#there’s something. something both quietly acknowledge to be there and existing between the two but can’t breach bc of

[fluffypotatey]

Hcs about shadowpeach reconnecting?

i like to think of it being very slow. to me, shadowpeach is the slowest of all slow burns both when they’re developing a relationship and trying to reconnect.

while i am a sucker for shadowpeach fluff and them being all clingy and cuddley, i still don’t think the two would even get that close for some time (and i mean some time).

lemme see if i can do a little rundown (i fucking lied) of my idea of a shadowpeach reconnection post-s4:

after the scroll and after their battle with the Brotherhood, both are in an agreement of a truce. as in, both acknowledged that neither of them wish to really fight or stay upset with the other because both understand that they never really could

so there’s a truce, a renewed exchange of peaches, that informs the other that while nothing will ever be like before….maybe that’s for the best, maybe they deserve something different and new between them

it doesn’t immediately take away from all their hurt feelings and pettiness. Wukong’s teasing will never hit the same and Macky’s guard is still at full defense

MK will still find them arguing up to the sky about something as trivial as which path leads to which waterfall and “shut up and just follow me, you idiot, this mountain has been my home for over a millennia”

but there are baby steps in the right direction (Pigsy would call it the “babiest of steps” but nobody asked him)

it takes them a year to come to terms that their petty arguing is just petty to be petty (tho they hold out a little longer because neither want to admit that to each other because it could meaning losing the game. what game? neither are exactly sure of what)

but it’s after both take the time to really refrain from that itch to bitch that both actually have a chance to talk with some substance (there may have been an external force that led to this conversation; a curse trapping them in a void space, being separated from the group so it’s just them two, the works)

but then that arguing loses its teeth and resembles something like banter. Wukong and Macky never truly did banter much in the past. not like this. it’s a little freeing. to be able to push and pull against each other without any reserve or need to

and this was their relationship for quite some time after. no physical hugs or touches like Wukong was privy to before or that Macky used to indulge in. you had the occasional glance here and there but not enough for the other to notice (everyone else, of course, noticed)

ironically, it’s Macky who initiates their first hug in ages.

Wukong, over the years, has slowly been building up to it with shoulder bumps, a light punch in the shoulder, and sometimes a bump to the hip.

when asked, Wukong would explain that he’s a physically affectionate guy but knows Mac has his limits and does his best to respect that as much as he can

on his own tho, Wukong personally feels like those touches are the most he will ever be granted to give. that is, until after a fierce battle, skirmish, whatever new daring thing that almost costs the Monkie Kid team, Macky actually pulls Wukong in for a hug

it’s nothing big or grand. well, nothing big for anymore normal since it’s a very short side hug, but it was something big for the both of them.

suffice to say, that was enough permission for Wukong to initiate more physical affection towards Macky

neither of them are really ready to put anything that they’re doing to name. makes it more definite and breakable

hell, they don’t even acknowledge that they’re past the point of tolerable acquaintances until a couple years later

but yeah, a shadowpeach reconnection, in my eyes, will takes years (centuries even) to truly rekindle their relationship. like i said, it’s a slow burn and one both want to tread carefully even if it’s agonizing to watch from the outside (see MK and friends)

[ackermonie]

a perfect world pt.2

pt1

tags: @mor-pheus @nitimurinvetitumsposts @pompompompompompompom

content: shibuya incident, pregnant! reader, hurt/comfort but mostly hurt, angst, mentions of abortion, gojo wanting to be a dad in the future, reader hides pregnancy, mentions of megumi

it’s a bit chilly. you stand in the unusual silence of the square usually buzzing with life, especially on halloween night, positioned on a pedestrian bridge.

there is something pinning you in place. you feel heavy, never enough oxygen in your lungs. you have a few minutes before you need to meet with your team-mates, so this is the last bit of peace you will get for a while.

you try to ignore the burden lying within you. guilts seeps in your brain at the thought that it is a burden, because fuck, you’re never the person to call a child, let alone the product of you and satoru’s love, a burden.

but right now? when you’re about to lay your life in a fight you don’t even know you’ll survive?

a sense of protection overtakes you, surging panic through your very veins, urging you to just fucking flee. you don’t have a good feeling about this mission.

you lowkey hoped that he’d find you before it all goes down. you didnt have the time to meet after your big revelation, only having time to throw in a couple of “stay safe”s through text, but at a time like this, when everyone inside the veil is asking for the gojo satoru, you doubted he’d have time for you.

however, a gust of wind proves you wrong. you don’t move, looking over the railing still as the atmosphere buzzes with the pure powerful energy that is your satoru.

your heart drops when first thing he does is wrap his arms around you from behind, a hand settling on your belly.

“pissing all by yourself, handsome?”

you genuinely can’t help the giggle pulled out of you, no matter how short-lived it is. he rests his chin on the top of your head, and you tilt your gaze down to settle on the instinctive hand resting protectively where a whole new life is being created. you hesitantly put your hand on top of his, a shaky breath escaping your lips at your first attempt of acknowledging the slightest of bumps under your hands.

“is this your post?” satoru asks quietly.

“no,” you intertwine your fingers with his. the sadness in your bone at a loss that is yet to happen heavies you some more. this embryo's story is bound to end before it even begins. “i’m with nanami and megumi outside the veil.”

“i heard nanami’s bringing ino around for his grade 1 recommendation,” gojo builds a conversation. he lowers his head to your shoulder, turning his head to plant a sweet, lingering kiss on hour neck. “that’s bound to be a good watch party.”

“ino’s talented.” you reply, voice empty, mind elsewhere. “it’s about time.”

you two stay quiet for a few seconds, looking out on your comrades at a distance. the gnawing in your chest opens it up, convincing you that if satoru lets you go the world will cease to exist.

you grasp his right bicep with your left hand, pulling you both more into one another. he doesn’t move his hand from your belly, and you are almost convinced that he just fucking knows somehow. self-conscious, you turn around in his arms, allowing him to hold you to his chest instead.

your arms are tugged in between you two, and from another angle, it will look like satoru has engulfed your body whole into his.

“oh, my baby,” you can hear the smile in his voice while your eyes brim with tears. “we’ll be fine. quick in and out.”

you try to nod in his chest, but a sob involuntarily breaks out of your lips. he rocks you side to side silently, sighing in what sounds like absolute content to your ears.

you’re not crying because of the mission, you’re never like this.

everything is happening at once. you can’t even breathe properly unless his arms are around you.

