ones that trailed all the way down to the tip of his tail were battered and torn. Clearly pulled to bits by your handy, dandy lasso skills. Which… was still tied up at the base of them. Huh. You’d assumed he’d be able to slice through all that knotwork without issue. But maybe…

You approached the Siren cautiously. You caught the exact moment he must have realized you’d returned because the fins along the sides of his head flattened like the ears on a pissy cat and he turned on you with a very dramatic snarl that probably sounded all sorts of menacing.

“Hello,” you greeted, and the merman spat something that you assumed was probably a very polite ‘fuck right off.’

You nodded because, well, fair enough. And then pointed to his injured fins and the waterlogged ropes still twisted up around the heart of them.

“I can get that off if you promise not to eat me.”

He shouted something no doubt very indignant and then was back to hissing at you. Which definitely didn’t sound like an agreement not to immediately murder you on the spot.

“Alright,” you shrugged. “Your loss, I suppose.”

Well, your loss, really. Keeping a wounded Siren around was just asking for trouble. Their pods were viciously protective for one thing, and that wasn’t even taking into account the poachers and rivals who’d be more than keen to come sniffing after the fresh trail of blood in the water. Maybe you could find a big stick or something and just, I don’t know, push him back into the ocean and be done with it.

The thought must have shown on your face, because suddenly he was smacking his tail against the sandbar and spitting something that you very much assumed was a demand along the lines of ‘you are going to take accountability for this.’

Which absolutely no way in Hell. He’d kidnapped you sort of, so that made you his problem, thank you very much.

You felt your stomach gurgle, and it must have been pretty loud going off the stink eye he sent your way. You turned your nose up at him and went about collecting the various critters that had been washed ashore in his tenor’s tantrum.

“Thanks for the food!” you chirped petulantly as you worked on scaling the tuna with the knife from your belt—making long, pointed, eye contact as you did so.

The Siren sneered at you and went back to grooming the shredded ends of his fins.

The rest of the afternoon became a sort of pissing contest between the two of you to see who could earn the title of Bitchiest Beach Bitch. You thought you were definitely winning with the whole ‘eating something that could have been his long-lost cousin’ thing, but then he went and swamped the entirety of the small fire you built (and all of said ‘cousin’ being cooked over it) with one sweep of his tail, so now you were at the very least tied. You set up a nice little shaded hutch out of driftwood and ferns to escape the sun, he called down seagulls to shit all over it and pick it to pieces. He tried to roll around to reach some of the tighter fibers tangled in his pectoral fins, and you chucked rocks at him until he reared on you with a scream that had all the hairs on your arms standing on end. Y’know. Perfectly mature things like that.

That night you curled up beside a tall, jagged rock just at the outskirt of the bay—determined to get some shut eye but to also keep within range of your newest pest in case he decided to try and pull something sneaky. But every time you’d just about settled in to sleep, the shallow tide would lap against your toes in harsh shush shush shushes that had you furrowing you brow until you finally had enough and sat up to see what all the hubbub was about.

The Siren was tossing around in the shallows like a fish in a net—throwing his long body against the bindings and flailing like his life depended on it. And as much as he’d definitely deserved to get caught up in your unintentional hogtie, watching something as large and no doubt powerful as he was wriggling around like a worm on a hook was… Well. Something soured a bit in your gut as you watched him give one, final, great buck against his bindings before collapsing back into the shallows in a circle of seafoam. He panted against the surface of the water, the tips of his pale hair dripping down in a curtain around his haggard face, and you could see a fine tremor running along his shoulder blades.

You turned back to your rock and ground the heels of your palms into your eyes, fighting the absolute batshit insane urge to feel bad for a monster who had literally tried to drag you to your death less than twenty-four hours ago.

The water was calm and still for the rest of the night.

.

.

The next morning, you picked up a few of the crabs who had crawled up to shore and went about getting them clean and fit for eating. You glanced at the Siren, who was busy preening over his janky fins and fussing over his hair. It was entirely unfair that you probably looked like a half-drowned rat, and yet this creature that wasn’t even meant to exist on the surface was somehow managing to put himself together well enough to rival the courtesans you’d seen meandering around some of the wealthier coastal towns.

You stared at the crabs. There were three of them. It wasn’t really sharing if it was meant to be a bribe to keep him from eating you whole. Or at least, that’s what you reassured yourself as you cautiously tiptoed back to the water’s edge.

The Siren swiveled on you with a snap of something that looked sort of like a ‘What?!’ and you held up one of the gutted crabs in offering.

“I don’t know if you all eat fish or whatever, but…” You waved the limp crab awkwardly.

The Siren rolled its purple eyes and said something fast and sharp that you couldn’t really parse. Something, something, not, something, something, are crust—Something, something, are you that stupid? (you recognized the impressions of those words well enough to mouth them even in your sleep).

“Look, do you want it or not?” you interrupted, and he bristled—all those delicate, violet, fins flaring up like a porcupine’s spikes.

The Siren crossed his arms stiffly and pointedly turned in the other direction with a mutter of something you had no hopes of catching.

“Whatever,” you snapped and went to bite into your meal. Only to immediately forget that these pointy little fuckers still had their shells on them. You reeled back with a yelp as you stabbed a million, tiny, carapace-shaped holes in your tongue.

The fucking Siren had the gall to turn back around so that you could see him laughing at you.

.

.

That night he was back to flipping around in the shallows like a miniature hurricane.

You counted out the waves sloshing against your heels, telling yourself you’d intervene in his self-destructive tsunami once it hit one hundred. And then it became two, then three. You shifted hesitantly to peek over the rock’s edge and watched him curl into himself like some terribly wounded creature before shaking himself out of the fog of pain that had clearly settling over his nerves, and then continued with his nonsense.

You hurled a big, pink seashell at his head and he whipped on you like a rabid dog, practically foaming at the mouth and raring for a fight. When he lunged forward with the waves—seething with hatred, and blame, and nearly crashing onto his already shredded front in the process, something angry in your snapped.

“Look, fish face! You were the one who attacked me! You!” you demanded, stomping perhaps a bit closer than would be rational. “So stop acting like I’m some scheming shithead who was planning to trap you like this from the start!”

The Siren roared something back and slapped his tail in the surf. Static zipped along your cheeks and you grit your teeth. He glared at you bitterly and then began to repeat one word over and over—slow and angry.

‘Eeeeehhh-Pppe-llllll’ said his lips. Strong and harsh with the shape of it.

And then he was back to spewing all kinds of rapid-fire vitriol that you wouldn’t have bothered to keep track of even if you could. Something in his expression shifted almost quicker than you could notice and he lifted his massive tail out of the water. He smacked the fins in your direction and pointedly jabbed a clawed finger at the creases of them—where delicate, silky, tendrils met strong, gem toned, muscle. Where the purple was light and clean. A pale, shiny, lavender. Almost just like—

“That kid?” you frowned. “You attacked me because of Purple Head?!”

He sneered again and pointedly sent a splash of seawater into your face.

“You—” you grit your teeth. “He was still attacking us first! He was going after my friend!” you snapped, kicking your own wave back. For all the good it would do. “You don’t get to act all noble and protective, and like any of that makes any difference when you all were going to eat us!”

The Siren’s face twisted up like you’d force fed him soured milk, and he looped back around with a dramatic fwoosh of water to dive into the shallows. It was maybe two or three feet deep at best, and he was barely submerged. Not to mention how utterly ridiculous it looked to see a creature that was no doubt usually the peak of grace and athleticism reduced to flopping belly first into the waves with his proverbial legs tied up behind him. But you recognized a door slamming in your face when you saw it, no matter the species. Fine. Let him be a petty bastard. He could rot away in the sandbar for all you cared.

.

.

The next day you woke up with goosebumps crawling up and down your limbs.

There were all sorts of gulls crash-landed in the sand around you and more sad, little, sea creatures gasping on the beach than you dared to count. You shoved a particularly chubby octopus back into a tidepool as you passed and wondered just what sort of nonsense your co-strandee was getting up to now.

The Siren was circling the bay with his head held high above the low waves—lips parted and clearly caterwauling like a dying porpoise. The surface of the water trembled with whatever was making its way out of his mouth, and he looped and looped around the shores. It reminded you of the time you’d seen a whale calf separated from its pod. It had gotten trapped in a shallow inlet when the tides had changed, and your ship had been anchored just off the same coast. You’d watched it circle and circle, lifting its heavy snout to snort sharp jets of water into the air. Deuce had passed you a scribbled note when you’d asked him what it sounded like.

‘It’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.’

There was a moment where the Siren paused in his paces and tilted his head. The fins there flared out to the side, like he was listening for something. But after a long moment the spines drooped back against his damp hair and he went back to his singing an aria to no one.

‘It’s looking for its family,‘ Riddle had signed to you when you’d asked him why the calf didn’t simply leave once the tides had turned in its favor. ‘This is where they last saw it, so this is where it will stay.’

“Maybe they forgot about him already,” you mused petulantly, turning back towards the center of the islet to try and scavenge up something to eat from all the poor creatures who had collapsed beneath your nemesis’s wailing.  

The bitter thought wasn’t nearly as satisfying as it ought to be.

.

.

That night, the waters were still.

You squinted suspiciously at the merman curled in the shallows of the bay. He’d pulled himself half-out of the water, resting his more human looking bulk in the soft sand as gentle waves lapped at his tail. He slept on his front with his arms crossed beneath his pointed chin—his unbound fins sticking up behind him in a way that deliriously reminded you of bedhead. You watched him carefully for nearly an hour, searching for any tightness in his muscles or change in his breathing that might indicate he was faking it. But as the evening stretched on and he never lurched awake to try and gauge your eyes out, you assumed he might actually be properly resting.

He'd been swimming in circles all day—the aborted, stuttering, beats of his bound tail looking painful even by your non-tail-having standards. Eventually the tremors along the ocean had grown stuttered and strange, like perhaps his voice was giving out on him. And once that had happened, he’d curled up exactly where he was now. And hadn’t moved since.

You stared at the Siren hesitantly. He was certainly in enough of a state that you could probably pull off that whole ‘shoving him into the depths with a stick’ thing. He’d probably just let you do it—sink to the bottom in a mess of shredded fins and tangled twine and never rise again.

You gnawed at your lip, feeling something unpleasantly hot and sticky twist up your stomach.

The knife glinted between your fingers and you thought of crying whales and of the crew that you already missed so much that it felt like a gnawing chasm had opened in your chest.

You huffed out a miserable sigh and lamented for not the first time in your life that you really were just so fucking stupid sometimes. And then you were cautiously making your way down towards the waterline and the sleeping Siren sprawled out in the sand. Slowly—so very, very slowly—you tiptoed towards the mer and tried to get a quick glance at what amounted to the worst of the damage.

The rope had been thin and long, and the more he’d struggled, the more he’d dug the twine into his fins. You reached forward at half speed and slipped the blade into one of the too-tight creases beneath the bindings. You winced a bit in sympathy at the raw, pink skin beneath. No wonder he hadn’t been able to just rip the fibers away. He’d probably just ended up tugging them over and over against the oozing wounds beneath.

The first strand broke beneath your fingers with something that almost felt like a pop. Like seams ripping on a shirt. You glanced quickly at the sleeping Siren to confirm he was still lost to the world and not gearing up to bite your fingers off at the knuckle, and then continued making your way through the worst of it. It reminded you a bit of the time Ace had accidentally snared a sea turtle in one of his fishing nets and the lot of you had spent the better part of an hour slowly working the thing free of the seemingly endless tangles. You delicately worked the tightest edges away from the harsh indentations they’d left against his scales and peeled back the muckier bits with enough gentleness to avoid mangling anymore of his already battered fins.

The last of the rope finally came away with a satisfying, wet weight and you let it fall to the sand beside you with a pleased nod. Now you could let Mister Merman swim away in the morning with no unpleasantly gross sense of moral obligation weighing down your consciousness. Maybe he’d even be thankful enough to look at you with something other than a venomous glare for once. Certainly nothing like the one leveled at you right now. And—

Oh.

You didn’t even have time to properly gasp before you were being flipped and pinned into the wet sand. The Siren loomed over you, digging his black claws into your shoulder until you could feel the first pricks of blood breaking the surface. He snarled in your face, the curtain of his pale blonde hair shadowing his eyes in something so dark it was nearly black. The brilliant purple cast off his glowing irises were like little spots of stars in an otherwise empty night sky.

He leaned forward, teeth bared, and then some sort of tight expression flickered over his face. He paused, brow tugging together steep and angry. He hunched down once more, fangs at the ready, and then ducked back out. He shook his head, like he was trying to clear fog from his brain, and then he was snapping his canines at you all over again.

The Siren reared back with a booming snarl that sent ripples through the soft tide lapping at your ankles. He turned with one, final, icy glower and dove back into the shallows, disappearing beneath the surface in a flash of amethyst scales. He flicked his tail sharply as he went, and one of the tattered fins snapped against your nose with enough of a crack to make you yelp.

You sat up in disbelief, rubbing at your aching skin and watching in outright consternation as the great predator of the oceans swam tight laps beneath the warm waters of your little lagoon—fins occasionally cresting over the surface to smack pointed fistfuls of water into your gaping face.

Deliriously, one of The Rose Queen’s hundreds of nonsensical rules bounced about your head. Happy to fill the otherwise entirely empty space behind your eyes.

‘Never save a Sea Serpent on a Sunday,’ Riddle had demanded, hands at his hips. ‘No Serpents, or Sea Horses, or Sirens to speak of.’

‘Man,’ you thought wildly, brain high on adrenaline and static as you watched one of the aforementioned Sirens swan about like he hadn’t probably just been a half second away from gnawing on your literal bones. ‘If I get out of this alive, Captain’s definitely gonna collar me this time.’

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[stickyspeckledlight]

Waxing, Waning, My Unraveled Body Beheld By the Moon [Yan!Aventurine x GN!Reader]

The sun is not always shining. But the moon can only shine because of the sun. A companion piece to Sunrise, Sunset, My Destroyed Body in the Onset. This fic assumes you've read it, so I heavily recommend you read it first before reading this. It'll make more sense if you do.

Ao3

Word count: 15.6k

TW: Implied/referenced noncon, suicidal thoughts, suicide attempt, mild gore, violence against reader, choking/strangulation, Stockholm syndrome, Aventurine's Past shows up, EXTREME tonal whiplash due to the beginning (but frankly it's so you can brace yourselves...the calm before the storm), Reader needs a hug, Ratio where are you my man needs therapy NOW, twisted "happy endings" my beloved

Note: This got so out of hand. Aventurine is the most potent brain worm I've had in a while. Poor reader though. They used to be such a cringefail, now they're a poor little meow meow 😔

(Written before 2.2)

You stand on the top of a tower. 

It’s a modest and small thing, but every second and breath you’ve taken is in its service. Time is its mortar, and actions are its bricks. It is stable, with a wide and strong base, with little deviation. If it had a shaky foundation, then you wouldn’t even bother.

You have no plans to construct it into something grandiose and spectacular. It’s best to keep your ambitions realistic, for it is so very easy to use and dispose of those with dreams bigger than themselves and small enough to be crushed in the palms of those atop skyscrapers. Your tower is modest, and you will keep it that way. You will have to become a cog in the machine for that to happen, but you can meagerly control the stability of your cog. 

It is cruel that it has to be that way, but you aren’t capable enough to change the way things are done. You might as well make the most out of this.

You know this song and dance, by now. The park is closed at this time of night, but, and it might be your greatest achievement of them all, you found a way to sneak in undetected. Granted, there weren't many people to stop you, but you’ll still take your W, thank you very much. 

You park your bike, well hidden in the bushes and trees. This is the noisiest part of your visit since the bike is heavy and you can’t suppress your soft grunts as you weasel it into its spot. But it’s worth it. After that, you walk along the trail, and when you’re far enough away, you stop trying to silence your steps and enjoy the sound of your boots falling onto the dirt. It’s a soft but firm sound, and it brings you a sense of peace. You hike until you reach it: a little trail to the side. Few sets of feet have paved the dirt, and even those who decide to pursue it usually turn back at the impenetrable foliage. But there is an opening in the forest’s defense. It’s tucked away, discovered by a much younger and adventurous you. You’re not sure if you found this place because you wanted to pretend to be a fairy princess or a heroic knight who saves the princess, or if you might’ve always been a little bit lonely. Whatever the case, you found this place, and it has since been your reprieve whenever things become too much. 

You know the area like the back of your hand, turning off your phone’s flashlight as you make your way. It’s a small clearing of forest, but it’s perfect. Bushes and trees surround you in a half-circle from behind, and in front of you is the ledge of a cliff. The sky is in full view here and lends itself to beautiful sunrises and sunsets. Sometimes, when your mind wanders, you wonder how long you’d fall if you tripped over the ledge. But those are just musings you have no intention of acting on. 

The moon does not grace you with its shine, but that’s alright. You’re here to see the world that moonlight blankets, not to be a part of it. You’ll bask in the darkness, and admire the silver sheen on the rest of the world; the world which gets a fraction of the sun, even at night. You settle into your spot against the tree trunk, shaped so it nearly encircles you in its embrace. A silly thought crosses your mind: does this tree love you? Of course not, but it’s just that: a silly little thought. 

You’re not here for any especially soul-crushing reason or anything. It’s the usual: schoolwork ramping up and deadlines creeping up. And the accompanying existentialism of what comes after. It’s just another peaceful night during a stressful time. It will soothe your soul, the comfort within shall ebb and flow, and then it will all fade away when you’ve returned to the world blanketed in the sun’s golden sheen. When it all piles up again, you know you can always come back here: your special place, where you can curl into yourself as much as you want to. And as always, you will fight the urge—so tiny that it’s insignificant but still so omnipresent—to sink your head fully into your stomach and become a mass of unthinking flesh. Becoming smaller and smaller until you aren’t even a speck.

The wind picks up. The cold doesn’t bother you much, but you’re still human. Instinct has you nuzzling into your cotton scarf. It does mean you have to wash it often, but the inconvenience doesn’t outweigh the comfort it provides. Yes, tonight will be a lovely one, spent doing nothing but staring at the moon from the shadows, alone with your thoughts and nocturnal critters that may tussle in the shrubbery. You hear a series of quick rustles—squirrels, maybe? Two of them, considering the frequency of rustling and the fact that it’s their mating season (well, you’re pretty sure spring is mating season. It could be wrong, but it’s useless trivia anyway, isn’t it? In the back of your mind, you imagine someone berating you). Another rustle plays, and you sigh wistfully. And then—

“…Hello,” A voice, shrewd and low sounds out.

Ink makes your vision go black and the only reason you don’t gasp or scream is because you’ve always froze before you ran. But even if you were a runner, where was there to go? You don’t know who this person is, where they are, why they are in your special place and why they’ve come here like a malicious boy kicking down a toddler’s sand castle or could they be here to prevent you from ever coming back to your special—

You swallow your panic and look for an exit before it forces itself back up. It’s not the first time someone’s noticed you, but you never really had to worry; you could just slip into here, and they’d give up when you couldn’t be found. But this is uncharted territory. More importantly, if anyone else were to know about this place, it would be a ranger. And you aren’t very interested in counting empty donut boxes and coffee cups during a run-of-the-mill interrogation. 

Slowly, and as quietly as you can, you make your move. Your hands are clammy, and each step feels like it will cause the earth to crack and send you falling into its molten core. You’ll be melted down, and the idea that you may be reforged sends another surge of panic within you. You cannot let a single brick crack. 

“I’m not here to hurt you if that’s what you’re thinking,” the voice says, much much much closer now. The words themselves should be of relief to you, but the fact that he’s closer means he knows where you are—in fact when you turn to look behind you, you can see a vague silhouette. Still, the few seconds you took to turn around also made it so that rather than relief and panic nulling each other, somewhat cool relief washed over you. Even if this entire situation is very, very, very weird. Maybe the relief you feel is a defense mechanism to prevent you from putting yourself in shit.

Should you just leave? He could just be lying to you. You weren’t great at figuring out people’s intentions, but you’d think that the most likely one in this situation leaned toward the malicious. However, you didn’t even notice his existence until he spoke. It’s the fact that he could weave through mostly undetected. If he could do that, then you think it’s not very likely you can just get away. 

You accept that defeat, so you decide to do something a little stupid. You talk to the stranger. In the event he’s a serial killer or something, maybe a conversation will let you get a good enough handle on him that he might just…let you go. Your heart hammers and you want to do nothing but shake, but you will yourself into a blizzard. If you are there, then you might be able to freeze and delay the ink that begins to drip. 

“I’m pretty shocked,” you mutter. Your voice is still a bit disconnected, still reeling, “I’ve never met someone here. How’d you find this place? Why’d you come to this place?” You ask these questions, and you won’t mind dying as much if they’re answered.

“Work,” he cryptically says. You just barely pick up on a sardonic lilt.

“So you’re a park ranger,” you deflate, and you nuzzle into your scarf as you brace yourself. But levity is powerful, and you’ll tap into it. “Here to arrest little ol’ me, then? You could’ve waited, at least until the moon started to dip. It’s a pretty solid night, methinks.” Your heart feels a little numb from hammering into your ribs so much. 

The ranger hums, “Moon’s the moon. It’s not bad, but the sun’s always pretty nice. But you’re right. It would’ve been better to wait till the sunrise. Alas, my schedule as of late has been a horribly rigid thing. I’m sure you know how it is.”

“Hmph,” you frown. It feels like he’s a cat playing with a mouse. You sigh with defeat, “Oh well. I’m not exactly known for being slippery, so I’m not even going to try and outrun a ranger of all people,” you extend your hand lazily, “Just get the cuffs already,” you decide to pout, to turn the situation around to something more comical and less soul-crushing, “Any longer, and the suspense’ll bury me six feet under. The records might call that cardiac arrest, but I call it embarrassing—the thought of dying like that is a real heartstopper.” Ha, look at you! A true punster, you little rascal. There is no reason for you to defame or attack a guy just doing his job, so if you go down, you’ll at least go down with a slow-witted joke or two. Across from you is a law-abiding Joe, and you are the evil thief mothers warn their children about. Truly, it cannot be more black and white than this, so it’s best for everyone that you don’t make too much of a fuss. See? You are capable of ethics! Or maybe that was more like philosophy? Eh, what’s the difference? You’re still fucked, and you very much want to die. 

“Arrest you?” The ranger’s voice teeters toward, um…you think it’s some mix of sarcastic, mocking, and—oh wait, you’d call it ‘teasing.’ “Do you want to be arrested?” He teases, but it feels like the way an owner would talk down to a beloved puppy. You don’t appreciate it. 

You frown. “No. Why would I want to be arrested?” You deadpan, “Can you please stop skirting around the issue?” More ink blots your sight, as your palms start to clam with unwanted anticipation. You think they could be gushing with your blood, if this guy keeps dragging your arrest out like this. 

The ranger laughs. Laughs. You aren’t sure if you want to join him or shove him off the cliff. Whatever the case, now you know that there is a nonzero chance this ranger has a bit of a sadistic streak. Instinctively, you take a few steps back, as if that could save you from disaster, from plummeting over the edge of your tower. 

“…Please tell me you aren’t planning anything…” The words you were thinking of saying suddenly elude you, but you’re already speaking. You have no choice but to see what haphazard replacements you make, “…goofy silly. Or something.”

The ranger clicks his tongue. It seems he’s fully dipped into a playful veneer; whether that’s his true self, or the mask he thinks you’ll best respond to in the way he wants, it nudges you a little further to the edge. You defensively nuzzle into your scarf, trying but failing to calm your nerves. You’ll give yourself one point, though: you thought you’d be more inclined to be screaming or crying. That’s probably because you are technically doing something illegal, so there’s really no one but yourself to blame for this predicament. Really, why do you still come here like this, when you know it’s against the rules? It’s not the first time you’ve asked yourself that question, but it’s certainly the first time it feels sort of tangible. 

“‘Goofy silly?’” The words seem all at once perfect and dubious when carried in the ranger’s voice, “Hm…you know what? I do feel like I’m in a ‘goofy silly’ mood!” 

Oh. Well, guess you’re double fucked. It was a good life, the clean record, you suppose. But what is life if not change? You’re entering a new era now, you hardened criminal. Crime will be your lifeblood; anything scared shall disintegrate into something depraved at your touch. You’ll do it all: tax evasion, defamation, shoplifting, parking offenses. Society will not be free of your crime sprees—all will fear the Suburban Terror. Karens will cower before you, the neighbors will hate you, the teenagers will prank you, and the children will scream with fear at you. All because the consequences of your actions caught up with you at the behest of the actions of some guy who just so happens to be able to arrest you. 

“So, about that arresting,” the ranger continues, “I won’t be doing that!” he peps.

Everything stands in place. “What?” 

“I’m not gonna arrest you!” 

“W-well, I heard that,” you stammer, “but why? You literally said you’re here for work!” 

You can practically sense the ranger’s lighthearted shrug, “I am. And I’m not arresting you. Simple as that!”

Everything feels like it's going too fast and too slowly. Whiplash isn’t good for the soul, in your opinion. “But…but the law…”

“Who said the law needs to be followed?” 

“The government and state…” and then something clicks, “Hey, if you’re a park ranger, then aren’t you working for the government? Is this corruption?” 

You imagine the ranger smirks. “What is corruption but a tool of the game?” 

“What does that have to do with this conversation?” You find yourself deadpanning. “And why aren’t you answering?”

“Life’s a game,” he breezily purrs, “and conversation is a part of life, so really, it has everything to do with this conversation.” 

“I think I’d rather go through a physics textbook than deconstruct that sentence,” but you find yourself smiling. The ranger has a good sense of humor, you find. You take a few more steps, no longer teetering on the edge. In the back of your mind, you think that he could just be lowering your guard, but honestly? Maybe you shouldn’t doubt a person’s goodwill, even if it’s technically illegal. Well, you don’t care about what’s illegal and not; if hairless monkeys with godless monkey brains are imperfect, then the things they make are imperfect too. Regardless…you don’t know his face, and he doesn’t know yours either. In other words, you’re both complete strangers. If you ever meet each other, you won’t even recognize each other, won’t ever truly register each other’s existence outside this singular shared moment. 

That anonymity, the opportunity to exist without future consequence…it entices you, and you’re drawn into it. Drawn into levity and shedding your superficial guard. 

“Careful, you might insult a doctor of physics or two,” the ranger says with an insinuating lilt. Perhaps he knows a physicist or a student suffering with their doctorate thesis. Information that is all at once useful and impeccably useless. “You might just get a piece of chalk lodged in your skull.”

You shrug. “I’m living my best life while they’re stressing over the mechanics of a rat yawning and how that like. Affects the physics of the air or something.”

That gets a soft huff, like he breathed out a laugh, “I say that too, but then he starts going on about quantum mechanics and wormholes…probably a lot more than that, but the stuff’s so incomprehensible I tune out.”

“Your friend sounds…well, like a scientist,” you unceremoniously blurt. “Sure, they’re called nerds, but for good reason. They can talk your ear off, all the while you nod without understanding a single thing…and then they sigh to go talk to someone who actually knows what they’re talking about.” 

“‘Talk your ear off’ is a bit of an understatement,” the ranger says, “though I think it’s better to say ‘gives a tongue-lashing.’”

You wince at the image. “Oof. Sorry about that.” 

“I’m used to it,” the stranger says. “Besides, I have a quip or two to throw back.”

“Oh.” You aren’t sure how to react. “That…that sucks.” 

“‘That sucks?’” his tone isn’t accusatory; it’s curious, with a hint of what you believe is wariness. 

It flusters you a bit, for some reason. “W-well,” you stammer, “if you’re used to it, then that means you get, uh, ��tongue-lashings’ a ton, right? I don’t think people should be getting a ton of tongue-lashings…” 

“But what if I do things that deserve a tongue-lashing?” 

“Well, then you’d get a tongue-lashing. But, I dunno. I don’t think people should be mean to each other all the time, I guess,” you try, practically rambling, “Maybe it’s just cuz I know I’d just be on the floor in a sobbing heap if someone so much as raised their voice at me…but…but…w-well, you know what I mean!” You raise your hands, making desperate gestures as if you could telepathically communicate with them. Unfortunately, you do not live in a sci-fi with magical reality-bending wizard monk powers, not unless you devote yourself to a singular concept. “There’s always plenty of room for, um. Positive reinforcement, yeah! In fact, let’s practice!” Shit, your cheeks are heating and at this point you’re just incoherently blabbering but now that you’ve started you just can’t stop oh dear Aeons save you— “Uh…you…you follow your heart! By choosing not to arrest me out of…out of principle or, or, or pity…um, well, point is, you have defied the law of your own choosing, which is a pretty uh, gr~eat show of your super strong will! Your beliefs! They say within all delinquents lies a heart of gold, after all! And you know how to be sneak of super! I mean sneak super! I mean super sneak! Urgh, I mean suppppperrrrrrr sneaky. And I bet that’s really nice and I know that’s really cool! It’s a super power on par with that of uh. Uh. An Aeon? Yeah, an Aeon!”

You’ve lost your steam, and now you’re left blinking. The embarrassment flusters you, and now you’re something in between a fish being choked in the hand of a cruel fisherman and a wonderfully eloquent failing car engine. You truly are the epitome of grace and elegance. There was no way the ranger wasn’t at least cringing. Maybe he’d change his mind and just arrest you; after all, how else to fix cringe if not rehabilitate it? Well, if he did arrest you over this, you’d be back to haunt him with like, cheese, or something. You’d jump that hurdle when you got there. 

Hm…but you think you kind of wanna crawl into a hole and die…but that expression is too cliche, so instead, you think you wanna crawl into a hole and start a society of mole people. It’ll be like LARPing, except you wouldn’t be role-playing! …Actually, yeah…someone should just kill you right now before you start to laugh and then cry as your embarrassment transitions into self-conscious despair……..that’s how it usually went when you got like this….

It’s a good thing you can’t be seen. 

You think the ranger will laugh, stand in baffled silence, mock you, or just walk away, but he chuckles. “Hmmm…you know, I could get used to this; hearing people stumble over their words to compliment me!”

You’re a little dumbfounded, but you’re decent enough at rolling with the punches. You can come up with a headcanon or two on the spot. “Yeah! That’s the spirit! Now that’s what I call some good old-fashioned character development!”

He lets out a soft whistle, “That so? What trope would you say I embody, out of curiosity?”

“Hm…” you tap your chin in thought. You’re in a forest, and there’s a moon, and you get an award-winning idea. “Maybe…hrmmmm…a mysterious vampire, here to whisk the unassuming protagonist away to a forbidden romance, sustaining your very being on their essence…” 

“Oh? Am I really that charming even without a face?” He teases.

You laugh. “Well, you are pretty charming, but I was just kidding. I couldn’t just let that opportunity slip away,” your laugh calms into a soft chuckle. “No, I’d say…a mysterious stranger, with a past unearthed and a charming veneer, but beneath it all lay an affable man…who may or may not heed the word of law. A Robin Hood-esque character of sorts.” Sure, it’s cheesy, but you don’t care if he likes cheese or not. You like cheese, and that’s all that matters in this cruel world! If the world doesn’t like that, it can kiss your ass! (You think all of the is while very aware that the world can just as easily kick your ass)

“So…you’re just saying you don’t have a single clue about what my deal is.” 

You feel a little offended. In hindsight, maybe you wouldn’t have been great at terrorizing Karens. “I mean, I’ve only known you for like, half an hour. All that I know about right now is that you’re some flavor of anarchist. Probably. Maybe.” But the same applies to him! He knows nothing about you! “But if you’re so confident, then it’s time to prove your mettle!” You point towards him challengingly, even though again, he cannot see you, “You tell me what character trope I am!” (And you briefly realize that you feel light and happy, that your smile is wide)

And at that moment, just at the cusp of truly extraordinary conversation (a claim which may or may not be exaggerated), an annoying thing happens. Your phone vibrates and your screen lights up; your alarm has gone off. Your phone always has the best timing, and you don’t want to scream at it and crush its sorry little body into itty bitty pieces. 

“Oh…” you awkwardly exclaim. You’re wearing a light jacket, so the ranger can see the soft glow just as you do. “That’s…yeah, that’s sorta…alarm. Yeah. It’s my alarm. Not me alerting the IPC or the CFSS or something. I…have to go.” 

“I see,” the ranger’s voice is light and airy, entirely unaffected. “A shame. I really did enjoy our conversation.” Your mind tells you it’s all empty, but your heart is aching to soar to heights unseen. Because you are only human, those with lone hearts die first.

You want to ignore it so badly, to just converse with this ranger a little bit longer but…but you really can’t. You must abide by it if you want to mitigate your suffering in the morning (re: you’ve run out of energy drinks and coffee at home and it’ll be hell to start your morning without slugging around like a zombie). And just like that, the ranger and your conversation will fizzle away into a distant memory. And you’ll still live, the same as you’ve ever been. And because you’re both strangers, there is no reason to ask each other for anything. Because if you do, then you will both have to live with the consequences of your words. And who knows? Maybe the ranger has only spared you this night because he was in a good mood. Maybe he won’t be so affable the next time you meet. 

But there’s something to it. Some allure—no, the same allure of your special place. So you offer something, and you think your face might melt off, with how your cheeks fluster to the point its searing. 

“...I come to this place a lot. It’s like…my special little place,” you awkwardly offer. “If…if you were curious about that, er, sorta thing. Yeah. Bye, have a good night.” You stutter awkwardly, stiffly and uncertain. And then you walk away, simultaneously desiring and afraid of hearing what his response to that would be. Of having your fear being validated with rejection. 

If there was one moment you could point to that sealed your fate, it wouldn’t have been that conversation by a longshot, nor was it your second, third, tenth, or even your final conversation before he revealed himself to you; it was your offer. After all, people only think fate is immediate whenever it comes to hit them straight in the face. In truth, fate is gradual, of many bricks stacking up into a skyscraper. That offer led you to swim in ink; to traipse into fields of cotton; to weather against frozen infernos; and then finally, to dance in a flowering meadow, your feet raw and bleeding, sanded against the soft blades of poison ivy and oak. 

—

He sees you’re on the balcony.

(Only right after when he woke up and felt that you weren’t in his arms and nearly tore apart everything and anything with a scream and that you were gone and had left him like everyone else—)

He’s rather taken aback by this. He was sure you wouldn’t even be able stand come the dawn. But you still unwittingly find ways to surprise him even now. You should really give yourself a pat on the back! Even if it seems like you’re leaning onto the railing for dear life. 

The moon covers you in its silken silver sheen. The breeze tussles your hair and makes your robes softly billow. It’s a heart-throbbing serenity, and he finds an iota of respect within him to make his ambush on you gentle. You’ll squeak, pout, insult him, banter, and hiss before you resign and then he can hold you in peace. It’s a predictable song and dance, but he hasn’t tired of it. Seems even he can surprise himself.

(But oh, it’s because it’s something resembling a warm thing he thought was lost to him…and a sturdy rock he can hold onto)

The smile spreads on his face easily (but whenever he’s around you, it’s a little less weighted, a little less about pitiful survival), “Sick of me already?” he adopts his signature lilt, albeit weighed by sleep, as his arms encircle your form. “We’ve only been a couple for a few of months.” You squeak, comically so, and violently flinch as he settles his head in the crook of your neck. Your reaction almost immediately invigorates him, like he’s wide awake in the sun. Your heart rate beats more rapidly, but your tensed muscles relax, just a little. You’ve been practicing, he thinks, to lessen your own burden rather than increase his pleasure. Maybe there’ll come a time when you can mold yourself however you please, and he’ll be none the wiser in your embrace when your hand snakes into his back. 

(Don’t do that. Please, he just asks that you melt in his touch, melt right into him and stay—)

He inhales—his chest expanding into your back, and he feels your own breath hitch as if it slices into you—taking in your scent, all at once overwhelming and (newly) customary. A pungent ink comes to burn his nose at first, but underneath it comes moonlit snow, fresh and cool; dancing within a floral and earthy aroma, a dusty cedar scent with wilting flowers; and the afternotes of a decaying musk, passionate and vying for an end. He hums in appreciation, exhaling with contentment. You shudder in disgust because it’s him and you still aren’t used to the way his breath feathers and scratches your skin, over the bits of dried blood speckled over your neck. 

“Aw, nuts…” you softly curse, but there’s no surprise to be found. Your words are laced with sleep, but there’s something else to them, he’s noticed. Your words still drip with vitriol (though it’s always been measured with ink, and it makes him purr in delight and it makes him feel even more empty—), but they’ve gotten softer, for lack of a better word. Exhausted, the same way one is when they’ve walked through a blizzard or sandstorm for long enough. How one gets frozen in the bowels of hell’s fires, or how one burns in solitary inferno in the frigid arctic. 

And still, you haven’t reached your limit and killed him. 

Surprisingly, you turn to face him, and he turns down the urge to lean in and kiss you. For now, at least. He’ll take it when you’ve said your piece. 

You probably think yourself expressionless, but there’s a certain way your mouth subconsciously curls in displeasure like you want to scream or vomit your organs. Your eyes can host anything from enraged clarity to dull acceptance. The latter has only appeared a few times, but he anticipates that it will be a common sight as the months pass by. He wipes that look from his mind, and smiles wide as he looks intently into your eyes. The scent of ink burns his sinuses. Right now, your eyes are exhausted, disgusted, and a touch confused; nothing he isn’t used to. His smile goes soft, for he is more than willing to swallow the poison you gift him. And as lovers, you’ll have to reciprocate, won’t you?

(Stop. Let him apply thinner to that ink, let him wash it all away and please please stop drowning in it)

“I was sick of you the moment you revealed yourself as the orchestrator.” you bluntly say, as if it’s an obvious fact—it is—and for a moment he feels like he’s touching ice. You shake your head and sigh, looking back to the moon. You don’t want to discuss the matter, so you move on to another. “I just woke up and couldn’t go back to sleep. It’s nothing personal. Happens all the time.” 

“‘All the time?’” He echoes and slides his hand into one of yours, where you lean on your arms against the railing. Your hands have been clamming; gosh, he really was something, to get you so worked up in a matter of minutes! His self-restraint is already on a thread when it comes to you. He gives in and gives you a chaste peck. Your lips slightly pucker with disgust, like you’ve sucked on a rancid lemon. But the kiss was meant to be brief, so that’s not an issue he’s too hung up on in the moment. He’ll just work on it with you, later. He trusts that you’ll cooperate, anyway. 

(That you do not immediately hurl in his mere presence is miracle enough. He’ll take what he can get, and work from there. That’s how he got here)

He tilts his head boyishly and gives your cheek a playful pinch, “I mean…lately, you’ve been able to fall asleep without medicine—” your eyes widen and your cheeks flush as you’re caught off guard—but he doesn’t cut open your stomach or slice at your ribs to let your own body be the weapon which kills you—his goal is always to win, but that doesn’t mean you have to fight. Right now, he’s merely having a heart-to-heart with you, sweetheart. So he doesn’t bother to point out the red on your cheeks, because he knows you hate it. Knows you understand it on a logical basis but still hate it so, so, so deeply and intricately. He doesn’t mind pushing you, but he would rather not see you bashing your head on the wall, crushing your skull and mind into lumps of grounded flesh, to try and ‘fix’ it. He sees that you’re mentally dismembering yourself when you locate the opening you gave him anyway. He doesn’t really need to try with you sometimes. It’s not an insult, it’s the truth, and he still loves you so very much despite it. “These nighttime stirrings of yours aren’t going to be the norm, you know. If you’re able to fall asleep in my arms once, you can do so twice.”

Your eyes flit through a captivating kaleidoscope of disgust, intrigue, disgust again, pungent ink, and then victorious confusion. You scoff, but you don’t entirely deny what he said. “Waking up in the middle of the night and not falling asleep is a common thing. You shouldn’t misconstrue these sorta things y’know. Makes you seem desperate.” 

“‘Desperate?’ Coming from you, should I consider that bonafide or just another desperate act?”

You frown. “I was only desperate because of you. The shit you pulled gave me no other choice.”

“Really?” He smirks, letting out a mocking huff, “You weren’t desperate before that?”

You scoff. “If you’re talking about school, then fine, I guess I was desperate to graduate as soon as possible.”

“Errr,” he mimics a buzzer, “two strikes.”

“Are you just projecting?”

“Make that three.”

“Bruh.” You deadpan. You’re quite amazing to be able to momentarily take yourself out of reality, he muses. 

(He’s a bit jealous)

“I’m not desperate,” you insist, practically hissing the words.

“If you weren’t desperate, then why’d you blindly befriend someone whose face you didn’t even know?”

“…I don’t know my online friends’ faces,” you weakly respond. You’ve conceded. Your response was merely for show. For him or for you or for you both. He’s not sure either. 

“Alright,” he pretends to concede, “Putting aside that they could just trace your information and learn everything about you…” his hand strokes your neck, goosebumps blazing in its wake, “They wouldn’t have been able to just…snap your neck, with you none the wiser,” He presses a kiss to your uneven pulse with a soft huff of laughter. 

“It’s not like I didn’t think that,” you shoot back, “I figured at the time that if you could sneak up on me like that, then I’d be helpless to your whims.” 