“good thing you’re with megumi,” he rests his chin on the crown of your head again. “if that fucker decides to summon mahogara one more time—“

your sob breaks into laughter. you hit him on the chest.

satoru laughs along with you. “he’s so dramatic sometimes. i wonder who is he like.”

you look up at him, face red and tear-stained and all, with a deadpan that makes him want to kiss you silly. he continues laughing, and you realize that his blindfold hangs around his neck, allowing you to see just how big his smile is. dimples on display and eyes closed in absolute bliss. you want to grab him and run.

he grabs your cheeks endearingly, resting his forehead on yours. “I think we did a good job raising him, no?”

oh god.

more tears brim in your eyes as he tilts his head back to properly look at you. you attempt to smile as you nod, but the thoughts his previous statement triggered chokes you. you are, once again, reminded of what lies in the space between the two of you.

and by the look in his eyes, you know what he will say next will break you.

“good practice run. little fucker is at maximum difficulty.” he plants a kiss to your nose. “I never thought i'd be dad material, really. but having those kids around recently,” satoru pauses, wiping a thumb gently on your cheek. "seeing you with them, made me wonder how nice it'd be to have some of our own at some point."

“satoru,” your voice breaks, unable to control the sad expression on your face any longer. one of your hands holds his as he still cradles your cheeks.

"we just need to finish all of this." satoru smiles down at you. "make this world better for them. make it safe for them to grow without trouble."

your arms are suddenly thrown around his neck, and his own scoops you from the ground, pulling you as close as it is humanly possible. you hide your face in his neck, failing to conceal your sobs.

he chuckles a bit, but this time around, you can tell the heaviness that lies within. "come on, sweets. if i knew i'd make you this sad--"

you shake your head almost frantically. "n--no."

“you can cry to me all you want after we’re done,” he gives you a squeeze before he sets you down on the floor. he tilts your head up to him, wiping away your face with the material of his sleeves. “don’t get too shaken up before a fight now, okay?”

you nod almost childishly before he plants a sweet, lingering kiss to your forehead

“you have both megumi and nanami. you three will be just fine. i know you cant take care of each other and get the job done.”

“who’s gonna take care of you?” the look on your face shatter’s satoru’s heart. he still smiles, wiping his thumb under your eye.

“you will,” he grins. “i’ll come back right here, and you’ll take care of me just fine.”

=============================

i thhiinnnkkk im making more parts of this teheee

more?

[irisintheafterglow]

Quarter (opla!zoro x you)

summary: there's not much stability in his line of work, but at least he has you.

wc: 0.7k

cw/tags: descriptions of blood and injury, explicit language, mutual pining and unspoken feely feels

note: can be read as a standalone or with parley and no prey, no pay that exists in the same universe! hope you like it, something short and sweet for my favorite himbo man :)

likes, reblogs, and replies are appreciated <3

“We need to stop meeting like this.”

“What, sneaking through the window or invading my house at ungodly hours?” 

“Both,” he grunts, “though, I do regret not bringing those flowers you like.” He plants his feet unsteadily on your rug and you guide him to the sitting area of your room, helping him lie back on the loveseat. “What were they called? Bastards?”

“Asters,” you correct with a small chuckle, calmly retrieving the med kit from a nearby cabinet and grabbing a wet towel from the bathroom. His grimace softens as you sit in front of him, gently pulling back the blood-stiffened fabric on his torso. He flinches when the towel starts to wipe away the caked on blood and debris and you apologize absentmindedly. “Who’d you piss off this time?” 

“Marines,” he says through gritted teeth while you soak the towel with alcohol and dab it across his wounds. You give him a pointed look and he weakly shows his palms in surrender. 

“I thought we had an agreement not to get involved with Marines.” 

“Some asshole got mad that I was taking his targets and put a hefty bounty over my head,” he says unconvincingly. “Ran into a few obstacles on the way here.”

“Were you followed?” He scoffs and immediately winces from the movement, cursing under his breath. 

“Of course not. There’s no way in hell I’d ever let anyone find you here,” he promises and it makes your heart flutter. You were slowly rubbing away at the chalked line between you and Zoro, one that separated you from being more than friends. Though you didn’t know much about having close friends, you knew they didn’t look at you the way he looked at you now. It was too fond, too tender, too devoted. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t like it. 

“Mmm, my knight in shining armor,” you tease and he glares at you half-heartedly. “Or, maybe ‘outlaw in tattered street rags.’ How does that one sound?”

“I’ll be anything you want me to be.” Your face suddenly feels like it’s been set on fire and you’re grateful that his eyes close so he can’t see what he’s doing to you. “How long do you think it’ll be ‘til I’m hunting again?”

“The unselfish part of me says a day,” you murmur, wrapping the gauze around his body that you knew like your own. His chest is completely uncovered now and you want to laugh at the irony of the shirtless, god-bodied swordsman lounging in your bedroom.

“What’s the selfish part say?”

“However long you’d let me keep you,” you murmur and he peels open a single eye to look at you, really look at you. “I miss you, you know, when you’re gone. It’s embarrassing.” He’s quiet, a thoughtful look crossing his face. It wasn’t often you left him speechless; he couldn’t tell if the airy feeling in his head was from the nausea or from you. 

“I miss you too when I’m gone,” he answers just as quietly after a long moment of silence. With both his eyes open, his attention stays trained on your face as you reach out and brush a strand of green hair from his forehead. Your fingers on his skin feel electric every time, like he was being struck by white-hot lightning. “You shouldn’t have to stay up waiting for me.”

“But I will,” you reply without hesitation and pain blinks over his features. “Why the face?”

“I can’t do this to you,” he confesses and your heart plummets. Of all the words he could have said, those were the ones you didn’t want to hear. 

“Do what?”

“This,” he insists, gesturing vaguely between you two and acknowledging the unresolved tension that pulled you closer to him like a magnet. “You deserve more stability than a come-and-go bounty hunter.”

“What makes you think I would want anyone else?” The earnestness in your tone stumps him into silence again and you can’t help laughing a little bit. “You know, for being the most feared man in the seas, you aren’t that self-aware.”

“I think part of my mind shuts off when I’m with you,” he says in that raspy voice that finally makes you crack, closing the distance between you two and sliding next down to him on the couch. His arms receive you as naturally as blinking and you can feel your own inhales and exhales relax as you both sink into each other’s safety. “You have no idea what you do to me,” he breathes. 

“I think I can make a pretty good guess,” you yawn and settle further into his body. “You’ll stay for a few days, then?”

“I’ll stay for as long as you need me to.”

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[homelanderbutbig]

His Saint In Plain Clothes (G/T Homelander x Reader)

1987 words. Hurt/comfort and some fluff. Homelander is 8 feet tall. Reader is non-descriptive. Established relationship.

He big sad and needs a hug in an elevator.

Although you and Homelander have officially been dating for a few weeks, he insists on keeping it a secret from Vought and the public. He is adamant that it is to protect you, claiming that as a non-supe you would be targeted by his enemies. You find it hard to believe that America's hero could possibly have any adversaries, but you see how upset the prospect of you getting hurt makes him, so you decide to play along.

While hiding your relationship is a bit tricky at first, the two of you seem to have gotten into a good rhythm without attracting unwanted attention. During the day at Vought Tower, you sneak in brief hugs and kisses whenever you can get alone with Homelander. Otherwise, you get to spend your evenings together in his penthouse, and he flies you back to your home later at night when the rest of the city is asleep.

As much as you cherish your time with him, Homelander enjoys it tenfold. He has become accustomed to your affections, so much so that your time together is never enough. Almost like an addict, he takes every opportunity to microdose himself on your love during the day when the two of you should be working. He never fails to baffle you when you are abruptly pulled out of the hallway and into a bear hug. You are aware that he knows exactly where you are in the Tower at any given time, as he recognizes your heartbeat. While a normal person would find this obsession creepy, there is a part of you that appreciates his neediness. Never in your life has someone adored you as deeply as he does, like a giddy little puppy trailing behind your feet.

One day, you both have uncharacteristically busy schedules. Homelander is out of the Tower the entire day doing movie shoots and interviews, while you are stuck inside with mounds of paperwork that must be sorted and sent to the appropriate floors. You don't see him at all during the day, even as you travel up and down the Tower levels. It's a bit of a shock, as you keep expecting to be dragged into some empty room by a pair of oversized hands for an impromptu hug, but it just never happens.

Finally, you take a breath of relief as your work day is done. For the last hour you have been compulsively watching the clock, waiting until you can head up to the penthouse. You usually stay behind until everyone else leaves the office, with the charade of being a workaholic. In reality, as part of your discreet routine, Homelander asserts that you ensure none of your co-workers see you taking the elevator up. Considering how nosy you've come to realize Vought employees are, it's probably for the best.

Checking the hallways to make sure the coast is clear, you stroll silently to the elevator. It's funny how something as mundane as an elevator can remind you of him. Every room and doorway in the Vought Tower has very high ceilings, built to accommodate Homelander's height. Having to lift your head up to view the arrow lights above the elevator makes you crack a smile, like how you have to crane up to see Homelander grinning when he stands above you.

Just as the doors begin to close, a large hand slides in between and forces them open. You are momentarily startled by the suddenness, but are pleasantly surprised to see Homelander for the first time since last night. However, you begin to worry you have done something to distress him as he saunters in reservedly with his arms behind his back, expressionless and not even acknowledging your existence. You look up at him, concerned, as the elevator closes and continues its ascent to the penthouse.

"I missed you," you say quietly, not taking your eyes off of him. The tension in the elevator is intensely thick, and you hope that whatever day he had today has not left him in an irritable mood. He has been complaining more and more to you about the pressure he feels with this movie, and you know the expectations placed on him have been very overwhelming.

Homelander still does not look at you as he slowly removes his gloves, tucking them into the elevator's hand railing. As he lowers one big hand down to his side, you take the not-so-subtle hint to reach up and let him feel your graceful fingers entwining with his own. Almost instantaneously upon holding your hand, he lowers his head and sighs heavily, savouring what he was forced to be apart from all day. He can't understand the way you soothe him so fast by simply just touching him, but he knows it's something wonderful.

"I wish I could take you with me," Homelander mumbles, eventually looking down at you. Finally discarding the mask he wears out in public, you see the exhausted expression painted on his face, and the wanting in his eyes. He reflexes his fingers a bit tighter around yours. "I hate this."

"Do you want to pick me up?" you ask, moving in front of him while still holding his hand. You know it's what he wants from you right now, but you've learned how timid he is around you when he displays his vulnerable side. He needs your permission to allow himself comfort, as if upsetting you by taking it forcefully will only isolate him further.

His eyes turn glassy as he gently nods, focused completely on you. Letting go of his hand, you spread your arms out as he bends down to pick you up by the waist. Propping you up with one arm under your thighs and the other along your back, he rests you against his chest to be eye-level with you.

Since you started dating Homelander, you've come to understand how secretive he is about himself. He prefers to keep the inner workings of his mind hidden to everyone but himself, even if it is to his detriment not to express these thoughts. However, the one thing he's let slip is how much he hates looking down at you. He's gotten used to having to look down at everyone around him, further proving his inner voice correct that he is a god to these vermin. But you are different, you see him for who he truly is. Out of everyone he's ever encountered, you are the only one worthy to see him at his level. In his own strange way, you know this is meant to be a compliment.

"I'm sorry today was so difficult," you console him, stroking his cheek with your hand. Homelander greedily nuzzles into your palm, taking in your touches like a parched man lost in the desert.

"If our relationship was public, I could come with you," you mention, knowing you are treading choppy waters even bringing this up. This is a topic he has been determined to avoid, but you hate seeing him so depressed.

"I'm not… I'm not going to put you in danger," he stammers, nudging deeper into your hand. He closes his eyes when he can no longer stop his tears from falling. "I-I can't lose you… I can't."

You feel Homelander start to unravel, nearly hyperventilating as he gives into his anxieties. He lifts your body up for a proper hug, and you wrap your arms around his neck as he rests his head on your shoulder. You can feel the restraint vibrating through his hands as he grasps you, resisting his full strength for this delicate embrace. If he were to ever accidentally hurt you, you know it would kill him.

"Shh, shh…" you soothe him, scratching the back of his head with your nails. "It's okay, baby boy. I got you. I'm here, I'm not going anywhere."

You feel Homelander nodding as he attempts to regulate his breathing, combing his large fingers through your hair. Even on the brink of a mental breakdown, just feeling you near him is enough to seal any cracks formed on his imagined dam wall, so close to bursting.