“Ah, but then…you offered me something: another night, in your special place, underneath the moon…who’s to say that I wouldn’t have been able to carry out any malicious actions? To continue to gain your trust and then stab you in the back?”

You frown. “Well…I…”

“Cat caught your tongue? Well, as I’ve said, the word you’re looking for is ‘desperate.’”

You swallow, and then you say, meekly, softly, like your voice is about to crack, “…I guess. And in the end, you did stab me in the back.”

He did, it’s true. That same iota of respect emerges, which makes him gently kiss you instead of speaking. Anything he’d say would only dampen your mood. You both may know about how disposable—

(Yet when it comes to you, something unpleasant twists his tongue, whenever he calls you disposable. He can’t bring himself to actually vocalize such a statement)

—the two of you are. Nothing more than dots in the universe, nothing more than pawns in another’s game. The hand that moves him is the IPC, and it’s only natural he’s found a pawn of his own: you. Even if you’re not particularly valuable on the grand chessboard. 

[Do you even want them on the chessboard in the first place?] 

“I’ll make it up to you,” he promises. But you don’t believe him. 

“You can make it up to me by never showing your face to me.” Ice encases his hands, stabbing into him; but it also roots him right at his spot. He is unused to the ice’s painful cold, but for as much as it is a deterrent, ice has a tendency to trap.

“Hmmm…how about no?” 

“You half-ass…” You groan, tired and defeated. He feels a thread fall. “Seriously, people like you who use others to make promises you can’t and don’t keep are just…well, you know just how much you disgust me.” 

(But he admits. He admits that your vitriol is tiring. He admits that he wants to hear you whisper in his ear, the same way he does to you, that he wants you to harbor the same carnal adoration he has for you—that he wants you to tear into him and expose him and then kiss and embrace him and that he wants to feast on you devour you consume you infuse you with his heart and soul so that he knows you’re here and will always be h—)

His jaw expands and closes down. Blood spreads along his tongue like wine, bitter, salty, metallic, and well-aged. You let out a scream of pain, and he only bites harder so that he burns himself into your skin to prove that he has you and that he is hu—

“Ah—ow…ow ow ow owwww—” you hiss, muddied by a sob, “W-why…?” You whimper, “When you already—AH!” His mind is blank, excited by the sweet flesh, only focused on devo—

“S-s-stop! Please!” You beg, and he feels you struggle uselessly, “H-hurts! I-I, what d-did I do to—?! Gh!”

Satisfaction and triumph weave into him. Your screams mean you’re here, means he’s carved himself into you, means he’s indulging in wine. 

(But that’s a bit of a leap. He wishes he was as calculated as he makes himself out in front of you when it comes to you)

He pulls away. You breathe laboriously, looking at him with hate and terror, cradling your weeping neck with your hand. You aren’t completely exhausted, but he has made you even wearier if such a thing was possible. “Sorry,” he emptily apologizes, and presses a soft kiss to irritated skin, before moving on to your tears. Blood quickly smears your skin.

You growl, the pain making way for your unfiltered words. “You keep doing it, and it’s always so fucking painful.”

“It doesn’t help with how irresistible you are, sweetheart,” he smiles, and you bristle. “You know it’s because I love you,” he says, to rile you up a little. It helps that he means it. 

(So you don’t notice the fact that he was in a hypnotic daze) 

“‘Love.’” Your voice shakes. Your eyes are wide, angry, disbelieving, and blank. 

“Yep.” 

You shake slightly with anger. “Eat shit.” You spit. “Whatever the fuck this is, don’t call it that. Don’t you dare twist that word like that.” 

He blinks. It’s not the first time you’ve lashed out over the word or the admission, but he still doesn’t quite know how to answer you. He settles, then, for what he’s always said. “Then what is it?” 

“I don’t know. Obsession. Hate. Sadism. Loneliness. Whatever it’s called, it’s one hell of an insatiable beast. All that matters is that it’s hurting me.” You grunt, and bury your face into your hand, sighing blearily. “It’s late. Let’s…let’s not,” you exhale, tired, “Let’s not,” you repeat as if it were all a hopeless prayer. It might be more fitting to see you as a beggar, however. Leave me alone, you beg. Get buried beneath the sands already you Sigo—

“Why don’t you come back to bed?” he softly mutters, gently tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, and presses a kiss to your cheek. The lingering blood on his lips blossoms into a weeping flower, a venomous and invasive species. They can be found throughout your skin, dried and wilting, but they’ll always blossom back. “You can sleep in.” Translation: he’ll still wake you up, but only for a kiss before heading to work. You’ll be free to do as you please for the day! Isn’t that just enticing? Though you’re still hesitant to exercise any bit of freedom he offers you. To be fair to you, you’re so very well aware of where your freedom and “freedom” lie. One has been crucified, and the other is merely its poorly preserved remains. 

His mercy isn’t lost on you, but the hope in your eyes is quickly simmered by your hesitation and dread. You look away and grunt, likely hoping he’ll just shrug and walk away. Or at least delay the inevitable. You’re smarter than you give yourself credit for, you know. So painfully aware of your complete lack of power, so painfully aware that any outright resistance just isn’t worth it; isn’t worth risking the pain you fear so, so, so much. But that doesn’t mean that a reminder is remiss. Hesitation is fatal for the gambler, after all.

He hums and grins. You shrink, knowing he’s planning something. Like a little fawn, he muses, helpless without its mother. He suddenly pulls you back and flips you around so that your back leans against the railing, slightly hiked up so the tips of your toes just barely press against the ground. It grants him an unfettered view of your expression, almost comical shock morphing into fear as you register your newfound positions. You may not be entirely dangling over the railings…but you’re still at his mercy. You don’t hold onto his hand for dear life because that’s just what he’s decided. Simple instinct has you desperately hoping he doesn’t even fancy the scenario. He can so easily squash you between his fingers, and smear your remains on a handkerchief to be discarded: like a pestering fly.

[You mean…you want to point a gun into their heart, again?]

Fortunately, he has other plans. As much as he loves staring into your eyes, it’s not the only thing he likes about you. He moves his head against your chest, right against that sweet heart of yours. It misses a beat before it resumes its cacophonous rhythm. “Wha…what?” your mortified tongue manages to get out. “Put…put me down!” He gives a content hum in response, nuzzling further into your heartbeat, tracing patterns into your back with one hand and securing you by the waist with the other. His silence only intensifies the cacophony, but he could never bear to shut down any sound of yours. He chuckles. You shiver and let out a helpless sound, a cross between a cry, sob, and whimper. He can see you fight not to struggle, in fear that it would send you plummeting.

“It could be so much worse. You know that, don’t you? You live without chains and in a land where dawn shines, but that’s all my choice.” He finally speaks, when he’s decided you’ve had enough. Sure enough, the sound of screams and crumbling cities joins the cacophony. He pushes so he may discover all of the cacophonies your heart plays. He giggles, to twist the point further, “Relax! You haven’t done anything to warrant that! Yet.” You take a sharp breath. “But you still do things. Small things, but they’re still bad things,” you quiver. “I’ve had a few thoughts. Like a tattoo,” your heart skips a beat, “of a peacock’s feather, maybe, tickling your thigh, or an ace of spades. Nothing too extravagant. Hm, although,” your shaking has turned violent, so he moves his hand up to drift around your chest, clutching your waist tighter, “maybe we can just have my name, somewhere here…or…” he hums, for any and all matters pertaining to you need great care and thought, “....maybe we can just go with them all!” He exclaims. 

(What is he doing what is he doing no he knows what he’s doing yes he needs to see and feel and taste your ink he’ll take what he can get but what is he doing why is he doing why why why is he doing but why is he asking it feels so so so good to be the one towering above to be the one pouring wine)

He resists the urge to look up at your expression. Not yet, he’ll save it for when it’s truly exquisite, for when ink burns up into his skull. “Oh, and now that I think about it, maybe something fancy on your back? Ah, haha, but it can’t be super big. It has to complement you, not overtake you! On that note, a piercing or two wouldn’t be half bad. Your ears are a no-brainer, but…” he takes on a teasing lilt, like he’s a boy unsure how to act around his crush, “...where~ else~ do we go? The belly button? That’d be pretty cute! Or…” his hand drifts further along your chest, “here…” he giggles, “that’d be so awfully adorable, wouldn’t it?” Your unease rolls out in waves. His grin widens further, foxlike. He silently thanks you for giving him so many openings. “Ah, but doing all of that’s like saying you aren’t enough, isn’t it? I’m sorry for implying that,” he purrs the faux apology, “and maybe those kinds of accessories would get in the way of your full resplendence.” He sighs, similar to the way he does whenever he’s done talking. That he’s done torturing you. That your feet will touch the ground. After a few moments, the cacophony quiets down, the ink merely stings, and your breaths steady ever so slightly. Awww…poor thing. He brushes your neck. You think he’s done? “Clothes, too.” Your heart plunges into the depths. His hand teases dipping into your robes, “Why have a wardrobe when it can’t possibly do you justice?” He clicks his tongue. “That just~ won’t~ do~,” he singsongs, and then transitions into a friendly tone, “and hey! You can just think of it likeeee…going full-on commando!” He feels you seize up with disgust drawn out from the very depths of your soul. “That’d be pretty fun, wouldn’t it?” He laughs, “And comfy. A self-proclaimed couch potato’s dream is to endlessly lounge away the days, right? So, then,” he slightly dips his fingers, featherlight against shadowed skin and bitten gifts, “you really should just spend all day in bed. It’s not like you could go outside anyway. And just think about it—” An image pops into his mind, widening his smile, “Wrapped in my blankets, tangled in silk, entrapped into a web of it…” he slides a hand around your trembling wrist, brushing his thumb over your thundering pulse, “this would look so beautiful, in red ribbon,” he presses a chaste kiss to your thundering pulse, “your ankles, waist…a mess of them over your chest, covering your eyes…” he sighs, but he isn’t a negligible man, drifting his touch to lovingly wrap his hand around your neck, “and that pretty little neck goes without saying. You’ll be just like a little gift all for me. And,” he chuckles, “I don’t imagine you’d want to leave, either.” You shudder, tremble, make a sound a cross between disgust and a gasp choking on ink. “Hm, actually, that’s a good question,” And then he finally looks up. He is not disappointed in the slightest. You are choking, and completely pale and the only signs of life on your frozen face are your infrequent blinks and quiet breathing. “Do you want to leave me?” He wonders: what will you do? Say? You both know the answer, but for him to ask it would have you second-guessing yourself on what to say. Should you be honest? Should you give him the answer he wants to be true? Should you merely say that the two of you know that already? Or do you just say nothing, as ink clogs your throat? 

[Do you really think you’re playing a game? With them of all people? How do you think they even ended up here in the first place?]

The cacophony of your heart cracks and twists the earth into pieces. You shake like a leaf, slowly but surely devoured by a caterpillar. Soft and innocent at first glance, but it only knows how to feast and gorge itself. Your breath comes out in short gasps, as burning ink drips through them and into your stomach. It forces itself out violently, as your sensitive skin clams up, as it painfully inches out of your skull, to thrust itself out through your eyes.

You’re beautiful. 

What an honor, he thinks. 

(And stand so highly elevated) 

Although your terrified silence was anticipated, he doesn’t quite appreciate having a one-sided conversation, sweetheart. It seems you need a bit of encouragement, but he’s more than happy to provide. Regrettably, that means fully raising his head, but at least he won’t have to strain his neck to get a look at your face. He hikes you up, and you shriek in with fear, vaulting to wrap your arms around his shoulders as you struggle in vain to give yourself any semblance of contact with the ground. But the tips of your toes just barely graze the smooth concrete. “Dar~ling~,” he sing songs, “don’t keep me waiting, now.” 

He smiles kindly. He takes your left hand into his own, gently rubbing in soothing circles. Your heart beats louder, as you’re forced to rely on him even more. You take in a sharp breath, stifled by a flood of ink. He leans his head down, over that nigh-on unbearably beautiful mark on your neck, placing his lips on it like a fleeting feather brushing past. He looks up into your eyes, blackened and blurred, while his own are rounded and soft. He coos and kisses the few that fall, a delightful flavor of vulnerability flowering on his tongue that he can’t get enough of. He tilts his head when he’s done, his expression lovesick and deviously innocent, and goes caress your cheek, to chain you to place. You stay still so that it doesn’t go from choking to cutting. He gives your hand a maliciously reassuring squeeze.

“I’ve got you,” he reassures, “you’re safe, with me.” The words are heavy and loaded yet he says it like he’s holding you close in the afterglow, whispering sweet nothings that mean everything into your ear. Impressively, a scoff is drawn out of you, yanked out through a sea. 

(It reassures him, in some strange way) 

You clutch at him harder, almost pulling him flush against you in an effort not to fall. Adorable. You’re still enveloped in ink, so looking up at him, you seem little more than a trembling newborn fawn. 

Something dark flickers in your eye; the same dark thing he saw on the luckiest day of his life, as the sun shined so brilliantly on the gun held against your forehead. That dark thing which he didn’t foresee, and hadn’t seen since that day, until now. 

You tremble, but you purse your lips, and, as resolutely as you can, give your answer.

“Yes.” And then you lean back. Your feet do not touch the ground. 

His instincts are honed in ways impossible for you to imagine. Pulling you away and into the room is a simple affair. You whimper in pain, struggling against his hold, but it only takes a slight twist to your wrist, an effortless suggestion, for it to cease. 

(It’s his whole body that trembles, but you never seem to notice, when you tremble so much yourself and are so often a prisoner in your own mind) 

“My friend,” he says, dropping any semblance of emotion in his voice. You nearly shriek as you’re engulfed in an inferno, hyperventilating in vain as smoke from your own burning body clogs your lungs. You’ve brought this upon yourself, though. Did you forget in that moment? There isn’t anywhere for you to go, trapped in the fox’s jaw. He smiles emptily, knowing that it makes you want to die. “Why don’t you come back to bed with me? And we can have a chat.” 

(He hides his arm behind his back)

Just before he opens the balcony door, a drop of rain hits his cheek. The clouds obscure the moon, sealing its light shut. The sun will not shine on you two. 

—

You aren’t shoved onto the bed, to skid across it like a sea of sharp rocks or a river of hot coals. That makes it worse, you think. Though, with how heavy your mind is, with how much ink fills it, you could see a blossoming flower and think that doomsday was nigh. 

Trapped in his hold, out of endless possibilities, Aventurine elects to merely guide your forms to sit on the edge of the bed. He releases you, but whatever relief you felt is burned away when he slots your hand with his own, the other held behind his back. Like this, you two must look like a normal couple. One that had a fight, but then cooled down enough for them to sit and have a serious conversation; to communicate their feelings to one another, leading to a gentle reconciliation and promises to do better. Promises to never undermine the respect they hold for one another. But Aventurine…you’re sure that he holds a butcher knife, hidden behind his back, in moments like these. The hand which holds yours digs its claws, tearing into tender flesh so that you cannot rip it away; not if you’d like to keep your hand.

You almost don’t hear him over the pounding in your ears eyes heart and lungs and everything. “Just what were you thinking, acting like that?” 

Thinking? Thinking? Why would you tell him that? Actually, thinking? Did you even think? You feel your hand get squeezed like a lion clamping its jaw into a gazelle. “I—I, I…I,” you stammer. Any word you can even think of instantly turns to ash.

“‘I don’t know?’” and you almost demand for how he was able to guess your answer. He hums and leans in further and further, boring those terrifying eyes right into you; you fear that he’ll bore a hole right through your eyes and fill it with himself. So that even in death, a part of him would always infect you. 

Your mind, badly addled, nods. 

He hums again, betraying no emotion, “I know what you were thinking. And you will, too. I’m sure the two of us are eager to get back to sleep, so it’s best to cut to the chase.” 

“Cut…to the chase?”

“To the takeaway.”

It happens slowly, or quickly, or something, you don’t know you don’t really know at all everything drowns in ink—

He leans toward you, and gently pushes you on your back. You reactively scramble, but it doesn’t take much for him to make your struggle useless—and your neck is squeezed. Softly, then firmly, then roughly, and then air is gone. He doesn’t butcher you, doesn’t spill your blood, doesn’t dismember you and put you back together, doesn’t meticulously carve himself into your skin. He just squeezes. Nothing more, nothing less. No bloodshed to be seen. That might’ve been the truly shocking thing about this. But you can’t think about that when you breathe and nothing comes in. You gasp, but it comes out as a silent, dying wheeze. You kick, but it’s useless. Your legs drop to the bed like rotting sacks of meat. You try and pull his hands away. It’s about as effective as a mannequin trying to move on its own. Useless. Useless useless useless everything is useless your future and very being are an endless abyss devoid of hope and life and everything you do have done will do is useless meaningless meaningless meaningless you’re dying you’re going to die you are dead you are hopeless and miserable and scared and dying dying dying dying dying he’s bored of you sick of you hates you he hates you hates you hates you hates you hates you stabbed you in the back choking you choking you you cry cry cry cry cry but your tears are searing ink that burns your flesh you’re burning burning burning burning there is no sunlight or moonlight—

You think and think about everything and nothing. You think about your cotton scarf. You think about your parents. You think about your degree and how its been such an waste of time and money. You think about the tiramisu you made earlier, how its setting in the fridge so you could eat it come lunchtime. 

But no matter what you think about, or what you stop thinking about, you cannot stop thinking about Aventurine. About who he was, is, and will continue to be. How he’s permeated himself into your life and very being. How your corpse will be in his hands.

It hurts, but you can’t say that. It hurts so much that you feel like your neck will be sliced off your head. You must look so ugly. You feel your eyes bulge, expand from out of your sockets, just a few seconds away from popping out and hanging by a nerve that could so easily be cut and gushing blood that Aventurine will lap up before throwing your corpse out of the window like trash. Your nose uselessly tries to inhale, but all it does is marginally slow the hideous mucus that leaks. Your mouth is equally useless, and it isn’t long until you give up and your tongue ungracefully lolls from your mouth. You feel all at once overwhelmed—the tears from your eyes burn your flesh, your eyes will become weights that shake with every movement, the snot leaves behind anguishing trails of acid, and your tongue feels like a dumbbell crushing your face—and in a weird way, you feel like you float. You decide to float. You think about your cotton scarf, nuzzling into its comforting—

You dimly realize you’re nuzzling into the grip that’s killing you. 

Your body becomes lead. 

Aventurine’s expression betrays nothing. But you feel something shake—your body? It’s surprising because you can hardly even blink, let alone move. It’s mostly around your neck. Maybe it’s the lack of oxygen. Your hands have gone limp, uselessly falling to the side, but you haven’t died yet. Aventurine is still busy killing you, and looking at you like you’re nothing and that he couldn’t care less about your reaction. You don’t want to look at him anymore. You don’t want to die with his face as the last thing you see. You’d rather die looking at the moon. But against his ironclad grip, your head doesn’t move. You struggle, but Aventurine’s face remains. Your eyes start to glaze, and your mind begins to fill with cotton, but it's burned away by a particularly forceful squeeze, which quickly lightens, but the damage has been done. 

Your tongue is drying. Your vision spots. Not with black, not with the shade of ink you’ve grown used to, but it spots with light. Sunlight. You’re being cradled in the sunlight. Warm and soft, but you’re wretched out of that false sense of security when your body begins to blaze.

Something burning and cold and wonderful enters your nostrils and mouth—air, air, air air air air you need air air air air air—

The air doesn’t come rushing in like you’ve seen described in books. It painfully pumps into you, but it’s vastly preferable to the pain you were experiencing just a few moments ago. Your head slumps, turning to the moon's salvation—but you see only the clouds.

When your lungs stop burning, and your breathing returns to normal, Aventurine gently pulls you up into his lap, where he leans against the headboard. A single arm draped over your waist confines you to his chest. His other hand is out of sight. When he’s sure you aren’t getting away, he takes a breath, and his hidden hand comes to tip your head up. 

His eyes all at once resemble an aphotic ocean and a flooding dam. You aren’t sure where it comes from, but you realize that, for this brief moment, he has dropped his facade. 

“If you want to die,” he says, quietly, softly, almost vulnerably. You must have brain damage, if this is how he sounds. “this is how it’ll happen. By my hand. By my choice. And trust me when I say it’s infinitely better than anything you could do with your own hands,” he removes his hand from your chin to intertwine it with your own, all at once invasive and sweet, “I promise, (Name).”

Your chest begins to flood with a sob. It comes out wrangled and inhuman, but he only clutches you closer. Strangely, he doesn’t lap up your tears. Like many nights before and to come, you pass out, weighed by the agony of living with a man so obvious and indecipherable.

Your last thought before finally shutting your eyes is that Aventurine won’t be throwing you out anytime soon. You do not celebrate the thought, not entirely, anymore. It’s only much later that you realize why: he finally succeeded in forcing a small part of himself into you. 