More than anything he wishes he could bring you out with him in public, but he is so afraid. You aren't a supe, you can't protect yourself. If you were away from him and got hurt, or worse died, he would lose control. He would burn the city, nay the world, to ashes for daring to take you away from him. You are the only person who has ever truly cared for him, his saint in plain clothes.

The elevator dings as it reaches Homelander's penthouse, and the doors slide open. Still hugging you with one arm, he nonchalantly grabs his gloves from the railing and walks into the penthouse's living room. He drops his gloves on the coffee table and lies down on the couch with his immense arms still enveloping you, refusing to break from your embrace. For the most part he's calmed down, self-soothing by feeling you under his fingers, though you still hear him sniffling and feel the wetness of his tears.

You know the only way to avoid circumstances where Homelander becomes too distraught is to give him a break from it all, to be alone with you. And as long as he keeps rejecting the idea of going public, you know situations like this will keep occurring. You try and think of another way to be close to him, and astonishingly you have a brilliant idea.

"You know…" you begin, pausing to make sure you have Homelander's full attention. "You don't have a personal assistant right now, do you? Since you fired the last one?"

He relents his iron grip on you to let you sit up slightly, getting a better view of your face. You can tell his mind is still a bit clouded from his emotions as he shakes his head, not fully understanding why you're asking him this.  

"If you told Ashley that you wanted a new assistant, I could apply for the position," you suggest, wiping away his tears. "That way, I could always be by your side, wherever you go."

"Re…really?" he asks, reaching up to touch your cheek, almost as if to assure himself that you are real.

"You'd better be careful though," you declare, grinning as you take hold of his hand. "Once I'm your assistant, you'll never be able to get rid of me."

Homelander can't stop himself from smiling at your playful words, revealing his fangs that would otherwise terrify anybody else. He remembers his life before you, how he let himself be guided by his anger towards the world, and treasures how easily you can bring him back down when he's spiralling.

"I… I love you," he whispers as he brings you closer for a kiss. Your lips are a lot smaller than his, but you kiss with such love that it doesn't even register to him. Running your fingers along his undercut, you hear him whine as you scratch just the right spot, feeling him become more placid as the last of his worries leave his body.

The two of you lie like that the rest of the night, content in the serenity of each other's company. You aren't even aware of how much time has passed until you realize Homelander has fallen asleep, totally drained from his gruelling day. In any other scenario, you would've woken him up to fly you back home, but tonight you know how much he needs to be with you.

"Goodnight sweetheart," you kiss him on the forehead as you lie back down. Nestling yourself in between his chest and arm, you start to feel yourself doze off. Tomorrow is another day to worry about being seen in his penthouse, right now you take solace knowing things between you two will only get better.

[urtheloml]

my love (boundless, cosmic, never-ending)

pairing: bakugou katsuki x reader w/c: 2.1k synopsis: watching Everything Everywhere All At Once makes you think of the theory of a multiverse. your boyfriend isn't too pleased. a/n: idk i just thought bakugou would immediately tell you stfu if you told him to imagine an alternate universe that didn't have you in it hwhwhwhe <3 also: happy new year! i posted four times,,?? in 2022,, that's soo wild 4 me teehee :p anyway thanks for the support ily happy 2023

A crescendo rings, it echoes throughout the room and the sound bounces off the walls in your living room. The credits of the movie roll, the title 'Everything Everywhere All at Once' a stark white against the black background and if you squint, you can just barely catch your wide-eyed expression on the TV screen. Bakugou lifts his head off the couch arm, his face indented with lines from pressing into the leather. The room is filled with total silence, because holy shit.

"Babe, that was the greatest movie I've ever seen in my life. Like, ever." 

Bakugou snorts, but he doesn't disagree, and he probably refrains from answering verbally because he doesn't want you to hear how scratchy his voice sounds. Even though you definitely saw him get teary-eyed, he refuses to acknowledge that he cried during the film.

It would be stupid to poke fun at your boyfriend though because if his eyes are just barely red, yours are practically bloodshot and swollen. How could you, or him, not cry? The film was centred around immigrant parents learning how to grow, how to accept their children and apologising in their own ways. It was bound to happen.

Bakugou gets up and you let your legs stretch out, laying down fully on the couch. He shuffles around the room, picking up stray pieces of popcorn that you both threw at each other during the movie. He switches the TV off, puts the bowls and cups in the sink and washes them for you too. All the while, your mind thinks about the theory of a multiverse, thinks about Katsuki and how different things could've been.

When he returns, he rolls his eyes at the sight of your wet cheeks. A hand, big enough to capture both your ankles, lifts your feet up and Bakugou sets them back down in his lap. Absent-mindedly, he starts stroking your legs, calming you down, like you were a cat and not a human. 

"Why are you still crying? The movie's been over for ten minutes, you loser."

You can't really be bothered to call him something mean, not when your mind is working faster than your mouth and wide-eyed, you blurt out, "Kats, if the multiverse theory does exist, you realise that there's a universe where you and I never met? Or one where you and I hate each other and will never have what we have now- ow!"

The soft ministrations on your leg turn into a pinch, the skin stinging between his two fingers. Bakugou cuts off your rambling by doing so, and he eases the pain over with a kiss, like it never happened at all. He clicks his tongue, "Stop it, you know I fuckin' hate it when you start saying shit like that."

But you can't stop, your mind is whirring at speeds impossible thinking about every single life that he's not in with you. It makes you ache, makes you start saying stupid things like, "No, listen, Katsuki like it's an infinite multiverse, babe. I'm sorry if you don't wanna hear it but it's true so I think it's justifying me crying a bit 'cause in some life, you and I- hmprh!"

And suddenly, you're being pulled upright and Bakugou's covering your mouth with his hand, something that always takes you by surprise because it's so calloused but still so warm and it's such a contrast to his exterior, and he looks at you dead in the eyes and says quietly (steadily), "It's not true. It doesn't exist and it won't fuckin' ever."

Unbeknownst to you, in the midst of your rant that couldn't have lasted more than five seconds, Bakugou's traitorous mind assaults him with snapshots of what his life could've been without you in it. The moment you mentioned it, he saw it. He saw a life where there wasn't you by his side. 

A meaningless existence where someone didn't drool on his shoulder on the couch, where someone didn't insist on holding hands even when it was hot out, where someone didn't take the time to pry him open and let him be loved as much as he loved them.

He saw it— living with your absence. How dull and colourless it would've been without you there for him to hold or to kiss in the mornings and afternoons and at nighttime. He let the foolish image of a life devoid of your traces play out in his mind, and it lasted no longer than a millisecond but he hated it. Living with no one to cook eggs for in the morning, waking up in a bed that wasn't warmed by you and going to sleep without letting you sink into him. It was moronic, incredulous, and it baffled him to even think about it.

He thinks of the time you forced him to look away from what he was cooking, just to dance in your small kitchenette to whatever song was playing in the background. There was no room to really sway you and his elbows kept knocking into the cupboards and he couldn't stop the grin from taking over his face. 

You had laughed and it sounded like everything he ever wanted.

He burnt the food, you ate it anyway. He thinks of a life where the food had been cooked perfectly, and he would've had to eat it alone and it would've tasted bland and flavourless anyway. Nothing would've mattered, not one achievement or goal he reached, none of it would ever matter in any lifetime across any universe if you weren't right there beside him.

Bakugou releases you, letting you fall back onto the couch with a huff. He pokes and squeezes your legs, biting the inside of his cheek to try to cleanse his mind of the foul images he was forced to think of. Your eyes track every movement he makes, softening at the sight of him being so genuinely upset about this. He wears his heart on his sleeve, he plasters it to his big forehead and when you're around, he forces it into your hands and you're not about to break it now. 

A breathless giggle slips from your mouth, and you manoeuvre your body so your head lays atop his lap now. He's pouting, and he doesn't hesitate before running his fingers through your hair, combing through any tangles. It's his love language, you know that.

You try to say something, anything to salve over the sour expression on his face. But he must have had the wrong idea because before you start to run your mouth, Bakugou covers your mouth again, against your muffled protestations. He glares at you from above and leans down to talk.

"I'm serious, shut the fuck up, because it's not fuckin’ true. I don't give a fuck if the multiverse is infinite, there'll never be a universe that exists in which I wouldn't fuckin’ love you. Because if every choice I make leads to another verse then there's nothing I wouldn't fuckin’ do to make sure that in every single life I have, I'd end up with you."

Oh.

You feel silly now that he said that. The fact that you even considered such an outrageous idea was stupid. You forget who you're dealing with. You forget that there are two of you, and the universe is no match against the force that is Bakugou Katsuki. What he wants, he gets. And it's no secret that he really only ever wanted you.

"You said it yourself, it's infinite. So it's not implausible that there'd be multiple versions of myself tracking down every life where there wasn't an us. I'd still love you, always, even if I didn't know you yet, so I'll just have to get myself to find you in every single life. Everywhere, anywhere— I'll find you, I promise."

Oh. 

"So, if God forbid, there was such a cruel universe that you and I never met, then I'd jump verses for us and make us meet. Simple as that. You need me to use bigger words to get it through your thick skull, huh? Me and you, we're- we're boundless, cosmic, never-ending. It was always meant to be, the two of us. So stop fuckin' crying already, the only thing that's actually infinite here, is you and I, alright?"

Your eyes glass over, and then it shatters but you're tearing up for completely different reasons now. Not unexpectedly, Bakugou's right. He always is, and that's not unusual. Not when he says things like that, not when he shuts down every doubt you ever had in your head with a few simple words.

Reaching up to slip a hand behind his hair, you cradle his head in your palm. Bakugou relaxes, lets his cheek press into your palm and watches the affection dance in the colour of your eyes. You press a kiss into his palm, the one covering your mouth still, and watch the tip of his ears blush. He removes his hand then, letting it rest on your stomach.

He's right, of course he is. You let the worthless thoughts of the possibility of him and you ever ceasing to exist pour out of your mind. The ever-consuming fondness, the warmth associated with Katsuki and the love you have for him— it all takes up more than enough space in your head and in your heart. It leaves no room for any uncertainty.

But you're just as hot-headed and stubborn as he is, and you refuse to let him have the last word. And so you let your teeth sink into your lip, biting back a wild grin, you pull him down quickly by his hair. Kissing Katsuki never gets old, you think. It's always the same warm pair of lips against yours; a familiar dance.

So you lose yourself in the moment— you let Katsuki kiss you all soft and slow and lasting. He licks into your mouth and it shouldn't be as sweet as it is but it feels like it anyway. Laughter bubbles out of you, unbidden but not unwanted, and he grins against your mouth. 

The whole situation was ridiculous, how a simple question had spiralled into Bakugou confessing his quite literal undying love for you. It was both so in and out of character of him that you had to giggle. He wasn't fazed by your interruption, he smiled all the same against your mouth, kissing you despite your open mouth and laughter. 

And later, when the sun recedes and the moonlight pours into your window, it'll be quiet in the room Bakugou sleeps in with you. The only noise coming from the creaky ceiling fan. His arm finds its place, as always, around your middle— holding you like a heartbeat (constant, everpresent).

In the solitude under your covers, you find yourself admiring a privilege you never really realised you had. Bakugou's fast asleep next to you, his blonde unruly hair fans out against his pillow not like a halo. He's not that graceful, but his usually scrunched-up face was now relaxed. His expression is void of anything tense, practically defenceless laying next to you.

You weren't lying when you said he wore his heart on his sleeve. He's harsh and intimidating to the public eye, but when it comes to you, all his walls go down. It's unnecessary to be so guarded with you, not when he trusts you with his life, though he won't say it (he doesn't need to).

It's inexplicable, the way you feel your chest clench looking at him. It's a privilege; to get to be loved by him and to love him in return. It's something you take for granted, and you won't say it out loud lest you upset him again, but you think of a different life in which you're not allowed to do this. A life where Katsuki wouldn't tenderly kiss you on a beaten-up couch, where he wouldn't tangle his legs in between yours and fall asleep next to you. It's pointless to think about. He said it himself, it'll never happen anyway.

Propping yourself up on your elbows, you lean over him and press a soft, lingering kiss to his hair. Bakugou smiles, and you lean in closer to whisper very softly, so you won't wake him, "I promise, I'll find you as well. Anywhere, everywhere, in all my lives, okay?"

Katsuki has a sixth sense, a you-sense, and he's sound asleep but somehow he understood what you've just said. He tightens his arm around your waist unconsciously, and you feel relentlessly and irrevocably in love with him, even though it's been so long, the feeling never wavers or wanes. It stays buzzing in your veins, a constant ebbing flow.

You fall asleep quietly.