—

When you pass out from complete exhaustion, Aventurine quietly tucks your head deeper into his chest. He thinks about yanking apart his ribcage, forcing you into it, and then pinning you there as he forces it shut. It’s begun to rain outside. It pitter-patters, booming in his ears, and nearly shreds his ears apart.

[But a part of you likes it when you drag them down to your level, right, Kakavasha?]

—

His master swirls a glass of red wine. It may as well have been blood; bought by blood, drank in the wake of blood, and spilled into blood. Kakavasha pursues his lips, to not scream in agony as the wine sears his wound; but it will be okay. He is used to weathering the sun, trudging through heavy sand, with his mouth drier than the sand. He can withstand this searing heat. He’s already withstood iron-hot metal pressed into his skin for minute after agonizing minute, no matter his involuntary cries and tears and pleas to stop. 

But that was an exception. The desert has long dried his tears. 

Besides, this is a ‘reward.’ For triumphing yet again. For surviving yet again. So the master sees it fit to briefly lavish him in luxury. At least it’s fitting for the occasion, Kakvasha thinks, the wine puddling out like blood. He waits for it to end. He’s already battered and bloody, beaten down, and he doesn’t need his neck chaffed and bleeding. Every yank of his chain evaporates energy he cannot afford to lose, cannot sacrifice or else there won’t be a bet he can emerge lucky from.

And, he admits. He’s a little (no, very) afraid of being brought to the edge between life and death again. He doesn’t want to be chained to the wall again, and have the chain around his neck pulled further and further away—

A sneer that would get him tortured spreads across his face. His face is already forced to the ground, so he’s not too worried. 

“My lucky hound,” his master drawls, “stay with me. You did pretty well; it’d be a shame if I had to reevaluate you if you pass out just from this. C’mon, gimme a lil’ bark.” 

He wipes his sneer and looks up with a practiced expression: defiant, but sanded down with fear; feisty, but compliant. Just enough fight to entertain, but not enough to be a nuisance. “Alive and kicking,” he grunts. It’s a strange mix of genuine and manufactured, biting back his cries of pain. It took him a bit to figure out what his master liked, but all that matters is that he got there. It’s fine, he tells himself. He doesn’t need to know how much he’s using him, too. “And savoring your gift.” He’s sure it’s the right answer, but the slight tremor indicates the awful anticipation he has for the results. If it isn’t, then everything he’s done to get here would all have been for nothing. He cannot afford to fumble his gamble now. 

Luckily (ha!), it was the right answer. He’s given something his master can poke and prod at, and he’s gladly taken it. “I thought I asked you to bark,” he snarls, and the flaming wine ceases. But it’s for a reason, for he soon gets a kick to the stomach. It knocks the air out of him, but if his master were truly offended, he would’ve done much, much worse. Kakavasha coughs, just enough to suggest that he’s sorry and begging for forgiveness, but not enough to seem desperate and begging for a release and to stop stop stop— “Speaking is for humans. Honestly, I don’t even know why you Sigonian hounds were born with mouths. Universe’d be a better place if slaves like you were born with their mouths sewn shut—by the Aeons, do you disgust me!” he scratches his chin before a smirk twists his face, “Though, ‘suppose that would mean I wouldn’t be able to hear the dogs whimper.” A shoe grinds into his stomach. He wants to see all of Kakavasha’s face then. “So, you gonna bark, or what?” 

Kakavasha doesn’t need to act much, this time. His face falls into grim acceptance; the face he made when heat emanated from his neck; the face he made when the doors to his cell closed; the face he made when he saw the sand bury his sister’s body. Although the expression this time isn’t genuine, it’s not quite fabricated, either. 

It’s fine. It’s fine. This is but one gamble. Acquiesce to his whims just enough, and then strike. 

Soon, wine pools at his feet. But the wine in his master’s hand hasn’t all spilled, yet. Memories flit by in his mind: his master, flaunting his wealth in front of him. 

“Humans wear clothes, accessories, and jewelry…dream all you want, but an animal can never become what it’s fated not to be.” His master’s voice echoes. 

His limp and cold hand is adorned in rings. His still wrist holsters a beautiful watch and tasteful bangle. Kakvasha takes a sip of the wine. It burns, dripping down his throat. It leaves his tongue rancid and as dry as the desert. 

He supposes that’s what it means to be human, then. 

—

When you wake up, pain radiates throughout your neck and legs. Absently, your hand goes to your neck to relieve it but meets soft cotton. Gauze. He must’ve disinfected your wound (brand, that bastard branded me get him out of me I’ll—) when you passed out.

You close your eyes and try to fall back asleep but to no avail. With a moan, and then a hiss of pain, you roll over on your side. You see a note, a couple of pills, and a glass of water have been placed on your nightstand. With concentrated effort, you sit up and read the note. 

Darling, dearest, love of my life, (you’d scoff if it didn’t hurt like hell to even breathe)

A painkiller. One every three hours. I suggest you take it if you want to get through the day comfortably, so please don’t spend your day staring at them in contempt like they’ve killed your dog. Contrary to what you might think, I do care for your comfort. (You feel a jolt of anger through your spine) I’ll try to be back a half hour or so earlier, but if fortune’s on my side, I’ll be back to you a full hour earlier. Wouldn’t that just be amazing? Actually, let me do a coin flip to gauge today’s fortune—oh! Look at that! Seems that it’s an hour. You won’t be lonely for long, I promise. (You frown) Business is wrapping up, so we’re leaving today, but I’ve already packed your bags. Focus on yourself, sweetheart, and get plenty of rest. And before you start overthinking things, I’m not worried at all. You won’t be forgetting anytime soon, and you’re not going anywhere. (You grit your teeth)

Use lots of ice on your neck! It helps a ton. And eat soft foods that go down easy; broth, oatmeal, the works. Now that’s what I call a good excuse to gorge on ice cream; not too much though, you *might* just throw up. And no, you can’t break the windows. Literally. I know you have your impulsive moments, but you’ve gotta be conservative with your energy today. I’ll make sure you are. If not…well, you like guessing games, right? Haha, now I really do have to go. I can’t believe you got me writing such a long letter! Alright, see you later, sweetheart. 

Love, Aventurine. 

You stare at the signature. Love, Aventurine sounding over and over in your mind, hitting the walls and coming back in a cracking echo. Love—a knife impales you—Aventurine—and you’re eaten alive.

Love, love, love, love, love.

You force yourself to look at the painkillers. You have no reason to believe him, but he doesn’t have any reason to lie to you. You decide not to take them.

Instead, you take a few slow sips of water, letting it coat your throat and tongue thoroughly. Then you force your sore body to the kitchen. You stumble, you trip, but you still make it to the countertop. It’s not complicated. Your mind can’t process complexity in its current state anyway. 

It’s simple. You yank a knife from the block and plunge it into your chest, through your ribs, and into your heart. Blood gushes out like a waterfall, glistening like a ruby in the light of the dawn. You grin, pain wobbling your mouth, and swiftly cut open your stomach. Bile creeps up your throat as you gag violently, until you finally retch on the elongated mess of your intestines, unraveling into a bunch. You laugh hysterically when you notice that it looks like a horribly butchered plate of spaghetti—hilarious. It’s all nearly too much to bear, but there’s more work to be done. You’re still thinking; that just won’t do. You raise your knife, the tip shining in the sun and sparkling through your tears, and slam your forehead into it, finally putting an end to your existence.

That’s what should’ve happened. But the knife hasn’t taken that first plunge, yet. You will your arm to rectify the mistake. It only shakes harder. And then everything from the night before rushes to your head, and ink clouds everything and everything and—

You can’t do it. Not by your own hand.

You violently throw the knife into the sink and collapse to the ground in a brutal sob.

You never attempt it again.

—

He was wrong about something. Your shattered limit would never end with his demise—it was yours. 

(Is he really surprised? Or was he in denial this whole time?)

He’s not sure how to feel, that you’d rather destroy yourself than kill when backed into a corner. But he can at least understand that urge of yours to take someone else down with you; only, that person isn’t him, this time. 

The wall you have built crumbles, and he wonders if you care if your destruction ends up killing another unintentionally; if that part of yourself has been killed, or if it has been so twisted that you are born anew. But that’s a bit silly. You can destroy yourself, but you won’t ever lose yourself, even if you become fractured. That’s what experience has taught him, and it is both excruciatingly painful and relieving. 

You’ve pinned him down. Your eyes are wide and dilated, and that spark of life within them is just nearly dimmed out; and yet, beneath that spark, something awful and alive pulsates. They hold an unabashed focus, yet they also look past him. For a rare moment, he is completely taken aback, and cannot conceal his surprise and dubious, almost hesitant delight. But he drops the hesitation. It’s fatal for him.

(His heart nearly stops. Is he pinned to the ground, or is he looking into a mirror? He almost feels like he’s been turned inside out)

“What. Were. You. Thinking?” It’s your voice, but he can’t help but think it takes on a cadence similar to his own. He can see that awful creature brandish its claws.

As much as he enjoys seeing such a creature, he cannot allow himself to be ripped apart by it. He’ll assert his control, and you’ll back off, the same as it’s always been. But he doesn’t quite mind being pinned down by you, so he’ll allow it for the moment. “You watch me gamble all the time, dearest.” He tilts his head, knowing just how much it pisses you off. “I don’t see how that’s gotten you so worked up—and you’ve been so sweet lately.”

Your jaw trembles, like a dog, he thinks, on the verge of barking and biting an intruder. Yet, a part of him also tells him that isn’t quite right. “You played Russian Roulette.” Drip, drip, sounds the blood of his challenger, but such a sound has been white noise all his life. 

He smirks. “Are you jealous?” he teases, “Did you want to kill me, or were you hoping to take the bullet yourself?” 

You, ever so slightly, begin to shake. “No,” you respond, without any sense of the word. “Answer my question,” you demand. He’s a little surprised because you so rarely make demands. He can see the beast grind its teeth, gnashing at the mere idea of his flesh, drooling its filth in gluttonous anticipation. But he knows you so, so, so very well. He can smell your fear—but of what? Fear that you might not be able to personally exact vengeance? He’s a little lost, for once. But he’ll know soon enough, he supposes. He continues with his usual demeanor.

“Mmm,” he hums nonchalantly, making you shake in agitation. “Well, I suppose I’m in no position to refuse. It was a good gamble with a good thrill, of course! I thought you knew this.” He knows you don’t believe that entirely, having spent so much time with him. The look in your eyes tells him it was the answer you were expecting. But you still aren’t satisfied. You still haven’t strewn his guts about the floor, to join the foolish challenger. 

You do not respond, remaining as still as you can be. He decides to encourage you; you can’t just lead him on like this, you know. 

He cups your cheek. “What’s wrong?” he goads. “Or have you finally come around to just how irresistible I am?” 

The blood’s aroma has wafted over. Your eyes glaze impossibly further. The beast breaks its chains. 

“I want to hollow out your chest,” you admit. His heart stops, and it’s only through years of practice that his face doesn’t instantly break out in shock. “And burrow into it, so I can listen to your heartbeat and feel the expanse of your lungs pressing into me with your every breath,” you shake, near violently, and you take each breath as if it’ll be your last. His own heart begins to beat erratically; he’s excited, he doesn’t know what’ll happen, but whatever it is he needs to have have have it— “I want to breathe in your blood, taste your heart, blood, sustain myself on nothing—” Aventurine feels a thread be pulled apart. “—on nothing but you!” You cry out, leaning in closer as you collapse to your knees and elbows, practically exchanging air with him. You’ve finally begun to cry, and with it, the beast has come—

No, he thinks. It’s already ripping apart his flesh. Your tears fall onto his face. His heart beats faster and faster; just as fast as when he hid in those bloody puddles all those years ago. 

“If you die…I might just join you, because…there’s really nothing else for me…” you sob, face contorting in a way he finds so breathtakingly pathetic and beautiful. For a moment, your mouth curls down, not maliciously, but with a determined promise. “If you die…I’m pulling the trigger, not some random sap in a casino.”

Oh. You…you remembered. Of course, you did. You never would forget. You couldn’t ever forget. His chest feels numb with how brutally his heart has beaten it. 

He feels something cool seep into his pants and legs. Blood. So familiar it’s like a second skin.

He is well acquainted with the touch of ice. How could he not? The time spent with you feels like a (fragile) eternity, and in it, he has glued himself to you; and you’ve, however unwittingly, froze him in place. Even if he’s always been able to force you into the desert with him, there are still those moments when a nigh unbearable cold seeps down into his bones, threatening to kill him, to preserve his dead body to be dusted and ogled at whenever the master of the house needs to show off their private collection to guests. But he feels it melting. He feels the cold you’ve desperately embraced crackle. 

You sob, a sound of euphoric despair that has him resisting his every urge to cradle you, and confess the truth; confess your want.

“I love you, Aventurine,” you take in a shuddering gasp. 

His heart explodes. It is then he realizes that he, too, has gasped, and is breathing irregularly. That his composure has shattered without his realization. 

“I love you…” you cough, no longer able to hold back your breakdown, the volcano of your emotions erupting in a destructive blaze that killed a part of you; the part of you that’d been holding on. Flora and flowers burn, snow becomes hellfire, and any and all life is replaced by a hungering beast desperate to keep itself satiated. 

But only Aventurine can satiate it. A blush dusts his cheeks.

“I love you, I love you,” you hiccup and sob, repeating the mantra like a prayer (to a devil in velvet), “I love you I love you I love you I love you.” And then you finally collapse on him, a pile of bricks and rubble and dust. You curl into his chest, over his violet heartbeat. “Don’t throw me away…don’t l-leave me…” he immediately secures your waist. It’s a disgusting implication. Why would he do that to you of all people? “I need you,” and his heart soars. A smile finally cracks his face, shattering something deep inside of him. 

[No, no, Kakavasha, that’s really quite wrong. You haven’t been whole for a very, very long time.] 

And then something brief surfaces in you, a small piece of useless reasoning, “and it’s your f-fault I’m like this…” That’s very true, which is why he needs to take responsibility. Which is why he has to continue keeping you, caring for you, and brutalizing you. The blood has trailed down to his back.

And then you’re back to sobbing, and practically howl, “Please, please Aventurine, tell me you love me and won’t ever let me go!” you beg, and entirely break down into a concentrated sob, distant from reality. You blabber, likely unaware, utterly lovely and incoherent words. The blood has reached the back his head.

His entire body shudders, rapturing him into a pile of broken flesh. He can’t hold back. He holds you tighter than before. It snaps you out of your daze, your body instinctively flinching away, but his grip doesn’t cease; it can’t cease, because if it does you two may never truly meld with one another. He sits up, positioning you so you straddle and completely rely on him for support. He looks at you. His long-lasting appetite has finally been satiated, but now a new one takes hold of his shaking form, his excitement electric and bloody.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he shudders breathlessly, just barely keeping himself from pouncing, “that was beautiful—you’re beautiful,” he pants, as his hunger grows painful, “how could I refuse such a heartfelt and adorable confession? You’re so perfect. You’re the other side of my coin…”

[Took you long enough.]

“...yes,” he groans, “I’d love to bring you down with me, and to tear you apart if I’m back in that dawnless land.” Because you aren’t leaving him, nor could you survive if he plummets back into that land. But you’re still coming with him because you need him (and so does he).

The dawn shines on the two of you, and finally, he kisses you. You’re too dazed to reciprocate, but you offer no resistance at all. But it’s a (relatively) chaste kiss, as he pulls back to whisper against your lips, wholly reverent. “I knew you were the one,” he confesses, and he sees your blush deepen, your eyes widen, “Thank you, for destroying yourself for me,” he brushes your cheek, “It’s truly an honor, sweetheart.”

You blink, eyes wide with tears, and just as he’s about to caress them away your mouth twitches—almost like you’re glitching as if the very expression was some bug in a game—and then you laugh. And it isn’t crazed, it isn’t weighed by madness, nor does it carry that familiar undertone of despair and fear he’s become so used to hearing from you—it’s warm like the dawn has cut through the rain to shine on him.

It’s that lovely laugh which the sun shines overhead and erases any shadow of doubt:

You’re insane. You’ve frozen over in hell, and have shattered yourself into pieces to melt into it.

If ‘I love you, Aventurine’ was the straw that broke the camel’s back, then your laughter is what made the camel burst and seep into searing, soulless sand.

It makes sense. Only someone destroyed and insane could love Aventurine.

(Kakavasha was dead. His hands are sticky, his chains rusty with blood and his throat burns)

[Is he? Or do you just need him to be dead? No matter how you slice it, I still see that same boy who clung to his Big Sis till the very end.]

But he’s a selfish man. If you give him your love, then he’ll gladly take it. 

[Tsk, tsk. A desperate man, Kakavasha.]

But more importantly, there’s a feeling in his heart. It’s the feeling of a peaceful day beneath the scorching sun, of when he wins a game, of when he and his sister were just themselves with each other. All of it coalesces into something he hasn’t felt in—no, something he may have never truly felt until now:

Happiness. 

[The closet thing you can call happiness, you mean.]

And is that feeling that has him lift you up, and spin and twirl with you in his arms. It is sheer elation, a hedonism that is so self-serving yet selfless all at once—sheer bliss—that fills him. This: this is what he wants to feel. Your laughter is infectious, permeating his body and sapping it of rationality, but he does not try to fight this virus. For he is happy. The corner of his eyes crinkle; he is unused to the feeling.

He laughs and laughs with you. His clothes and shoes are tracking blood. Normally the thought of even rain getting on his clothes disgusts him, but now, all he can think about is basking in this crimson victory. The dawn shines on you both, commemorating your unholy union. 

You really are perfect for him, he thinks. Because he must be insane too, when he laughs like a crazed dog—the same dogs he nearly drowned in bloodied water to get away from. 

—

You both deserved a treat. He whisked you away to a room—he can deal with the casino room later, call on a few favors—because you deserve his utmost attention, as he does yours. The prospect of your complete attention, entirely unfettered, excites him.

It’s a fine room. The bed is large and soft, the bath is large and pleasant, and the view is utterly breathtaking. But neither of you cares about that. You could be rolling in sewage and shit and you’d still look at him the way he looks at you, still enter demented laughter and twisted joy, still parade under that veneer of love. 

He gets his fill, as do you—but you both know neither of you will ever be sated, not when you two can’t be joined together in the ways you want to. 

The dawn is rich and bright, shining on the waking and sending the begging crawling away into the shadows. You breathe softly, utterly exhausted. A complete 180 from just a few moments ago. Your arms wrap weakly around him, tucking yourself into him snugly. His kisses, imprinted with your blood, create a field of flowers on your face. As does his own. …He makes a note to tip room service extra for the bloodied sheets. There’s a reason he doesn’t dress (as) extravagantly for when he needs to get his hands dirty. 

Perhaps after this, he’ll gift you something truly special, he thinks. His earring’s twin has just been gathering dust, and that just wouldn’t do. And it would be quite romantic to get your ears pierced by him, too. His heart beats at the thought. He’s sure you’ll agree to it if it’s by his hand; perhaps you can make a date out of it~? Maybe, after this, you’ll wear his gifts of your own accord. Small things, for when you go out, a modest bracelet or watch, a tasteful necklace (of ownership). Nothing overt so as to not draw any thieving eyes, but something to signify to those that know what to look for that you aren’t to be messed with. As for when you’re inside and home…he still remembers how red your face got, and the curses you threw at him. And then you’ll finally concede that his taste is actually pretty solid (don’t worry, it's not a sore spot in the slightest! He’s more mature than that). 

He feels a bit of pride at your exhaustion, smiling as he recalls the beginning of your tryst: 

“I…erm…wanna…well, I can d-do some of the work,” you said, flustered and embarrassed by the mere admission. He found it endearing, that you could confess your desire to burrow into him and then stammer when asking him for something. You really did hate the idea of using him, didn’t you?

(He doesn’t bother dissecting what kind of smile he makes)

However, a single moment is on repeat in his mind. His hand absently drifts to the crook of his neck, weeping but a few minutes ago. Your teeth, sinking in so deeply, intimately, just on the verge of ripping a chunk of his flesh out; you were practically dining on him. It sent him over the edge. 

When you pulled away and looked at him, he was again taken aback at what he saw.

Your lips, slightly parted and utterly breathless, speckled with rouge. Your cheeks were red hot with adoration. Your eyes, brimming with love and care and everything he couldn’t believe someone besides his own family could direct toward him.

(But your love is very different from his family’s. They wanted to nourish. You want to devour. But he sees nothing to criticize there—indulge, and he will gladly indulge back, until there’s nothing left of either of you)

But what truly pushes him over the edge, is the smile you give, softly stained in crimson. It is pure and untainted, angelic and sweet, soft and warm like how the dawn kisses his cheek. It is as if this love of yours was born not of a tower’s rubble but of whispered secrets and touches shared in the shadow of moonlight. It’s as if the love you show him now would’ve been what he got if he was a more selfless man (if he were any other man). You both know he does not deserve the love in your eyes—it is the last thing you owe him. Yet you give it to him anyway.

You are utterly insane. And now that he knows what insanity on you looks like,

He wouldn’t have it any other way. 

But before he can shut his eyes for an hour or two of respite, there’s something he has to do. He promised many things as you both feasted, but there are two absolute ones he has to reaffirm. Two absolute ones you wanted so badly that you unleashed a frozen inferno. 

“I’ll never leave you,” he promises, “And never would. I admit, it stung a bit for you to fear that from me, but…I’ll make it up to you tenfold, sweetheart. I’ll make sure you don’t feel that way ever again,” He kisses your cheek gently. He pictures your response and giggles. “Yeah, I’m being sappy, but you’re,” he boops your nose with each following word, “just~. As~. Guilty~.” You stir with a soft groan, but it’s not enough to rouse you. After a short while, you nuzzle your head further into his neck with a sleepy sigh. Something tells him that even asleep, you’ll somehow know what he’s telling you. Your lips come to rest on the gift you gave him, as if even in sleep you’d rip him apart. His heart flutters. “You’re so sweet…” he exhales with a shudder, “seriously, how do you manage it? Not that I mind, of course…anything but…” he plays with a strand of your hair. Candy and clouds and raw flesh burst on his tongue all at once; a flavor of sickly sweet rot he can’t get enough of. He smiles, a soft and predatory thing, and his lips drift to his favorite spot.

But don’t get him wrong—every part of you is lovely and he would kill to vivisect you if only it didn’t mean killing you and putting you in extreme pain. It’s those two latter thoughts that largely quell his desire to do so. 

(Maybe he would enjoy it, but only for a moment, only for so as long as the euphoria and awe of seeing all of you lasts. If you did die—especially with cries and shrieks of pain—he would sob, curling around your body…and then he would take you with him, so when he goes to that place, you’d be with him on that very first step)

It’s where he first bit you on the luckiest day of his life; a lucky charm. It’s bruised and tender, red and ugly and scarred. Renewed countless times, it is beyond repair. Moments ago it held a crimson sheen, but its been smeared throughout your collarbone and shoulder. It looks like a red mist, a curling wisp of smoke that dirties clouds and infects rainwater. He brings you impossibly closer, to keep you from becoming red mist. But he also realizes that should he squeeze too hard, you might end up as mist anyway. But if that’s how you become mist, at least you’ll have been in his arms; be with him.

(As if to keep you far, far, far away from the rainwater which had swirled with a thick, red mist—to keep you from breathing in it, from having to hide so you don’t end up like the cold bodies which float beside you)

His lips seemingly slot in with the spot perfectly. It only makes sense. It was today where you’ve melded yourself to him.

(And he’s melded himself to you for a long time. Against his better judgment and sense, he melded himself to you; at the time it was only the idea of you, but it didn’t take long for it to be you.)

He sighs in content, but he still has another promise to make. 

“We’ll be together, you and I. Two sides of a single coin can face away from each other, but they can’t exist separate from each other. You’re pretty smart, so I’m sure you get it,” yes, he has plenty of faith in you, sweet thing, but he can’t help but ramble, “and it’s because I love you, (Name).” He says it so tenderly, your name, and unexpectedly (or very expectedly) something he thought he’d never feel ever again invades his chest, and it forces itself out, “I love you, I love you,” he thinks his grip has tightened and that his heart has started to race and that he’s shaking but he doesn’t care about that right now and he doesn’t care if he has been losing composure without his notice. “I love you I love you I love you. You have no idea just how much I want to devour you, just how much I want you tethered to me. How much I need you to be unable to live without me. If I’m alive, you’re alive. If I’m dead…you said it yourself. You’ll follow me. It just needs to be by my hand, and you’ll follow me. You won’t have to worry about being alone, being without me. And it’s all because…

I love you.” 

He dimly realizes that something salty has trailed to his lips. Are you awake? Or are you having a nightmare? Either way, he moves like he has so many other times, to remind you that he’d be there, even at your most vulnerable. He goes up to kiss your eyes and lick your cheek, but nothing’s there. 

Something flutters against his cheek. You’re awake, and he feels something warm and wet travel on his cheek. He’s not sure what he feels, when he looks up to you.

(What does his face look like?)

You blink, eyes bleary with sleep and weighted with content. But tinged with the sleep and contentment, there’s another thing, which makes everything within him burn. Which makes him shake and his heart nearly explodes.

Dimly, he realizes that the fallout of your destruction wasn’t just limited to you. He’s buried beneath the fire and rubble, too. 

[And it’s lovely.]

And then (at that moment), for some reason (for all the reasons), he buries his head in your chest (into your heart), 

To sob in the sunlight, soothed by the hands that unraveled him.

[madelynraemunson]

i neeeed you to hear me out on this one okay. okay okay so the song is casual by chappell roan and its about like being super intimate w a guy but he still tells his friends you're just a casual fuck. like some of the lyrics are "i've heard so many rumors that i'm just a girl that you bang on your couch" and "knee deep in the passenger seat and you're eating me out, is it casual now?" so like. eddie munson. angst. and reader whos fed up with him being so cocky to his friends ab how he gets her off while he brushes her off. PLEASE hear me out 🫣

IM HEARING YOU ALL THE WAY OUT 😩😩🗣️

(as someone who dated a literal INCEL in high school who was charismatic to all and manipulative to none but me this fucking triggered me. i see you boo)

CW: misogynist behavior, adult themes, 18+ minors DNI

eddie sweetie, this isn't you :( but without further a due...

"If you have to go around telling people that you're a good person, you probably aren’t a good person."

incel!asshole!modern!eddie x fem!innocent!reader

WC: 1.3k words | part two here

Ever since you became exclusive with the ‘Town Freak’, your friends have constantly been ripping your ass a new one.

They were all so wrong about Eddie Munson. Because beneath the rugged, edgy persona he likes to put on every day (spewing his ‘Abolish-The-Status-Quo’ Manifesto atop an unsteady table in the cafeteria) lies a woman-worshipping gentleman, a soft, romantic, misunderstood love-sick puppy who would do just about anything to know you like the back of his hand.

Your dream boy.

"No one ever wants to date the nice guy," Eddie would say to you, alluding to himself. You’d constantly deny his claim. “But the jocks? The rabbits in band? The chess club dweebs? Oh yeah, without a doubt. Anyone but the freak."

It all made you think Eddie was created perfectly for you. That there was some sort of invisible string in the halls of Hawkins High, waiting for just the right moment to pull you two together. And when you two kissed that one day after detention, his hands snaked gently around your waist behind the rusty, faded bleachers out by the stadium, it felt like a match made in heaven.

“You gonna be my girl?” Eddie grinned into you, stroking your cheek, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. “Mine and mine only?”

“Yours,” you whispered breathlessly to him before reeling him in for another blissful peck.

And soon, lonely afternoons in study hall turned into D&D campaigns with him and his friends. Mundane weekend errands turned into fishing trips with him and Wayne. And soon quiet, anxious car rides became karaoke and head-banging sessions. Once aimless and confused, lost in the melody of life, suddenly all the love songs were about Eddie. You finally found the one.

It all leads you to believe your friends were just jealous of you. True friends would be over the moon.

This afternoon you had a surprise for Eddie. Just last week, you lost your virginity to him and were still swooning over how caring and tender he was with you. Surely, that is the bare minimum for a guy, but the bare minimum is so hard to come by nowadays. Cookies for Discord night with his friends was the least you can do to show how much you appreciate your boyfriend.

After extracurriculars, you rush home to get the oven going, throwing down in the kitchen to make the best snickerdoodles Eddie will ever have. And after one last look in the mirror, fixing your flirty skirt and your plump glossy lips, you set off to Forrest Hills Trailer Park.

Eddie has his headset on so he doesn’t hear your multiple knocks at the door. You knew he would be home though, dude’s got nowhere else to be on a Friday night. Eventually, you decide to hobble out back, looking through one of the windows by the kitchen that he always cracked open just so he doesn’t hotbox the place.

“I’m right behind you, right behind you!” Eddie warns his friends as he nears them in the game. “Gonna need some backup from Gareth the Great.”

Since he’s focused on his electronics, you decide to shoot him a text message. Hopefully then he’ll come to the door.

Hi baby 💕 I brought you some homemade snickerdoodles :)

You can’t help but smile when you hear your custom text-tone go off. But, to your surprise, you watch as Eddie turns a blind eye, chucking his phone onto the nearby couch instead of answering your text.

What the fuck?

"Ugh. She's texting me again," your boyfriend grumbles to the boys as he proceeds with the game. "She's kinda annoying, to be honest. Gonna wait a while before I respond.”

You can’t believe what you’re hearing. Pressing your ear against the mesh blinds that separated you two from each other, you decide to listen in for a while longer.

“Don’t you think you’re stringing her along, Eds?”

Yeah, don’t you think? you think to yourself.

“Yeah, but… free pink,” Eddie sneers with a tsk and shrug. “However I want, whenever I want. She just makes it so easy.”

Eddie then starts to spill the details of taking your virginity, about how you were “chimping out” underneath him on his couch while Wayne was sleeping. What was a sacred ordeal to you was made to sound like a cheap, subpar experience to Eddie. His commentary sends the boys into a spiral, fits of hooting and hollering like it was the best stand-up bit they’ve heard in a long time. Resentment simmers within you. This can’t be the same boy.

“How’d you get a pretty girl like that anyway?” comes another voice in the call.

“Pretty fucking easy,” Eddie scoffs. “You just tell her exactly what she wants to hear. Just say what she says right back to her and the panties come right off. She’ll think you’re soulmates.”

The room erupts with virtual laughter, followed by obnoxious sound effects that the app enables users to send to one another. Your stomach begins to twist, the forbidden cookie dough you ingested just an hour prior threatening to make its way back up.

“HAHAHA,” someone in the chat cackles. “Eds will do anything for that roast beef.”

“I’ve always been keen on them deli meats. Am I right, boys?”

The snickering commences again. Eddie thanks the Discord guys as they extol him in compliments, encouraging him to write a playbook on how to get a proper lay. Eddie ends up shutting down the idea. But not because he thinks it’s fucked. No. It’s because he claims he doesn’t “have to try” and that you just “put out” at the drop of a hat.

The tray of Eddie’s undeserved cookies shakes in your hands as your body begins to tremble. You’re going to be sick. And just when you think it can’t get anymore twisted, it does.

“Hey, what do you think about that girl from math class with the fat ass?”

“Harmony?”

“Yeah.”

“God if she’s into me too I’d dump my girl in a heartbeat,” Eddie swoons.

Of course he’d gawk over Harmony. Outside of Tammy Thompson and Chrissy Cunningham, Harmony Heathers was next up to bat for the Queen of Hawkins High.

“She’s got fucking beanbags where her ass should be. I’d do just about anything for her.”

“And her.”

“Yeah and I’d do her.”

"I'd do her too," Eddie admits.

That’s enough.

You’ve heard enough to know that Eddie ‘The Freak’ Munson was just like the rest. Throwing the snickerdoodle cookies you made for him into the trash, you sprint back to your car and set off for your house, music blaring the entirety of the commute.

My friends call me a loser 'Cause I'm still hanging around

I've heard so many rumors That I'm just a girl that you bang on your couch

You slam the door to your room the moment you get home. And before stripping down and hopping into the safety of a warm shower, you send Eddie one last text.

Actually, you know what? It’s over. Don’t talk to me ever again.

Washing the grossness off of you was the only way you felt you could feel okay.

You wanted the remnants of Eddie OFF of your body. Hysterically sobbing, you attempt scrub off all the dead skin on your body with a loofah. Frustrated tears roll down your face.

I thought you thought of me better, Someone you couldn't lose

You wanted all the dead cells off of you. You wanted a new body. You wanted a new life.

And you couldn’t wait to grow newer, thicker skin. A new shell of you. It will be skin that Eddie can never say he touched.

You said, "We're not together" So now when we kiss,

Fuck Eddie Munson.

I have anger issues

You give the weird kid a chance, and then suddenly he acts like you’re the freak.

[thefreakandthehair]

a project for the @strangerthingsreversebigbang with art by @janie-bean, beginning March 16th on ao3!

“Hey Ed?” Steve murmurs, laying on his back with his ankles crossed and his hands resting on his chest. It’s been hours since he’d last plunged his fingers into dough, but the scent of butter and flour remains. 

“Yeah?” Eddie whispers, turning from his right side to his left.

“What are those birds out there? The ones that keep like, chirping? Or singing?”

“Northern mockingbirds, supposedly. We didn’t really have a lot of them in the trailer park, mostly owls out there by the woods.”

“Mmm,” Steve hums. “How come they chirp at night? Isn’t that supposed to be a morning thing?”

Eddie draws the blankets over his shoulder, tucking it under his chin with his hair framing both cheeks. All that Steve can see in the dark is the soft arch of his lips and the curve of his nose, close enough that Steve can feel his breath and smell the leftover mint from his toothpaste. 

“Wayne said something once about them only singing at night when they’re lonely and trying to attract a mate. I guess they mate for life, so they sing to harken their beloved.” 

One side of Eddie’s mouth pulls up into a tight grin and Steve sees him shrug beneath the blanket. “Not to make it sad as shit, but the poor guy chirping away out there is desperate. I’ve heard him singing for months.” 

The lonely mockingbird sings through the night, long after Steve and Eddie fall asleep, long after the gap closes between them. Unconsciously, Eddie scoots closer and Steve makes room under his arm for him to settle into, cheek to chest. 

Steve sleeps soundly to the song of the mockingbird and the steady cadence of Eddie’s breath.  

[wolfish-trickster]

Choso headcanons

(I'm sorry i just love this gif so much 😩)

General

He likes to listen to indie bands

There's just something about having a band "all to himself" and being the sole fan where ever he goes

But after a while starts to feel a little lonely not having any fellow fans for friends

Doesn't really see the point in people taking care of plants in their home, especially those that only bloom once and then they die

Isn't a dog or a cat person, he likes both

Would want to learn at least the basics of every skill he can find

His favourite day of the week is friday

Stays up super late even thoigh he promises himself to fix his sleep schedual

Spoiler: he never does

Keeps fit and builts muscle to protect his family

If he meets people who are pretty agressive about their opinions and unable to listen to a different point of view he just up and leaves, doesn't want to waste the energy

Doesn't look like it but he's quite artistic, he especially enjoys making his nose mark into different shapes and ornaments to make himself look cool

His favourite part of working out is laying down and letting his body cool

Learned how to cook so he could take care of his brothers

Friendship

At the begining he would be just observing you

Not even trying to befriend you or your friends, nah

Just quietly watching from afar

His brothers would call him creepy for that

But he just wants to be sure you'll be worth the try

Eventually he's betrayed by Yuji who straight up tells you he has been looking at you when you do your thing

He tries to explain that he isn't shy or anything, but yeah, he was pretty closed off from you after you guys started talking

But since he spoke less he heard more and learned all your little quirks

Where others would buy you generic things for your birthday like a book or a mug he would buy you three new headphones becuase he remembered how you complained to him how often they break for you

Or he would give you something you genuenly need in your life and what would be useful

Also he would want to show you his creative side

Sketch you, write poems and haikus for you

He even tried to crochet you a flower but that failed quickly

He made you an origami instead 🥹

As he started to have feelings for you he needed advice from his brothers on what to do

They all just told him to ask you out

He didn't like that idea

What he did instead was collect his favourite hard rock and metal songs about love and give you that playlist on a CD on your birthday

He hoped you would get the hint

Your oblivious ass didn't 😭

He literally had to spell it out for you the next time you guys met

You gladly accepted his feelings (who wouldn't)

He asked you out on a date the very next day

Homeboy had no idea what to do on the first date tho...

So he improvised and went to ask the almighty google

Relationship

He made a list on his phone consisting of advices he took from google and rom coms: first he had to take you see a movie, then go to a theme park, then restaurant and then either take you home or to a hotel

Not his ideal plans for the first date but it's how humans do it apparently

Long story short, it was a catastrophy

As he went to your house to pick you up it started to rain real bad

You guys decided to wait it out in your home

Rain turned to storm

Choso then admited he had a plan written on the phone Yuji gave him

You told him ypu guys cane have home date instead

You and him watched a movie

You guys spent a long time deciding what to cook together but eventually agreed on pasta with some exotic sauce

You had lots of fun

You guys ended the date curled up under your sheet cuddling the night away as the storm raged on outside

Choso found out he loves home dates

He only ever does that from then on

One night him and you decided to take quizes to learn more about eachother

His love language is physical touch

Which makes sense since from his first night of cuddling he has had his hand on any part of your body anytime you guys met

It's like his hand and your body were two magnets

He loves hugging you from behind, shows how much smaller you are than him

Sometimes he likes to lay on your chest and listen to your heartbeat (is what he would tell you but really he just likes to listen to your blood moving in extreme speeds through your body, but he wants to be romantic for you)

Not the one for PDA, will jold your hand at max when outside but inside the house he goes all out

All cuddling positions, all surfaces, all times of the day

Your first kiss happened a week after you had the furst date

He honestly had no idea what kissing was

You introduced him and gave him few lectures 😉

It's safe to say the student surpassed the master

His lips are surprisingly soft and warm

The first time you kissed him he was a little stunned and his nose mark swerved a little

But then he got addicted

Giving you kisses all over your face

He likes the neck the most

Especially the parts where he can feel the blood in your veins

And when he found out tongues can get involved?

He almost didn't let you breathe

The feeling of your soft and wet muscle against his was heavenly to him

At first a little weird but he quickly got used to it

Would chuckle everytime your teeth clinked together

You also thought of introducing him to the concept of hickies but he already figured it out on his own

Doesn't like giving them too often tho, to let your veins regenarate properly, otherwise he would be painting your neck purple every day

He had his time when he read a post on social media about a guy literally dying after his girlfriend gave him a hickie and oit of fear and anxiety refused to give you any hickies for a month

After about half a year of dating he decided to introduce you to his brothers

They already knew all about you

Choso doesn't talk often but when he's in the mood he won't shut up

And lately he has been talking mostly about you

All of them were nice to you and all of you got along super well

Choso fell for you even more

One date night you picked a movie that was a little less innocent than all the ones you watched before

Thankfully you didn't have to explain the birds and bees to choso when a particularly heated scene came on

But you needed to explain to him how to get rid of his very first boner in his life 💀

NSFW

Your first time happened a year after your first date

He wanted it to be special since it's both of your first time

He studied

Aka he watched porn

Didn't get hard from watching it tho, only after he started playing out the scenes in his head with you and him in the actors' places

His first ever jirkoff happened because of this

He made a playlist to get both you and him in the mood

Wasn't needed in the end

After the very awkward first round you went into it like rabbits

Remember what i said about Choso and cuddling? Same goes for positions

All positions, all surfaces, all times of the day

Tho he had his favourites

Among his favourite positions were those he could have you in his lap

He loved it when you could drap yourself all over him

He also like the access to the skin he got

His least favourite ones are where he can't see your face

The different facial expressions he gives with different thrust angles are what keeps him going

His favourite places are the bed or the couch

And he doesn't really care about the time of the day as long as both of you are willing and not busy

The first one to propose oral was him

He was curious about how it tasted down there

He didn't find the taste anything spectacular but could see the appeal

He liked the texture on his tongue more

He also found out your juices taste different during different parts of your month cycle

That way he could keep track of your period better than you

Sometimes after he was done eating you out he mentioned how your time of the month is coming so you should be prepared

Made you chuckle every time with how bluntly he says that

You also offered to give him head

Likes it when you gently drag your teeth along his shaft

Like the feeling when you have an itchy spot and you give it a good scratch, that's the same for him and your teeth

Isn't really sure if he prefers to give or recieve yet

But doesn't mind either way

Period sex is a whole different stuff to him

As soon as he found out coming can help period cramps he was all in

At one point he was curious about what would happen if he pulled out the entire inner lining with his cursed technique

Ended your period bleeding that very day

You loved him even more

Does that for you every single month

But he's not gonna lie, he has a little sadist hidden inside of him

Likes to see blood on his dick

But only period one, as soon as it's real blood from harming you he's out

Doesn't really have any other kinks than that but he's open to explore with you

Would quickly find out he has his horny days too

On those days he would ask you all shy if you two could fuck

You never told him no how could you with those eyes

Long story short he got to try a lot of exciting things with you, for which he's grateful

[foldingfittedsheets]

My first ever concert was Death Cab for Cutie. I was supposed to go with a friend but she bailed. The venue was this gorgeous local park that put on concerts over the summer so it was a big outdoor area.