[acourtofwhatthefuck]

Fireleaf (Part Eleven)

Hi! @greeneyedivy and I are very excited about this part 😏 we both worked very hard on it, so we hope you enjoy! ♥️

Warnings: SMUT! Like…most of it is spicy 😏🌶️

✧: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

“What,” Y/N steadied herself as they stumbled to a stop outside the inn, “is wrong with you?”

Lucien schooled his features into mild indifference. Like his mind hadn’t been a bull in a china shop mere moments before. He dusted himself down and stepped towards the front door.

But Y/N grabbed his arm. “Hey–”

“Do you want to wake the entire village?” He hissed, wrenching the door open. “Get inside.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. Had half a gods-damned mind to tell him to shove the village up his ass and go stalking off. But she clenched her jaw and pushed past him.

Only silence and tension existed between them as they climbed the two sets of stairs to the top level, where their rooms were situated. Y/N’s entire body was taut, rigid in front of him. She practically ripped her bedroom door off its hinges as she bustled her way in, leaving it open for Lucien behind her. 

He stopped on the threshold, watching her kick her shoes off and chuck them aside. Only when she perched herself on the edge of the bed did she deign to acknowledge him again. 

“Well?” She shrugged.

“Get some sleep.” Lucien gripped the door handle. “The sooner morning comes, the sooner we can leave – get back to the estate.”

He stepped back, meaning to pull the door shut behind him and skulk away to sulk in his room until sleep found him. But Y/N was there in an instant, jamming a foot in the way.

“Are you kidding me?” She snapped. “What of the debrief that we so hastily left for?”

“Mother above, Y/N.” He rolled his eyes. “We don’t need a debrief. You played your pretty little part and played it mighty well, so great job.”

She blinked at him. At the venom and ice in his tone. He’d been rude to her before – gods, countless times – and even downright insulting. 

But Lucien found himself cringing internally. At how out of line he knew he was. How he didn’t have any right to talk to her in such a way. Hadn’t had any right to drag her away from a rare night of enjoying herself.

But that same voice continued to bleat on a loop inside his mind. Azriel had made her laugh.

He couldn’t fucking stand it.

He needed to go to bed right then, get away from her, because he knew he wasn’t himself. Knew he’d damn well say something he couldn’t take back. 

He turned and stalked across the hall to his room. Had barely set a foot inside before she was hot on his trail, pushing past him. She stopped in the middle of his room, turning to face him and folding her arms. 

“Why the fuck,” she hissed, “did we leave, if not for your little debrief? I was actually enjoying myself.”

“Yeah, I could see that. As could the whole damn room.” Lucien kicked the door shut behind him, striding past her. “And I’m sorry, but it gets a tad tedious standing aside and watching you flutter your eyelashes at anything with a pulse.”

Y/N stopped, gaping at him. “Excuse me?”

Lucien…Lucien needed her out of his room, now, before this went somewhere he couldn’t drag it back from. He spun, turning his back to her, breaths heaving. He had no right to be this angry, this affronted. She owed him nothing.

She could talk to who she wanted.

Laugh with who she wanted.

Azriel had made her laugh. Made her happy.

Lucien had never, ever made her happy.

“Just get out of my room,” he said quietly, dangerously, “and go to sleep. Now.”

Silence met him. And he thought, for a moment, that perhaps she’d already done that. Walked away from him because he was a horrible bastard–

But then footsteps came at him, and she was in front of him, shoving him.

“What is wrong with you?” She seethed. “Why are you being an utter cock? What have I done to deserve it?”

She should have left when she’d had the chance. Escaped his foul mood, his vitriol. Lucien lost it.

“How about looking at your behaviour, in searching for that answer?” He snapped, his voice not even sounding like his. “Are you capable of doing anything without throwing yourself at a male? You may as well have ripped the shadowsinger’s clothes off in front of me. Is there anyone you wouldn’t let between your legs?”

The words had just…just leached from him. He may as well have slapped her right around the face. 

She went so, so still. Stared at him. And he knew…knew he’d sliced deep.

Her eyes were wide, glistening, lips slightly parted. And when his own features softened at the sight, the look was wiped off her face all together. She tilted her head to the side, not unlike a bird. Her eyes narrowed as they traced over his face and body. 

She was reading him.

And then she was schooling her features into…something else. Something cutting and hard. She swallowed, pressed her lips together. 

“What do you mean by that, Lucien?” She rasped. “I may as well have ripped his clothes off in front of you?”

“I–”

“Not in front of the whole room. No.” She shook her head, studying him. “In front of you. And why would that have been a problem?”

“I…I didn’t…”

Her lips kicked up into a sneer. “Because you’re jealous.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Go to bed.”

“Jealous that I might want someone else. That someone might make me feel better–”

The fine, fraught tether that had been holding Lucien in place broke. 

The damn thing utterly snapped, as he surged forward and grabbed Y/N’s face in his hands, swallowing her words with a greedy kiss. 

The growl that rumbled deep in his chest was like no other sound he’d ever made – deep and dark and so menacing that it made Y/N gasp against him. He took the opportunity to slide his tongue into her mouth.

He wanted to lick and kiss Azriel’s name from her until there was no trace of him left. Make her forget him entirely. 

She broke the kiss, placing a hand on his chest. And she was breathless as she said, “You’re an asshole.”

“That I am.” He bit back, and then he was kissing her again.

One of his hands secured on her waist, the other extending out to brace them both as he walked her two steps backwards until the backs of her legs hit the bed. Then she was falling down onto the mattress, pulling him with her. Not once did their lips part. 

Until he was coasting his mouth along her jaw, down the column of her neck, his fingers bunching the thin material of her dress at the waist. 

“I need this off.” He snarled. “Now.”

If he wasn’t already painfully hard, straining against his fitted breeches, he would have become rock solid as he watched her grab the dress at the waist and pull it over her head without protest, chucking it across the room. She was naked, aside from a pair of lacy, flimsy underwear that the sweet sting of her arousal reached him through, potent and heady. Lucien’s nostrils flared, and his eyes met hers as he moved his hand down. Dragged a finger right over the centre of that silly, pretty underwear.

“You’d let him touch you here?” His voice was a deep, lethal tenor, coloured by lust. “Like you let me?”

Her breath hitched in her throat as his finger teased her through the lace, but no words accompanied the little noise. And she knew what she was doing; knew that a lack of response would incense him even more.