I thought about not going but I was like, social anxiety be damned. I will go to this concert alone! I’d already bought the tickets and it would be an adventure. In my heart I was hoping someone might ask me to join them which in hindsight was fairly ludicrous given the insular nature of both Death Cab fans and Pacific Northwesters.

So I went alone and sat alone. I still had a pretty nice time and when the concert finished I got up, folded up my blanket, and headed out. I was a little puzzled more people weren’t leaving but I figured it was just that they were having a nice time with their friends on the grass.

I had made my way out of the venue when music started back up. I froze.

Readers, I didn’t know encores existed.

I stood outside the fence, feeling ridiculous, listening to my favorite song drifting along the night air over the barricade. The tickets were only good to be scanned once. I’m certain now if I’d explained to the door people they’d have let me back in, but I was young and embarrassed.

I sat outside the fence on the warm summer evening as the light faded, wishing I weren’t alone, listening to music about being lonely.

[fraugwinska]

Hello Dear!

I hope your requests are open, if not then totally ignore this.

Can I get a reader x alastor where reader is doing something Charlie asked her to do like writing some scripst or some stuff and sing along with a song from a Radio ( you put a spell on me, from Austin Giorgio )

Just for alastor to come in teasing her to dance with him while he's doing just the things the song says?

>~< >~<

Djj3jdu3bkdkeik don't forget to eat and drink water!

Hello gorgeous! First of all: Thanks for a new addition to my 'Alastor'-Playlist ;> Second of all: YO, I live for promts like that - seeing that my main fic has a lot of scenes involving songs ;>

I experimented a little, leaving the end open for maybe a follow up, if wanted :P Enjoy, dear Frauchen @penelope-potter

❤️ ❤️ ❤️ ❤️ ❤️ ❤️ ❤️ ❤️ ❤️ ❤️ ❤️ ❤️ ❤️ ❤️ ❤️

You put a spell on me

Your mouth felt dry. How many envelopes had you closed now? One hundred? Two? You had stopped counting.

You cursed your bad luck at drawing sticks - it was the reason you had to sit back alone, working on getting recruiting letters for the hotel into cheap envelopes while the others were on a day out at LooLooLand.

Not that you were particularly interested in going to this amusement park (roller-coasters gave you vertigo and clowns the creeps), but it felt lonely being the one left behind.

Finding the silence in the foyer where you put up your work station too depressing you had quickly turned on the clunky cathedral radio that sat in the corner. Dialing back and forth, you finally found a nice station, a good mix of old and modern songs alike, and it made the repetitive task easier. You hummed along with those you knew, and tapped your foot to those you didn't.

Grabbing another envelope, a song you knew well came on, a favorite of yours that had dominated your playlists when you were alive. The piano and smooth voice of the singer echoed in the empty hall, creating an effect similar to a concert hall. You smiled to yourself, now glad that you were alone, and sang along.

You put a spell on me

I'm losing my mind

You better stop these things

It's a matter of time

You folded the letter in front of you, you body softly swaying by the sound of the music. How long has it been since you listened to it? Must've been months, you've almost forgotten how sensual the lyrics were. Your fingers slid over the fold of the paper you made, slower and more overly dramatic than before. Your smile widened at your silly reaction – you always had a thing for theatrics.

Before I hunt you down

Grab your chin and kiss your lips

You bring me back

I lay you down and grab your hips

And we lose all control

And before you know it

Deciding your work could wait for just one song, you put down the things you had in your hand, pushing yourself off the sofa. When would you get another opportunity like this? Forgotten was the frustration to be left on their own – this was an unexpected opportunity. Freedom.

You rounded the loaded coffee table full of papers and just danced, just for yourself, like you had so many times in that dingy, little living room in your old apartment, with no one to judge you.

Closing your eyes, you turned on the balls of your feet, hands moving over your body wherever you felt like they should, feeling almost alive again. You turned and twisted in what could be a waltz, could be anything, really, hips loose and movements fluid, you felt like a red satin scarf caught in the wind at night.

I put a spell on you

Now you're mine

I've got a hold on you

At least for the night

Another step forward, turning around yourself, something made you shiver. You didn't realize how much you missed this, missed losing yourself in your favorite piece of music... that was the reason your hairs stood up at their roots, wasn't it?

You opened your eyes to catch the flickering lights of the hotel decrease in intensity, going from shining in a bright orange into burnt amber.

That's odd. You thought just as you had the feeling of fingers brushing your waist.

You know I can't help myself

When you ask tenderly

If I'd dim the lights

As your hand brushes me

And the floor swallows your clothes

And your silhouette puts on a show

You startled when you looked down, seeing not your own, but a familiar looking shadow swirling through your feet, it's eyes and mouth pulled into a menacing grin glowing in cyan. You stopped in your tracks, frozen in place. You knew that shadow. And where that shadow was, there also was...

“Oh, please, don't stop on my behalf, darling. It was just getting good.”

Alastor appeared from the shadows next to the radio, his grin full of mocking glee. You felt your cheeks burn with embarrassment. Oh please Satan no. Why was he back? He went out with the others, you had seen him leaving with the rest of the gang.

“I thought you went to LooLooLand....”, you said nervously into the now quiet foyer. Alastor had put his hand on the radio, silencing it when you had stopped moving.

“I decided that childish attractions and cheap shows weren't really my kind of entertainment when...”, he laughed, tilting his head. “... there's a much more invigorating spectacle awaits right at home.”

You wanted to sink into the ground. Alastor always liked to tease you, saying he liked how you get flustered oh-so-easily, and he wasn't wrong. Part of why you didn't do things like these in the hotel was that you were incredibly shy, to the point of even being ashamed of the things you liked. A nice little memento from your past life – the weird one. The strange-hobbies one. The funny-looking one. The one-who-talks-too-much. And him being the teasing one didn't make it any better, given he was – yes you dared to think it – really handsome. The kind of handsome that could make you think about at night. In your bed.

“I was just... I thought I was alone.”

“That I could see.” Alastor chuckled, walking towards you with heavy-lidded eyes, hands folded behind his back. “Neglecting your drab duties to twirl around alone like a sad little figurine on a music box.”

“I-I... just took a break.”, you stuttered reluctantly, your fingers picking the skin of your arms.

“Mhm... only from what I'm curious. Who knew you like to use your free time to sing and dance?” He halted one step away from you, grin wide and toothy. “How come you didn't share these feeble talents with us, dear? Charlie would've been delighted.”

The spot of skin where you scratched yourself repeatedly started to turn red and sore. “I'm... not really comfortable... showing... I'm not good, anyways.”

“Ah, always so timid, so easy to pick on. You do make it too easy for me, darling, presenting yourself to be the perfect prey.”

He stepped forwards, pulling you in at your waist and taking your hand into a dance position. For a second, you forgot to breathe, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape. The heat in your face was unbearable now, and you tried to writhe out of his grasp, but his grip was iron-clad. He smirked down to you, one brow up.

“How about we make it a tad less pathetic? Hm?”

The radio illuminated again, this time in a shade of moss green, not the usual warm yellow, and the song started again.

“Come on, little one, let's see if you're any braver with the addition of a partner.”

You put a spell on me

I'm losing my mind

You better stop these games

It's a matter of time

Alastor pulled you through the room, light footed and with a superior confidence. You were too stunned and much too intimidated to protest, just focused on preventing yourself to - god forbid - step on his toes and not to make more of a fool of yourself.

This really was hell – he'd think you were a complete idiot, talent- and useless. Dancing by yourself when no one's there to see your mistakes or silly choices was fun and all, but dancing with someone, less Alastor? You didn't want to think about how much of a loser you must look to him.

But he was only smiling, leading you with such force the steps came automatically. He was a skilled dancer, you knew that, and he proved it in this moment. With every passing note your feet became more steady, your back less tense until you flowed with him rather than struggled within him.

Alastor grinned, as if he just won a bet, and with his hand still on your waist, guiding you in another turn, he freed his other hand from yours and leaned in.

Before I hunt you down

Grab your chin and kiss your lips

Then you bring me back

I lay you down and grab your hips

And we lose all control

And before you know it

It all happened so fast, too fast to really process. His fingers pulled your chin up to him, and before you knew it, his lips caught your own in a sudden, electrifying kiss. Sharp teeth cut the tender, mavue skin, spilling a droplet of blood which he stole from the source, leaving you with an iron taste on your tongue and a frazzled mind.

Just a gasp later, he pulled you into a dip, his hands on your waist and hip hovering you just above the ground. You felt dizzy, your exposed neck right in front of his hungry mouth, so close you felt his breath, hot and wet. You trembled in his arms as he slowly pulled you up again, his eyes glued onto yours, mesmerizing and burning with the command – Don't you dare look away now.

You give me fever

And drive me insane

You keep me going in circles

With potions and bottles

And I can't escape

There wasn't any fancy movements now, just the sway of both of your bodies, closer than before, like waves crushing from the ocean to the shore. You didn't know what he saw in your face, but if it was a reflection of what you felt, it could only be a sick mixture of confusion, longing and desire.

Which was exactly what was written in his. Behind the smile that never seemed to leave him, there was no more of that mischievous, mocking attitude. More serious than you've ever seen him before, he was looking Hungry. Eager. Captivated.

I can't escape

Oh, I'm lost in your ways

Oh, I can't escape

Baby

Alastor pulled you again into the dance, moving through the room with you, the whole world around you turning instead of the other way around. But this time, the distance between you left no room for even a sheet of paper – you were pressed into him, he was holding you so damn close to him. A perfect fit, two pieces of one mold.

In a single motion, he put both of your hands on the back of his neck, while his flew to your back, sliding to your hips in sensuous trails. You felt his clawed fingertips through your clothes, sending delicious little tremors through your nerves up your spine.

Your head had stopped thinking straight - or at all - completely flooded with the feeling of his warm body on yours, his hands where you'd never thought they'd be, and that god forsaken look on his face. Even sex couldn't feel this intimate.

I put a spell on you

And now your mine

I've got a hold on you

At least for the night

At least for the night

The song ended, abruptly, and when the last note hit, you came to a halt, still entwined in one another, still connected through your gaze. Neither of you said anything, you just stared into each others eyes. Unspoken words hung in the small space between your lips, words you felt were better not said. The gnawing insecurity of yours crept back into your mind, threatening to break the spell you both were under by making you say something stupid. Alastor slowly let go of you, the last thing leaving you were his hands from your hips as he stepped away from you.

“How about that?”, he said quietly, more to himself than to you. Then, without another sound, he just melted into his shadows, vanishing from the foyer and leaving you with flushed cheeks and a torn heart - alone again.

[beomcoups]

Middle Of The Night

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: ex-boyfriend!San x reader

𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: lil fluff, angst, smut, fwb, pwp

𝐑𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠: R (18+)

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: kissing, oral (m and f receiving), unprotected sex, carrying, doggystyle, swallowing, facial, multiple orgasms, reader is stubborn as hell

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 2.4k

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: You are on an annual girl's trip with one simple rule: no men allowed. But it's the middle of the night, you are lonely and it so happens San is nearby. Maybe you will give into temptation with a chance of being caught, but it'll be well worth it.

𝐀𝐍: I was listening to "Middle Of The Night" by Monsta X and it made me want to write something loosely based off of it. Thank you to @the-boy-meets-evil for taking this up for me at the last night 💞.

It’s 2:06 a.m., and you can’t sleep. Your body is restless, your mind thinking of a million things per second, your heart beating fast as you hold your phone. You send him a four-worded text message, knowing it’s not a good idea. But your body wants what it wants. Can you come over? You set your phone down, pacing back and forth in your room for the weekend as you await his response. When it comes to love and stupidity, it goes hand in hand for you. San isn’t the guy that you can be with long-term. You’ve been there, done that many times, yet when it’s late and you feel lonely, he’s the first person you call. Your phone buzzes a few minutes later, and you eagerly read his response. You don’t need to ask. I’m on my way.

A smile spreads across your face, and you hurry into the shower, scrubbing yourself clean with your favorite scrub that smells like brown sugar and vanilla. You hastily dry and lotion yourself, throwing on a pair of jogging shorts and a white T-shirt. San was only thirty minutes away; you didn’t want to keep him waiting. You’ve done this song and dance enough times that you don’t need to get all fancy just to see him. He’s always liked you however you want to be. This is supposed to be a girl’s only week with your best friends from high school. You take an annual trip with each other every year, making a pact to travel the world together before you settle down and get married. You took care of the travel arrangements, Shayla was in charge of the food, and Gia took care of the entertainment. You might have booked this place because you knew he would be nearby on business, but you will never admit to that… out loud anyway.  You peek out of your room, listening to hear if anyone else is awake; the only thing heard is the wind chimes swaying on the balcony. Thankfully, the rooms are nowhere near each other, so you can sneak San in without being caught. Carefully closing the door, you plop on the bed, waiting for the minutes to go by. You purse your lips together, trying to suppress your silly grin but failing miserably. He gets you excited like no one else can, and every time you want to leave him alone, one of you ends up reaching out to the other. You wouldn’t know what to categorize your relationship besides friendly exes with benefits. It’s complicated. 

Your phone buzzes in your palm, and you swipe up your screen, sitting up quickly. I’m outside. 

The anticipation of seeing him gives you chills all over. You sneak out to your balcony, looking over the ledge and seeing him park his car. He steps out with a white tank and grey jogging shorts, looking comfortable in black slides as you two make eye contact. His soft smile and awkward wave bring you back to the first time you met, rubbing shoulders with one another on a train headed to the city. “Hey,” you whisper. “I gotta sneak you in because it's girls' week.” San chuckles, knowing all too well what girls' week entails and how your best friends would have your hide if they knew he was here. You quietly leave the balcony and your room, tip-toeing down the hallway until you reach the door, letting him in quickly.  “Hi,” his murmur melts you like butter. “I missed you.”

“I know you did,” you taunt, touching his lips. 

Kissing him was like a forbidden sin, something you knew you shouldn’t be doing, but the instant gratification you felt was well worth it. Walking backward to your room, you clumsily open the door, falling on top of each other in the bed. Your hands caress each other’s bodies as you explore one another, taking off every article of your clothing. You look at him, remembering a deep affection you once had for each other that could’ve been great. A past that seemed so long ago, but here you are, entangled in bed with him.

“Is that a hot tub?”

You nod, following his gaze to the balcony, looking at the private hot tub that came with the master suite.

“Do you want to get in?”

You hop out of bed, naked and thankful that you forgot to turn it off. You slowly exit the sliding door, dipping your toe into the tub first before going right in. You feel San entering behind you, holding your waist as you guide him to the middle. The heat from the tub was no match for what you two felt for each other, the hellfire passion taking over your bodies. He grabs a handful of your ass, his slender fingers sliding to your front until they settle on your clit.

“You’re going to have a hard time being quiet tonight,” he says lickerishly.

“Oh yeah?” you smirk. “Show me.”

San groans and lifts you out of the tub, setting you on the edge. He opens your legs wide, wasting no time as he goes in on your hot sex, hungrily lapping at your sweet heat. You bite your lip as a weak way to muffle yourself, your hands grasping his hair tightly. He makes you feel so filthy and sexy, willing to risk getting you caught with his head in between your legs. He sucks harder on your clit, your arousal dripping from the corner of his mouth, and you can longer hold back. You call his name repeatedly as you ride his face, your release coming hot and heavy. 

“I want you to cum for me like a good girl, okay?” He commands, slipping two digits inside your wet cunt. “Can you do that for me?” You nod quickly, your body tingling and legs shaking as he thrusts his fingers deep inside you. “I need to hear you say it.” He grunts. “Say you will.” San returns his lips to your throbbing clit, flattening his tongue against it, a trick he knew would make you undone. “Yes!” You cry out. “I will.” Your entire body shook from your release, your hand covering your mouth to hide your screams. San groans in your center, licking you clean until you can’t take anymore. Slowly rising, he kisses you passionately, your taste on his lips. “Told you,” he teases. You roll your eyes, pushing him off you and dipping back into the water. The combination of coming down from your high and the tub's heat leaves you dazed and thirsty. You tell him you will be back, drying your body off quickly before returning to your room. You throw on a T-shirt and sneak into the kitchen. Rummaging through the fridge, you settle on two light beers, surreptitiously shutting the door. However, to your surprise, you didn’t expect Gia to be right behind you, bumping into her. “Can’t sleep?” Gia yawns, stretching her arms out of her robe. “Y-yeah,” you stumble over your words. “Just grabbing a couple of beers to get me tired.” Before she could speak, you bolt out of the kitchen and into your room, locking the door this time. Exhaling deeply, you turn and find yourself facing San: wet, naked, and fully hard. He shouldn’t have caught you off guard, taking your breath away at the mere sight of him. It’s nothing you haven’t seen before, and you’d think you would be used to it, but the sweet spot between your legs says otherwise. “You had me worried you ran away.” You shake your head, setting one beer down on the dresser while opening the other. You take a couple of gulps before he takes it away, replacing the bottle on your lips with his kiss. His hands slide underneath your shirt, squeezing your breasts and rubbing your nipples. Your back is now against the wall, your body completely at his mercy. “Hey,” Gia’s voice booms through the door. You gasp in shock, and San stifles a giggle, with you hovering his mouth with your hand to keep him quiet. 

“Y-yeah,” you croak. You see the door knob rattle, and you were sure your heart would drop to your ass at any moment, but you remembered that you locked the door. You sigh in relief, watching San stroke his cock in front of you. “I was going to watch Angel on TV and make some popcorn. Do you want to join me?” You would’ve answered no immediately had San not lifted your leg and slid his tip inside you. “Do you want to join her?” He whispers in your ear. “Do you wanna watch tv, or do you want to cum for the second time tonight?” San suddenly thrusts into you, making you sigh out loud. Your hand holds onto the dresser for balance, his pumps getting deeper and making you cream. He is sick for this. ‘You better say something before she gets suspicious.” You are temporarily snapped out of esctasyland, clearing your throat to sound as normal as possible. “N-no,” you fight to speak without moaning. “I’m gonna drink and turn on some sleep waves on the speaker. Have fun!.”

“Alright,” Gia responds. “I’ll see you in the morning. Good night.”

He wastes no time, lifting your other leg and pumping into you harder and deeper, your nails digging into his back. Your hips move in sync with his, your tight cunt tightening around his fat cock. You could kill him right now for almost getting you caught, but you’d rather fuck him instead.

“Keep fucking me like this,” you grit your teeth. “I need your fat dick inside of me.”

“With pleasure.”

He slips out of you, carrying you to the bed and setting you on the mattress. Before you could react, he has your head deep into the pillows, taking you from behind with your hands pinned behind your back. Thanks to the excellent quality pillows, your moans are muffled, but the headboard banging against the wall is not so kind. This is why you can’t leave San alone; he opens you up and makes you want to live a little. There is no bullshit with him, and everything is on the surface. It’s one of the reasons you fell in love with him, with his fantastic dick being too addictive to let go. He fills you with an insatiable lust that can be filled by anyone else, not that you haven’t tried filling that void. 

“Oh fuck,” he breathes. “I’m close, baby.” Your nails dig into your blanket, your release coming quicker than you realized. A deep, body-shuttering tingle turned into shockwaves, your orgasm coming through hard. Tears of joy stain your face and pillowcase, your legs shaking uncontrollably. All you could do was whimper in the pillows, entirely at San’s mercy once again. “I’m gonna cum,” his throaty warning barely audible. “Come here.” He steps back, vigorously stroking as you plop off the bed and kneel before him. He grits his teeth as his load comes hot and heavy, coating your face and tongue. Watching him utterly helpless because of what you do to him fills you with deep satisfaction. His eyebrows furrow focused on serving your mouth with him, and you happily suck him until his legs shudder. Exhaling deeply, he pulls you up and kisses you affectionately, a lingering touch on your lips that you will remember for a long time. You wish you could say something to him at this moment. You want to pour your heart and tell San that you still have feelings for him. You want to quit this cat-and-mouse game with him and be with him for real now. No more games or sneaking in in the middle of the night. Maybe post-nut clarity will hit you later, and you’ll regret it, but at least he’ll know, right? “How long will you be in town?” San asks as he slips on his boxers. “A week,” you answer slowly. “Why, what’s up?” “Just wondering if I need to be on standby in case you text again.” You cut your eyes playfully, rummaging through your drawer and finding a pair of underwear and a facial towel. You clean off your face and prepare for a shower, but you notice he is about to leave. Usually, when you are together, he stays the night and, call it a force of habit, but deep inside, you want that again. If only you could put your pride aside and tell him how you feel. “Hey,” you saunter over to him. “Maybe at the end of the week, I could stay a couple of days, and we could hang out?” Your nervousness eats at you from the inside, but you power through. “That’s if you don’t have plans or anything, of course.” San ties the drawstring on his shorts as he contemplates your proposal. You already feel like an idiot, suggesting something more when he doesn’t respond right away. You have a virtual egg on your face now, and you just want to crawl into bed and hide until he leaves. “Yeah,” he finally answers. “I would like that. But you’re coming to me this time.”