That much was evident in the way he grabbed the flimsy fabric between his hand and ripped, baring her to him. The cool air immediately brushed over her damp heat, and her head fell back. 

“Would you?” Lucien repeated, his eyes not moving from her slick folds. He licked his lips hungrily. 

“No.” She breathed. “I wouldn’t.”

A hum vibrated against the walls of Lucien’s chest, and he tore away what remained of the lace, chucking it over his shoulder without another thought. Y/N shifted on the bed before him, pressing her legs together, moaning softly, but his firm hands pulled them back open.

“Didn’t think so.” He said, his hot breath fanning her. “Would you let him taste you? Feast on you?”

“Well,” she breathed. “Somebody needs to.”

A feral snarl came from Lucien in response, and he couldn’t hold himself back any longer. He dragged a finger through her soaked folds, allowing her arousal to overpower him as she sucked in a gasp, its scent and feel and–

He dipped his head between her legs. He needed to taste her. Needed her to cum on his tongue. 

“I need to.” He growled. “And gladly.”

His tongue sank between her folds, and the taste of her could have finished him then and there. He didn’t know which of them moaned louder as he licked a stripe up her centre, lapping up every drop and latching his tongue to her clit. Her hips bucked off the bed, and he used one hand to pin them down whilst the other began to explore, fingers inching towards her wetness. 

As his tongue flicked at the nub of her clit, the pad of one finger teased her entrance, merely soaking up her arousal and swirling it around the opening. She whimpered, tried to buck her hips again, and Lucien pulled his mouth away, his lips slick with her juices. 

“What is it you want?” He mused, his finger still circling, still teasing. “Tell me.”

She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction – not after his behaviour at the meeting. But his teasing was torturous, the scrape of his callused finger against her wet skin. Instead of lifting her hips, she bucked forward, encouraging him to do something. But Lucien was quicker. 

“No.” He growled. “Use that wicked mouth of yours. Tell me what you want.”

“You.” Y/N practically choked out. “Your fingers, your mouth, your cock. You.”

“Fuck.” He cursed, the words threatening to cleave him in two. He wanted her, too, every bit of her–

He didn’t allow himself to ruminate on that thought as he sunk his finger into her, and her writhing hips went still.

“Is this all you want?” Lucien tilted his head. 

“More.” She gasped. 

And he would gladly give her more – and did, as he pumped that finger a couple of times before adding a second one. And then he was lowering his mouth to her clit once more, his tongue finding the most sensitive part of the little nub and swirling around it. And it was as if fire danced on his tongue, scorching every one of her nerve endings in the most earth-shattering, addictive way. 

“Holy gods,” Y/N’s head fell back, her body arching. Her hand moved down, kneading her breast, pinching the nipple, and Lucien’s eyes flicked up to drink in the sight.

“That’s it.” He goaded. “Touch yourself while I fuck you with my tongue.”

Fuck her with his— she had no chance to even consider his words as he pulled his fingers from her. Dipped his head further down. His tongue found her entrance, and he circled the opening a few times before sliding in. 

The moan that broke from Y/N was far, far too loud, but neither of them cared. Not with how good it felt to her, how good she tasted to him. He could have cum on the spot, just from the sweetness he lapped at. His cock strained against his trousers, begging to be released. He barely managed to get any edge off grinding himself into the mattress. 

Y/N’s hand moved further down, sinking into the strands of Lucien’s hair, and she pressed his face against her greedily as she writhed and moaned and gasped. As she damn well rode his tongue. 

Lucien was living for it. For the utter filthiness of it. He plunged his tongue in and out of her, allowed her to grind her dripping cunt against his face, to take what she wanted. His fingers inched up to her clit, his thumb pressing down.

Release tore through her at an unstoppable force, and her hips lifted off the bed as she shouted her pleasure into the air, writhing and trembling, a breathless succession of “gods, gods, gods” tumbling from her lips. Lucien held her firm against him, tasting her through every second of her orgasm, lapping at every drop of her. 

She was tingling and sensitive, but he was relentless, still licking her, still rubbing at her. And when her hips finally fell back down to the mattress, and stars were still bursting through her vision, trembles wracking her entire body – only then did he pull away.

The force of the climax had her too utterly spent to take much notice of what he was doing. She was still gasping, moaning, draping an arm over her eyes and trying to calm herself. 

Lucien stood. And the sound of his belt being unbuckled and dropped to the wooden floor filled the room.

Y/N pulled her arm away from her face, her vision swimming as she took in the sight of him. Watched him shove his breeches off and kick them away. Watched his long, rock-hard cock spring free. 

She bit her lip and swallowed. She wanted to feel him, to taste him, but she wasn’t sure she could move—

“Get onto your knees.” He said quietly.

She released a breath, any pathetic attempt to shift her position ending in her limbs giving up on her. Lucien wrapped a hand around his shaft, pumping once, twice, as he approached her. And as he stopped at the edge of the bed, between her trembling thighs, her eyes flicked to his cock. She reached for him, wanting – needing – to taste that bead of moisture that was gathering at the head, but he stopped her with a hand at her cheek,  his thumb brushing over her lips, his gaze fixed intently on them. He seemed to contemplate letting her taste him again. 

And then his eyes were flashing darker, and all the tenderness was gone. He stepped out of reach, nodding once to the bed. “On your knees. Face the headboard.”

She complied this time, weak limbs or no. But from the tone of Lucien’s voice, the flare in his gaze, she knew damn well that there was no arguing with him, no asserting her dominance like she usually would have. And she wasn’t sure she wanted to. The command in his voice, his stance…the wetness was gathering between her thighs once again.

Lucien stood aside, merely watching as she turned over and raised herself onto her knees. The sight of her – inner thighs still glistening with her release – almost brought him to his knees. But he kept his composure as he approached her with slow, lethal steps.

She knew when he was a mere hair’s-breadth away. A strange tingle zipped between their skin, and she found herself clenching around thin air, her fingers digging into her thighs. A rough hand traced the curve of her ass, fingers dancing up her spine. A shudder wracked through her at his touch. And as Lucien slotted himself behind her and pulled her back flush to his front, she couldn’t help emitting a gasp. 

His cock was so, so near to her entrance, brushing at her folds. It was torture for him, too – that much was obvious, in the way his breathing hitched, his hips jerking slightly. But he kept her waiting, using one hand to pin her against him as the other reached up to knead at her breast.