The dark tone in his voice excites you despite the aching pain in your thighs. Noticing he is ready to leave, you peek out of your door, listening to see if Gia is still up. You can hear growls and shouting from the TV, and you motion for him to creep down the hallway, just passing the living room. Your adrenaline pumps as you get closer to the front door, determined to not get caught as you sneak out of the house. The slight summer breeze is refreshing, and the smell of rain is imminent. You gaze at San one more time, walking him to his car, trying hard to ignore the pit you will feel in your heart for missing him. “Call me if you want to do that, okay?” San murmurs. “I would love to have you to myself for two days.” “Okay.”

He kisses you goodbye, his hands cupping your face. It was the sweetest kiss you’ve ever had, your stomach filled with more butterflies than before. It took for the summer breeze to pick up for you to break you two apart, bringing you back to Earth. All you could do was smile as he drove away, going in the opposite direction he came. You aren’t sure what the future will hold for you two, but you are glad you kept your feelings to yourself for tonight. 

[brucespringsteencomments]

[gloryofroses19]

Fly Me to the Moon

“I just don’t get it.”  Lieutenant [y/n] was only partly lying, she could somewhat understand the appeal. However, she couldn’t have him know that the appeal was mostly him. 

Shooting his passenger a handsome grin, Major John Egan effortlessly followed the bend to the Air Field. “Well I gotta show you some time.”

“Do you, though?” To the untrained eye, Bucky Egan’s driving seemed lackadaisical. Hands resting comfortably at 4 and 6 o’clock, aviator glasses covering his blue eyes, mouth chewing gum and sporting an easy smile, he seemed like a man of leisure. But those who were close to him, knew Major Bucky Egan as anything but careless about those close to him. The combination of his confidence, his steadfast leadership and devastatingly handsome looks in that fur lined jacket, she could begin to understand the attraction of flying. 

It was enough to make her consider, in the lonely dead of night, about inquiring if she could become the first woman in the Air Force just to see him more, Hilter and those flying deathtraps be damned. 

“Of course, there’s nothing like flyin. When I come back we’ll sneak you past Mother Matron Moore and past Kenny.” Waving to the working crewman as he parked, Bucky leaned in conspiratorially. “But we might have to ditch the truck though, wear good walking shoes too.” 

Scrunching her nose up after Bucky finished his thought with a tap on her nose, [y/n] shook her head. “Don’t you get into enough trouble Major Egan?”

Chuckling as he rounded his way to her side of the truck, John held his hand out to help [y/n] out.  “No, besides, it's why you like me, Lieutenant Goody-Two Shoes.” 

“Oh that’s why? I guess I need to rethink my priorities” 

Eyes crinkling happily as she had yet to release his hand from her delicate grip, John smiled. He would miss her when he was up in the cold dangerous sky. Her warmth, her mirth, the safety she provided him.  

“Oh, are there other reasons?” He beams at [y/n], inching closer to watch the sunlight in her gaze. Major Bucky Egan didn’t need other’s praise. Sure, when Bubbles said he was a great fighter pilot or when Buck said he would follow him anywhere, it was nice to hear. But her praise? Hers was enough to fill his heart with a song he could sing forever and how Bucky Egan loved to sing… 

Despite the retort bubbling on the tip of her tongue, [y/n] laughed. “Yes, but your ego is big enough. You don’t need me to inflate it more, otherwise how will your head fit in the cockpit Major?” Tilting her head to the side, [y/n] raises her eyebrows at him. Baiting him into asking for her praise, she had learned early on that he was so transparent around her. It was one of the things that enamored her, never shy, only careful. As if her attention and affection was something to earn and worship.  

“Easy,” Mirroring her head tilt, John added lightly. “I'll just kick my copilot out. I’d even allow him a parachute.” 

The loud shouts of the crew around her was a balm over the burning heat of his grasp and gaze, the reality of this situation reemerging. Removing her hand from his hold, she instead placed her palm on his chest, and not before noticing the flash of disappointment in the Major’s eyes.

“I’ll make you deal, every mission you come back I’ll tell you another reason I like you.”

He had never thought he was the type of man to get weak in the knees but her earnest proposal sure made him reconsider that.  “Now that’s a reason to come back!” 

“Now that’s a reason to stay in the air, don’t need your ego getting any bigger John!” Startling them out of their bubble, Major Buck Cleven slapped his best friend’s back. 

Bucky knew he was living on borrowed time, the lead pilot couldn’t be late to the mission. So, with his final few seconds, he took the hand off his chest. After raising it to his lips, he brushed his lips against the smooth skin before wishing her farewell. 

“Hey Fly Boy,” Raising her voice above the chatter of the crew, she flashed him a smile. “Bring me a souvenir!”

“You got it, Lieutenant!” 

A/N: I appreciate any and all feedback! Hope you guys enjoy!

More Than You Know is an unofficial official sequel

[loveinhawkins]

Steve heads outside at about 10pm, hoping that the frigid night air will wake him up a bit. He’s conscious of the fact that he’s hardly been in the party spirit, trying and failing to stifle a yawn behind the lone bottle of beer he’d sipped at before abandoning it on Robin’s kitchen counter.

It’s less a New Year’s Eve party, he thinks, and more a relieved exhale. An I’m glad we’re all here kind of party.

There’s a swing bench out on the porch, and once he sits down, he kicks the whole thing back with his feet, the movement sending more fresh air his way. It turns his forearms to gooseflesh but does little to banish the drowsiness, as if it’s somehow been waiting all year to be felt…

“Hey,” comes a voice, and Steve startles back to awareness; Eddie is suddenly sitting down beside him. “Thought you’d absconded, Harrington.”

Steve smiles at the word—“You talk like you’re in a book, dude,” he’d teased earlier that evening, when Eddie and Robin were taking exaggerated swills of boxed wine, pretending to be sommeliers. Eddie had adopted a plummy accent, went on about “heady aromas” and “full bodied complexity” until Robin snorted wine out of her nose.

“Ah, Steve, Steve, Steve,” Eddie had said in delight, “that’s part of the fun, darling.”

And it was still delivered in that stupid accent, all part of the game, but it didn’t stop Steve from feeling a glow in his chest that had little to do with the wine they ‘sampled.’

Now Eddie’s voice is back to normal, if a little softer than usual, like he doesn’t want to disturb the stillness out here. “Thought I was gonna have to look for a glass slipper or something,” he goes on, and it takes a moment for Steve, lulled by the gentle cadence of Eddie’s words, to get the reference.

When he does, he snorts. “Bit early for that. But at this rate…” And he yawns again as he speaks, aiming for a self-deprecating shrug. “At this rate, I’m sorta doubting I’ll make it ‘til midnight.”

He’s expecting Eddie to lean into the teasing, call him ancient. But instead he just looks over with a fond smile and says, “I’m not surprised, man.”

Steve scoffs. “It’s not like I’ve really done anything.”

Eddie raises an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

Steve gives another shrug. “It’s the holidays, dude, not exactly taxing.”

“Nah, that’s not…” Eddie shakes his head slightly. “You can’t see it, huh?”

“Can’t see what?”

There’s a moment where Eddie just considers him. “Steve Harrington,” he drawls, almost like it’s a little song, like Steve is the one who’s a character in a book. Like he’s someone admirable. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you, like, stop even once. And at first I thought…” He tilts a little closer on the swing, making it creak. “Like, ‘oh, that’s just how he is when the world’s ending’, right? But no. You’re like that all the damn time.”

Steve is far too tired to work out what ‘like that’ even means. He chuckles quietly, rubs at one of his eyes. “And, what, I can’t even keep going to see in the new year?”

“Eh, time’s a construct.”

“Oh, shut the fuck up,” Steve says with absolutely no bite to it. “Midnight countdown is the one time when it matters.”

“Well.” Eddie nods his head as if to say fair point. “We could time travel.”

Steve smirks. “Oh, yeah? You park the DeLorean somewhere?”

Eddie grins. “Nope. It’s—” He stops, smile fading just at the corners, like he’s suddenly a little shy. “Okay, it’s kinda stupid. Like a family thing, I guess.”

“Lucky for you that I like stupid,” Steve says lightly—doesn’t really know how to say that he secretly loves hearing about quirky family traditions, sometimes feels like he can live vicariously through them.

(The last New Year’s Eve he’d spent with his parents had been in New York, and when they were getting a cab back to the hotel, his mom had said that he couldn’t fall asleep because they were sharing the ride with some business partners; it would be embarrassing. He’d spent the journey pressing his forehead against the cold condensation on the car window, fighting sleep.)

“So,” Eddie says, “every year since I was, like,” he gestures with his hand comically low, nearly touching the ground, “Wayne always let me stay up for New Year’s, and it blew my tiny mind ‘cause I was never tired. At all. And then, I think I was, what, ten…? Something like that. And I figured it out.”

“What?”

Eddie leans forward conspiratorially. “Sneaky bastard wound all the clocks forward.”

Steve laughs and laughs. “I love your uncle.”

Eddie rolls his eyes but he’s smiling. “Yeah, yeah, he’s something else.” Then he softens. “We did it tonight, before I came here. Early midnight countdown.”

And there’s a weight to that, like Eddie can hardly believe that he got to be there, to see the tradition continue.

Then Eddie blinks, and the heaviness is gone. “How about it, Harrington?” He pushes back his shirt to reveal his wristwatch. “Wanna try it?”

Steve smiles. “Sure.”

And he watches as Eddie fiddles with the watch until it reads as being a minute before midnight; and it’s silly, he knows they're not really time travelling, but he can’t help feeling that there’s some magic involved anyway. Like there’s suddenly a little pocket of the world that’s just their own.

They count down from 10, and then Eddie does a hushed imitation of fireworks going off, which makes Steve laugh again.

“Hey, Eddie,” he says. “Happy New Year.”

And suddenly it sounds like more than that—sounds like we made it and we’re safe.

Maybe Eddie hears all that, too, because there’s a sheen to his eyes that can’t entirely be blamed on the Christmas lights. “Yeah. Happy New Year, Steve.”

They stay put in comfortable silence. Eddie starts to rock the swing slowly with one foot, back and forth, and Steve knows that he doesn’t even realise he’s doing it—probably is hearing a song in his head that he can’t help but follow the rhythm.

And at some point Steve finds that he’s catching himself on the brink of dozing, then pulling back. His eyelids keep…

The softest laugh, somewhere very close. “Oh, Steve,” Eddie sighs, and Steve can hear him smiling, can hear the fondness shining through. “There you go, big guy.”

And his head is tilting down, down onto Eddie’s warm shoulder.

“Glad you’re here,” Steve just about manages to say.

Through a dreamy haze, he feels a hand brush across his forehead; an arm around him, so he doesn’t fall. “Ah, sweetheart. So glad you’re here, too, you’ve got no idea.”

And then he’s melting into sleep, right through the gentlest turning of the page from one year into the next.

[captainpricelover]

In the car, really?

Captain price x f!reader

Wordcount- 0.8k

Warnings: Smut!! Car sex, Public sex, P in V sex, Breeding kink, possessive!Price. Price missed you after a long mission and shows you that in his own special way.

Names used: Honey, Hun, Baby.

After an extended mission, you pick your boyfriend up from the airport. It's the middle of the night and no one else is around. It's raining heavily and you're playing your favourite Lana del Rey song through the Bluetooth speaker.

Prices smile at you as opens the driver-side door, he leans over and presses the release button on your seatbelt before lifting you into his arms and pulling you out of his car while practically squeezing you to death.

“Missed’cha, honey,”

 John states while planting small kisses all over your face, his overgrown mutton chops scratch your face while he does. You make a mental note to tell him to trim them later. You wrap your arms around his neck as you pull in him closer

“I missed you too baby!”

The parking lot near the base is empty and dark, the only light coming from the moon and inside your car. You and Price share a long-awaited romantic moment as the raindrops fall around the two. He places his bonnie hat on top of your head as he breaks the kiss. The hat smells of Price; cigars, gunpowder and whiskey with a hint of some expensive cologne.

He smiles as he sits down in the driver's seat “Let's go home,” 

“You’re tired, let me drive,” You say while attempting to stop him from getting in

“No, it's fine really. To be honest darling your driving stresses me out,”

“Aren’t you a charmer,” 

Laughter erupts from the both of you. Price pulls you into his lap as he finally sits down.

“I missed that laugh,” 

He sighs, Price never talks about his missions but you could tell that they affect him. The rain starts hammering on the roof of the car.  

“Let me show you how much I missed you,”

 Price's hands start to explore your entire body. His fingers play with the hem of your skirt as he thrusts his hips only to discover 

“No knickers, huh?” 

“Was meant to be a surprise for later”

“Well I am very surprised baby, but your cunt is soaking my work trousers,”

“We’re going to fuck in the car aren't we?”

“You read my fucking mind, hun!” 

With that, your skirt is flipped over, with your ass out for anyone to see. His fingers grip the flesh as he humps his clothed cock on your wet pussy. You move your hand down his torso past his chiselled abdomen and to the large tent in his trousers. He flinches as soon as your fingertips make contact.

“Fuck, I need you, baby, haven’t fucking touched myself in weeks.”

“I need you too, missed your cock inside me,” 

Price’s zipper gets undone in one quick movement. Your hand quickly pulls his manhood out of his boxers before moving up and down his shaft. He lets out some small groans as his head flings back, hitting the headrest of the seat. The fingers that press into your ass push you back slightly as John aligns his cock with your entrance. He might have pushed you back slightly too fast as your ass makes contact with the centre of the steering wheel causing a loud honking sound to echo throughout the parking lot. A roar of laughter escapes Price’s lips before being shortly followed by your own giggling. His manhood enters you as he pulls you in closer, away from the wheel. A moan exits your lips stopping your chuckling. You bite your lip in an attempt to quieten the noise

“Don’t, I want to hear you” 

He commands using his captain voice. So you let go of your bottom lip because of course, you got to follow his orders. You move your hips up and down, slowly grinding yourself against his cock. One of your hands moves up to secure his bonnie hat on your head while the other wraps place itself over Price’s shoulder. His movements speed up as more low groans escape his lips.

“Missed you, John. The house is so empty without you” You manage to say in between moans.

“Gonna knock you up, so you ain’t lonely anymore,” 

“I was thinking of a dog, but that could work too,” You joke but it flys over his head

“Fill your cunt with my cum. You wanna be filled huh?”

His thrust gets faster. He is actually going to go through with this. You're getting close. He squeezes you tighter as he becomes rougher. You let go of his hat and wrap your arms around his neck as you get closer to your orgasm. The movements of your hips become in sync with his thrusts. All of a sudden you feel a bite on your neck, it’s John, he only does this when he's feeling possessive which turns you on even more. 

“I’m going to cum!” You practically scream

“Cum for me, honey,” 

And with that, you unravel. Your whole body shakes as you reach your high. Your cunt squeezes around his cock which causes him to finish as well. His cock shoots hot cum inside you before he slowly pulls out. 

“I love you, honey.”

“I love you too, John,” You smile as you look in his eye. You can make a shape that's reflected in his pupils. It's a car. You snap your head around only to see a man with a skull face staring back at you.

[strqwberryfield]

jongseong park - cuddles in the sun

context: y/n invites jay over to her home whilst her family were out.

contains fluffy fluff (i had a dream about this last night and its stuck in my brain) and food.

₊✧⋆⭒˚｡⋆

you know the feeling of being home alone. the events that take place like eating all the food in the house, blasting out songs and pretending you're a singer performing on your world tour, talking to yourself like you would do on a talk show after you become famous and then the final stage. loneliness. y/n went through those stages in a space of an hour so now she found her current situation rather uncomfortable, considering that she has been through this situation numerous times.

after around 5 or so minutes, she messaged her boyfriend, jay.

| y/n: bae hii :))))

| jay: hi lovely, is there anything wrong?

| y/n: im home alone rn and im lonely :(

| y/n: do you wanna perhaps come over!?!, i miss u ^ ^

| jay: how could i say no to you, ill be over in 10. i love you <3

| y/n: i love you too!! stay safe and see you soon :)

jay took longer than 10 minutes, he stopped by a store to pick up some essential stuff like your favourite food and snacks to accommodate the cuddling session that is yet to happen.

knock knock knock. that was jay. you knew it was him since he had a unique style of knocking. it was kind of like a secret code.

y/n unlocks the door and he walks in, kissing the top of her head and pulled her into a hug. swaying side to side, one hand softly patting the back of her head and the other arm around her waist. the smell of peonies and linen cologne that he owned filled her senses.

"hi" he whispered. pecking her head yet again. "hey" she replies. she was so drunk in love with him that her friends were tired of her constantly talking about him. she led him to the living room so they could relax and talk to each other as jay had a jam-packed schedule due to the upcoming comeback that was going to happen that month.

the sun was setting. it was a beautiful sight. it was also so warm because the log fire was on along with the sun cascading down through the windows. jay set out all the snacks on the table beside the couch and got himself comfortable. he opened up his arms as he slowly went to lie down. "come here" he said softly, with a cute smile on his face. y/n clambered over to lay on top of him to lay her head in the crook of his neck.

"i was about to have a nap in the dorm, you sent that message at the right time" he mumbled, with the same smile on his face. his eyes were filled with love and adoration for the girl that was in his arms. soft jazz played on the speakers as the young couple had a small catch-up on what had happened over the past week when they were apart.

sleep was catching up to the boy so he got the fluffy blanket that was rested to the right of him to put on him and his girl (who was asleep). he kissed and whispered one last "i love you" before sleep overcame him.

₊✧⋆⭒˚｡⋆

a/n: im so touch-starved wtf.

[sunkissed-zegras]

❄️ Jack Hughes ”no matter where I go, all these roads lead me to what I once called a home”

Congrats btw! 😁

✮ 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐠𝐨 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭, 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭, 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞 / 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐢𝐦 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭, 𝐠𝐨 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬 | jack hughes

♡ ─ word count | 4.4k

♡ ─ summary | jack, driven by his ambitions, realizes too late that he has taken his relationship with you for granted. as he achieves success, the bitterness of his lonely successes intensifies, highlighting the irreplaceable hole left by the genuine connection he lost.

♡ ─ warnings | unedited, angst!!! fighting, nothing else i think??

♡ ─ taglist | @dancerbailey3 @valluvsu @daisysnhl @dasiysthings @iminlovewithtz11 @literatureluster @lvrzegras @lxvleyzoe

♡ ─ ev's notes | this ask was a part of my 600 celly BUT i was feeling angsty so i wrote it. hope y'all enjoyed!! also, requests are open for now! always open to respectful criticisms :)

As the clock struck midnight on your fourth anniversary, you sensed a subtle shift in the air, a quiet shake that seemed to resonate within the core of your relationship with Jack. The two of you had been inseparable since your teenage years, navigating the trials of adolescence and embracing the joys of young love. Yet, as the months passed, a distance began to emerge, casting shadows over the once close connection you shared.

You noticed it first in the subtle changes – the diminishing frequency of his texts, the laughter less genuine, and the gradual shift in focus from your shared world to individual pursuits. The I-love-yous that used to flow effortlessly now hung in the air, unanswered or replaced by a strained silence.

You found yourself grappling with a growing sense of unease, a gnawing suspicion that whispered of changes you were not prepared to face. The shared dreams and aspirations that once bound you together now seemed to drift into the background, overshadowed by Jack's newfound focus on career ambitions and personal goals.

You weren't angry that Jack put his career first, no, if anything you'd pushed him to make sure his dreams were achieved. It was the fact that somehow, everything else became more important than your relationship. Making money and going out seemed like the only thing that mattered; everything that you two had talked about when you were younger had became less and less important to him. Was it a lie? They couldn't have been, he promised.

In quiet moments of reflection, you found yourself remembering the vows exchanged during late-night conversations when the world felt like it belonged solely to the two of you. Jack's assurances that success wouldn't change him, that love would remain the foundation of your connection, echoed through your mind like a haunting song. Yet, as the days passed, those promises started to feel like distant echoes, fading away in his ambitions.

You had always envisioned a future where success and love walked hand in hand, where the pursuit of dreams strengthened the bond between you. But, it seemed that Jack's definition of success had turned into a solitary journey, one that left little room for the shared dreams you both had once held dear.

The weekends that were once reserved for lazy strolls in the park or movie nights now transformed into a whirlwind of social events, networking dinners, and late-night games. As Jack's career flourished, the time he dedicated to building a life together dwindled, leaving you grappling with a sense of isolation within the relationship.

You couldn't help but question whether the promises he made were now casualties of his success. Did the allure of wealth and a thriving social life overshadow the simplicity and authenticity of your love? The echoes of those once-heartfelt promises grew fainter, drowned out by the noise of his career and the allure of a lifestyle that seemed to prioritize everything but the intimacy and connection you once shared.

The nights you spent cuddled up on the couch, lost in conversations that stretched until dawn, became replaced by solitary moments of insecurity. You wondered if you had done something wrong, if there was a fault in your stars that you failed to recognize. Were you not enough? Were the dreams you shared no longer worth pursuing together?

The once deep connection that felt like an unbreakable bond now seemed like a fragile thread, ready to snap under the weight of unanswered questions. In those quiet moments, you found yourself replaying old conversations, searching for the missed cues or overlooked signs that may have forewarned you of this impending shift. Was there something you missed?

You longed for the days when love was enough, when the simplicity of being together was worth more than any fleeting moment of fame and success. The questions that lingered in your mind echoed in the silent spaces between you and Jack, becoming an unspoken barrier that seemed hopeless.

In those moments of doubt, you couldn't help but wonder if there was a way to bridge the growing gap, to reclaim the dreams that once felt so attainable. The beginning of the end hung in the air, and you found yourself at a crossroads, torn between holding onto the fading echoes of promises or facing the reality that the love you once knew was slipping away.

The clock on the wall ticked away the seconds, the sound echoing through the quiet living room as she sat on the couch, glancing anxiously at her watch. Hockey practice was supposed to end hours ago, but Jack was still out there on the rink, lost in his own world. The apartment felt empty, the only source of light was the soft glow of a lamp casting long shadows across the room.

You absentmindedly twirled a strand of your hair, glancing at the clock again. The frustration and exhaustion etched on your face were undeniable. The late-night practices had transformed from an occasional occurrence to a regular part of your lives, leaving your with a sense of loneliness that permeated the air.

The door creaked open, and Jack stumbled in, clad in his hockey gear, a tired look on his face. His gaze met yours, and for a moment, there was a flicker of guilt before it quickly masked itself with a tired smile.

"Hey," he said, his voice heavy with exhaustion. "Sorry, practice ran late again."

She forced a smile, but the weariness in her eyes spoke volumes. "It's fine," she replied, her tone carrying a weight of unspoken words. "I made some food, it's in the microwave if you want some."

"Already ate with the boys," he replied before he disappeared into the bathroom, you sank deeper into the cushions, grappling with the frustration of being left alone, night after night.

As the sound of the running shower echoed through the apartment, you sat there, feeling the weight of the unshared meal and the emptiness that seemed to seep into the spaces between you and Jack. The promise of a home-cooked dinner, prepared with love, now felt like a futile attempt to bridge the growing gap in your relationship.

When Jack emerged from the bathroom, the scent of soap and exhaustion lingered in the air. He joined you on the couch, the distance between you both more pronounced than ever.

He settled in, scrolling absentmindedly through his phone. The flickering light illuminated his tired face, the blue glow reflecting in his eyes that were once filled with the spark of shared dreams. You glanced at the clock; it was late, too late for meaningful conversation.

"Long day," he mumbled, his attention still on the screen.

You two sat in silence for a few moments before you decided to speak up again, another attempt to bridge the gap between you two.

"Jack," you began, the uncertainty in your voice cutting through the quiet of the room. He looked up from his phone, meeting your eyes with a distant acknowledgment.

"I was thinking about our future, you know?" The words hung in the air, a tentative attempt to navigate a conversation that felt more fragile than ever.

He sighed, the weariness evident in the lines that etched his face. "Yeah, me too. It's just... work's demanding right now. I'm on the brink of something big, and I need to give it my all."

The acknowledgment of his ambitions stung, a reminder that the dreams you once shared were now taking divergent paths. "I get that, Jack. I've always supported your goals, but it feels like we're moving in different directions lately. What about that family we'd always wanted, the two boys and the girl-"

"What about family, Y/N? We have time, We're 22 for God's sake, just be patient with me." Frustration dripped from his voice as he snapped, sighing as he watched all the patience drain from your face. He looked back at you, guilt overtaking his emotions. "I know it's been tough, especially with the late nights and practices. But this is temporary. Once I make it, we can have everything we ever talked about."

Everything you ever talked about. The phrase echoed in your mind, a stark contrast to the reality of unshared dinners, missed moments, and fading dreams. Did he even remember your dreams together anymore? "Jack, it's not just about the late nights. It's about us, about the life we planned together. I miss the simplicity of what we had."

He nodded, a reluctant admission of the truth. "I miss it too, but we need to make sacrifices for the life we want. This is just part of the journey."

You were tired as you looked forward, to the TV. "Okay, Jack." The conversation lingered in the air, unresolved and heavy.

The room fell into a heavy silence, the weight of unspoken words settling between you and Jack. The glow of the television cast shadows on the walls, a stark reminder of the distance that had grown within the space you once shared.

──

The restaurant hummed with the clinking of cutlery and the murmur of conversations. The atmosphere should have been celebratory after Jack's successful game, but as you sat across from him at a dimly lit table, there was an undeniable tension in the air.

Throughout the meal, Jack's attention seemed divided. He was engaged in animated discussions with teammates who joined the celebration, and you found yourself fading into the background. Attempting to bring a sense of intimacy, you reached for his hand, a silent plea for a connection in the midst of the crowd.

However, when one of his teammates approached the table to congratulate him, Jack subtly withdrew his hand to shake theirs. The gesture was small, but the impact reverberated through you like a shockwave.

As the teammate left, you couldn't ignore the awkwardness that settled between you and Jack. The distance had become palpable, and the celebratory atmosphere of the restaurant only accentuated the loneliness you felt.

The walk back to the car was quiet and dormant, you felt almost nauseous after. The silence between you and Jack was broken only by the distant sounds of the city. You stole glances at him, hoping to find a trace of the connection you once shared. However, his gaze seemed distant, lost in thoughts that remained unspoken.

As you approached the car, the silence became unbearable. The unlocking of the car door punctuated the stillness, and you both settled into the seats, the physical proximity doing little to bridge the emotional chasm that had formed.

The car hummed softly as you drove back from Jack's hockey game. You stole glances at Jack, his profile bathed in the soft glow of passing streetlights. His eyes remained fixed on the road ahead, distant and unyielding. The connection you once shared, the easy banter and shared laughter, felt like a distant memory. The gap had widened, and you couldn't shake the sinking feeling that something big had shifted.

"I just don't understand, Jack," you finally broke the silence, the words hesitant but charged with emotion.

He sighed, his gaze still fixed on the road. "Understand what, Y/N?"

Your name sounded bitter coming from his mouth, hearing it felt like a curse. Your name used to sound sweet, like something special - now, it sounded like something else.

"I don't understand why it feels like we're falling apart," you admitted, the weight of the unspoken tension finding a voice. "I don't understand why every moment between us seems strained, like we're living in two different worlds. It doesn't feel like us anymore."

Jack's shoulders tensed, his grip on the steering wheel tightening. The city lights cast shadows on his face, emphasizing the lines that etched the weariness of unresolved issues.

"We're just going through a rough patch," he replied, his voice carrying an edge and it almost sounded like he was trying to convince himself that, too.

"But how long is this 'rough patch' going to last, Jack?" The bitterness crept into your voice, fueled by the frustration of being kept in the dark. "I feel like I'm losing you, and I don't even know why."

He remained silent, the distance between you growing with each passing second. Your hands fidgeted in your lap, the tension in the car becoming unbearable. "We used to talk about everything, Jack. Now it feels like you're shutting me out."

He finally turned to look at you, his eyes carrying a mixture of guilt and defensiveness. "I'm dealing with a lot right now, Y/N. It's not about shutting you out."

"But it feels that way," you countered, the rawness of your emotions laid bare. "I want to be there for you, but I can't if you don't let me in."

His knuckles tightened on the steering wheel, and frustration etched lines on his forehead. "You just don't get it, do you? This is my career, my life. I'm trying to make something of myself, and you're making it harder."

The words hung in the air, a declaration that cut through the silence like a sharp blade. The breaking point was reached, and a surge of anger replaced the hurt in your chest.

"Making it harder? Jack, I'm not your enemy. I'm your partner," you retorted, your voice rising. "I've supported you every step of the way, I've put you first for the last three years, Jack, I pushed everything aside to come move to Jersey with you."

"I never asked you to do that, Y/N." Jack replied, his frustration palpable.

"That's not the point!" you shot back, your emotions breaking through the dam of restraint. You couldn't believe that was the only thing he got from everything you'd just said. "I did it because I believed in us. I believed in you. But now it feels like you're pushing me away, shutting me out, and I can't take it anymore."

"You're not understanding, Y/N," Jack's tone grew sharper, defensive walls rising. "I'm under so much pressure, and I need space. I can't have you constantly questioning me, doubting everything I do."

His words cut deep, and you felt a sense of betrayal mingled with the anger. "I'm not doubting you, Jack. I'm doubting us. I'm doubting whether we can survive if you keep shutting me out like this."

He turned away, gripping the steering wheel tightly. "I want a future, Y/N. I want success. Is that so wrong?"

"It's not wrong, Jack, but success shouldn't come at the cost of our relationship," you argued, desperation seeping into your voice. "I want a future too, but not at the expense of us falling apart."

He scoffed, the bitterness in his tone cutting through. "You knew what you signed up for when we started this relationship. I can't just drop everything now."

"Jack, relationships require effort from both sides," you insisted, your frustration reaching its peak. "You're so focused on your career that you're neglecting what's right in front of you."

"I'm neglecting what's right in front of me? Y/N, I'm working hard for us," he argued, the bitterness in his voice unabated. "I'm trying to build a future, a life where you don't have to worry about anything."

"But what about the life we're living now?" you pleaded, your voice breaking through the tension. "What about the love and connection we used to have? Is that not worth fighting for anymore?"

Silence lingered, the car speeding through the night, the city lights outside casting a surreal glow. The breaking point had led to a stark realization — you were both standing at a crossroads, and the choices made in this moment would shape the fate of your relationship.

"Jack, it's not just about the future. It's about us, about what we have now," you spoke softly, the vulnerability in your voice revealing the depth of your emotions. "I miss the way we used to be, the laughter, the shared dreams. It feels like we're losing all of that."

He remained silent, his grip on the steering wheel tight. As you neared home, the heaviness in the air grew more pronounced. The choices you both faced were stark — to continue down divergent paths, the breaking point had set the stage for a decision, and as the car rolled to a stop, the echoes of unmet needs and fading dreams reverberated in the silence that enveloped you both.

The engine cut off, and Jack finally turned to look at you. His eyes, once filled with love, now reflected the weight of the unspoken resentment. The air inside the car felt dense with the unmet expectations.

"Y/N," he began, his voice heavy. "I think we need to be honest with ourselves. We're not the same people we were when we started this journey. Our dreams, they've pulled us in different directions."

The breaking point had reached its culmination, and the truth hung in the air like a heavy fog. You looked at Jack, the person you had shared so much love with, and saw a stranger in the dim glow of the car's interior staring back at you.

"I never wanted it to come to this," he continued, a hint of regret in his eyes. "But we can't keep holding onto what used to be. It's not fair to either of us."

Tears welled up in your eyes as you nodded, the pain of parting etched on both your faces. The car door opened, and as you stepped out into the cool night air, the echoes of what once was lingered in the spaces between you. The breaking point had led to an ending, a decision made in the quiet aftermath of a car ride that had shifted the course of your relationship.

──

Months had passed since the break up, and Jack found himself navigating the post-Y/N world with attempts to move on. Tonight, he found himself at a bar with his friends, the dimmed lights and lively atmosphere attempting to drown the lingering echoes of Y/N and everything she was.

His friends, aware of his struggle, were determined to lift his spirits. "Come on, Jack, look around. There are plenty of beautiful girls here! Who wouldn't wanna sleep with the Jack Hughes?" One of them encouraged, gesturing towards the crowd.

Jack halfheartedly smiled, appreciating their efforts to pull him out of his slump. He scanned the room, the laughter and chatter of the bar patrons surrounding him. Amidst the sea of faces, one caught his eye — a girl who, from a distance, bore a resemblance to Y/N.

His friends nudged him, teasingly urging him to approach her. "There you go, Jack! She's cute, right?"

He hesitated, his gaze fixed on the girl who seemed to share a fleeting resemblance to someone he once held close, someone who had been his world. The internal struggle between moving on and clinging to the past played out in his conflicted expression.

But as he approached, the girl looked up, and for a moment, Jack's heart skipped a beat. The resemblance was uncanny — the same captivating eyes, a similar smile. In that instant, he felt a pang of nostalgia, a cruel reminder of what he had lost.

The girl, oblivious to the emotional turmoil within Jack, smiled politely. Jack stammered, the weight of the past and the allure of familiarity colliding. His friends exchanged knowing glances, realizing that even in a sea of faces, some connections were indelible. As Jack struggled to respond, his gaze lingered on the girl who momentarily embodied a resemblance to the one he couldn't forget.

"Hey, can I get you something to drink?" Jack said, feigning confidence.

"Sure, I'll have a vodka soda."

As he headed to the bar, Jack's friends continued their subtle exchange of knowing glances. They could see the conflict in their friend's eyes, torn between the past and the present.

As he returned with the drinks, Jack decided to engage in conversation, attempting to momentarily escape the weight of his thoughts. They found a more secluded spot, away from the lively crowd, and Jack tried to muster a genuine smile.

"Cheers," he said, lifting his glass. The clink of glasses filled the air, but in the echo.

As they teased back and forth, Jack decided to flirt, something he'd done a million times in the last couple of months, trying to move on. The girl reciprocated, and for a brief moment, the bar seemed like a place where past and present could coexist.

"You know," she said, casually swirling the drink in her hand, "I've never met someone as driven as you, someone so focused on their own success. It's impressive, but I wonder if you've ever stopped to enjoy the simpler things in life. I bet it's hard, with your work and stuff..."

Jack's smile faltered, and his eyes widened in surprise. Her words hung in the air, and for a moment, Jack was transported back to the countless times Y/N had gently urged him to appreciate the present and to find joy in the little things.

In that instant, the weight of realization hit him. It wasn't about a specific detail, but rather the essence of what he had lost. Y/N had brought balance to his life, grounding him in the beauty of everyday moments. The girl's words echoed Y/N's sentiments, and it dawned on Jack how much he had taken her for granted.

Excusing himself, Jack left the girl confused. He quickly said his goodbyes to his friends, walking back to his friends. The attempt to recreate the banter, the flirtation – it all felt like a hollow pursuit compared to the real connection he had with Y/N.

Outside the bar, the cool night air wrapped around him, and Jack took a moment to collect his thoughts. The city lights flickered in the distance, a stark contrast to the clarity that was slowly settling within him. Determined to address the growing void within him, Jack made his way back to the apartment he once shared with Y/N. The familiar surroundings seemed different now, carrying the echoes of both joy and the regret of what he had lost.

Upon entering, the silence enveloped him, a stark contrast to the happy memories that used to fill these walls. The photographs on the wall, the shared belongings, all gone now. The home now felt sterile and cold, it didn't feel like home anymore.

Jack sank onto the couch, his mind replaying the moments he had shared with Y/N. The laughter, the late-night talks, the dreams they had woven together – they all flooded back, bringing with them a profound longing.

Unable to shake the weight of regret, Jack decided to confront the reality he had been avoiding. He picked up his phone and dialed Y/N's number, the familiar digits carrying the hope of rebuilding what he had carelessly let crumble.

"Hey, it's me," Jack began, the words carrying a vulnerability he had long suppressed. "I've been doing a lot of thinking, and I need to talk to you. Can we meet?"

Y/N's response was a mixture of surprise and caution, "Jack, it's been months. What's there to talk about now?"

Jack took a deep breath, ready to lay bare his feelings. "I realized how much I took you for granted, Y/N. The success, the pursuit of my dreams – they meant nothing without you. I miss us, I miss the simplicity and authenticity we had. Can we meet, please?"

Y/N's hesitant silence on the other end spoke volumes, and Jack felt his heart sink. After what seemed like an eternity, she finally responded with a gentle but firm, "Jack, I appreciate your honesty, but I've moved on. Meeting now wouldn't change anything."

His chest tightened with the weight of her words, and the reality of the consequences hit him. Jack had taken a chance on something genuine and beautiful and let it slip away. The simplicity and authenticity he once shared with Y/N were now fragments of a past he couldn't reclaim.

"I understand," he said, his voice betraying a sense of defeat. "I just wanted you to know how sorry I am, and that I've learned from my mistakes."

Y/N's response was soft, "Jack, take this as a lesson for your future. I hope you find the happiness you're searching for."

The call ended, leaving Jack with a hollow ache. The apartment, once filled with shared dreams, now felt emptier than ever. The essence of what he had lost lingered in the air, a constant reminder of the genuine connection he had taken for granted.

Anger took over his body and he couldn't help but slam his hands on the coffee table, it felt like the whole apartment shook. Breathing heavily, Jack paced around the room, the weight of his realization settling in. The photographs on the wall seemed to mock him, frozen moments that he couldn't ever relive. The essence of what he could've had with Y/N now haunted him, a ghost of the love he had taken for granted.

He glanced around the apartment, each corner holding memories of shared laughter, whispered promises, and the warmth of their love. It was a stark contrast to the emptiness that surrounded him now.

Sinking onto the couch, Jack let out a heavy sigh. The world he could've had with Y/N played out in his mind like a bittersweet movie, each scene a reminder of what he had lost. Regret clawed at him, and Jack couldn't shake the image of Y/N moving forward without him. The authenticity he craved, the simplicity he missed – it was all embodied in the love he had taken for granted.

As Jack sat alone in the quiet apartment, the taste of success, once sweet on his tongue, now felt bitter. The achievements that he had relentlessly pursued seemed hollow without Y/N by his side to share in the joy.

The awards and accomplishments, once the pinnacle of his aspirations, now felt like mere tokens in a life that lacked the authenticity he had once shared with Y/N. The world he had built for himself seemed colorless without her to share in the colorful moments of success.

In the solitude of the apartment, Jack realized that the pursuit of success had come at a cost – the cost of a genuine, irreplaceable connection. The bitterness of this realization was palpable, a reminder that the sweetest victories were the ones shared with someone you loved. And no matter where he went, all those roads led him to what I once called his home, his everything.

It was a bitter truth that Jack couldn't escape, and as he reflected on the choices that had led him to this lonely moment, he understood that success, without the taste of shared happiness, was empty. In the silence, he grappled with the emptiness that accompanied the absence of the one person who had made every success worthwhile.

-> make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated! <-

thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡

[fwibblefwobble]

I don’t know, I just have so many thoughts about domestic!Ghost.

You’ve been masquerading as a newlywed couple in Romania for six months, staking out the activity of a growing cartel. You have a little apartment that overlooks their supposed base of operations. It’s littered with tactical gear and other types of military equipment, but also the bits and bobs characteristic of a well loved home. Comms equipment is laid out over a charming little dinner table for two. There’s a bowl of fruit next to your walkies, ripe oranges from the farmers market you frequent. Your “husband’s” combat boots face the fuzzy fleece of your matching house slippers. 

Simon was uncomfortable with the arrangements at first. Not because he had any ill will towards you, but because it meant having to stay still. All of his life, he feels like he’s been running. Like the mindless sprint from an inevitable death keeps him alive. He doesn’t know what to do with himself in a home with gauzy curtains and a soft bed. He doesn’t belong here, doesn’t fit in with the giddy laughter of the neighborhood children and the intimate get-togethers with newly made friends the way you do. 

6 months ago, he couldn’t care less. But now, about half a year into a cozy domestic dream, he finds himself wishing that he did. 

He dreams about what actually living this life would be like. How it would feel to hold hands on a walk through the park, feel the smooth metal of a wedding band and know that he put that there. The warm embrace of a place to call home at the end of the day, a sweet wife to kiss his cheek and welcome him back from a day of honest labor and hard work. A love to warm his bed and hold him in the night. 

Most shamefully of all, he pictures this with you. Not as his teammate or a bloody business partner, but as a companion. As his sweetheart. 

He knows that all of this will end one day, that the job get done and he’ll be dispatched to another seedy corner of the world to do what he’s good at, what he’s known for. His play at marital bliss will be over, and it’ll be back to lonely nights in an empty bed with phantom pains of what once was around his ring finger. 

But for now, he prays you don’t notice him linger at the doorway, the way he watches you brush your hair in the morning and hum a little song as you make dinner. How he holds you just the slightest bit closer to his chest in the dead of night.