“You knew exactly what you were doing tonight.” His voice was low, gruff, his fingers pinching at her nipple. His mouth came down, lips coasting the skin of her shoulder. “Ignoring me like that. Giving those pretty little smiles to the shadowsinger. You knew what it would do to me.”

Y/N bit down on a moan. “Why should I assume you to be jealous? You merely tolerate me, don’t you? When you’re not fucking me, that is.”

A deep, sensual laugh tickled her skin; one that wasn’t exactly humorous. “If only it were that easy.”

Before she could consider his response, let alone think of her own, he was releasing his hold on her. She went toppling back down to the bed, palms shooting out to brace the fall. 

And then Lucien was grabbing her by the hips. Tugging them up and flush against himself.

She meant to get onto her hands; she was halfway up when a warm palm in the middle of her back gently pushed her back down onto the mattress, leaving her back arched and her glistening cunt exposed. 

Lucien’s fingers brushed briefly through her folds, eliciting a raspy moan, but they didn’t linger there. A moment passed, and then she felt the head of his cock push at her entrance. 

He was hissing between his teeth before it had barely slipped in. But he was quickly learning that being buried inside Y/N was like no other feeling in the world. He’d never had sex like it, never felt completion like it. And it was why he took his damn time, savouring every sensation as he slowly sunk into her inch by inch. 

He stilled when he was fully inside her, right to the hilt. And gods, she was a sight — her ass lifted up as she buried her face into the mattress, fingers clenching the bedsheets. Lucien took a moment to just drink in the sight of her. And then folded his body over her, angling his lips at her ear. The angle had him torturously deep inside of her; every bit of his restraint went into not pulling out and slamming back in right then. 

His hand brushed her hair to one side, tangling within the strands, feeling the braid press against his palm and in between his fingers. He closed his fist around it, nipping the shell of her ear. “I hope you’re not expecting me to be gentle.”

“No,” she gasped, writhing against him, “just having you move sometime in the next century would be nice.”

“That smart, gods-damned mouth.” He breathed. “It’ll be my undoing.”

And move, he did.

Gentle, he was not.

He pulled out slowly, feeling every slick brush of her against him. Out and out until just the tip remained at her entrance. 

And then he was slamming back in again. So hard, she emitted a yelp that quickly shifted into a moan. 

It was from that moment that Lucien seemed to just give over all control to his body, his mind separating entirely. He was a frenzied force as he gripped her hips and pounded into her, and as her hair slid over her face again, obscuring his view of those pretty, parted lips and eyes that were screwed shut, he reached down and yanked the strands aside, pressing a bruising kiss to her neck. 

She gasped as he rolled his hips, and never had he felt so perfectly slotted within her, the fit just right as though their bodies were made to fix together. He pounded into her relentlessly, and as she moved back against him, a feral growl ripped from the walls of his chest. 

“You feel,” he snarled, his skin slapping hers, “so perfect around me. So fucking good every damn time.”

Words failed her, and she could only answer with a moan that caught in her throat as Lucien hoisted her up again, pulling her tightly against him as he had done before. His capable hips didn’t falter once as he fucked into her, feeling her in every part of his body, and he slid his hand down, down, slotting it between her legs to toy with her clit. 

“Oh gods,” she choked, her head falling back against his shoulder. His expert fingers were like a touch of molten gold, somehow managing to stroke at the exact spot that had release building in her again. “Gods, I’m gonna—”

“That’s it.” Lucien growled. “Cum for me again. Cum on my cock.”

And holy gods, she did. Her hot, damp walls clenching tightly around him, her body squirming against him, she managed to reach back and sink her fingers into Lucien’s hair as he fucked her through her second orgasm, his thrusts not faltering once. 

“The fucking shadowsinger,” he bit, slamming into her, “is that the kind of male you want buried in you, making you cum?”

No. She wanted Lucien, utterly and entirely. Wanted him inside her, touching her, until the two of them ceased to exist. Whatever it meant, whatever she felt, she wanted this. This, right now, whatever it was.

Lucien’s hand was moving up again, climbing up her body, brushing over her breasts. She moaned, hoping for him to knead at them, touch them and squeeze them until it hurt, but his fingers continued moving until they were woven into her hair again. He tugged, tilting her head back and exposing the column of her throat to his incessant mouth. 

“Bet you wouldn’t clench around his cock like you’re clenching around mine right now.” He hissed through his teeth, a gruff groan following. “Too bad we’ll never know.”

They never would know – both of them seemed to decide it in that moment, even without speaking the words. Whatever the reasoning behind it, Y/N wanted Lucien’s cock only. Didn’t even want to think of another male.

And he didn’t want to think of another female.

He knew what that meant. Somewhere, in the back of his frenzied, screaming mind, currently overwhelmed with pleasure, he knew exactly what it meant. And somehow, it only spurred him on further. 

Both his hands grabbed at her hips, and there was no stopping the brute force with which he slammed into her, thrusting in and out and in and out. Skin slapping skin and their moans and groans mingling and building, they would wake the inn up, wake the village up, wake the whole damn world up, and neither of them cared because this was what they both wanted and needed.

He thought of her wrapped around him and him only, needing only him, wanting only him–

“Lucien,” Y/N gasped, as if in answer to his unspoken plea.

He was going to lose it. Utterly fucking lose it. And he…he wanted to be looking at her when he did. Facing her. 

He laid her down and flipped her over with such sensual grace that neither of them really noticed the very brief moment of separation. He was sliding straight back into her, lifting her hips off the bed and he knew, just from the way she was tightening and clenching around him, that the angle was deeper. Better.

That a third release was tearing through her. 

“Gods,” she gasped, her back arching off the bed. She dragged a hand up her body, over her breasts, her neck, gripping at anything.

Lucien was yanking her closer than ever, hands pulling at her hips with a strength that was sure to leave its mark on her. He fucked into her fiercely, fighting against a vibration that was snaking itself through his body, up his legs and down his arms, in his chest. Through his hips.

“Fuck,” he groaned, slamming into her faster. He reached down, rubbing at her clit with his thumb. “You’ll kill me, taking me like that. Taking me so well. Gonna cum for me?”

“Yes–fuck!”

Her hand was snapping out, grabbing onto Lucien’s arm, both encouraging him and trying to still him as her third orgasm took her somewhere else entirely.

Her back bowed, her head pressing into the mattress as a scream hitched in her throat. And all of it…every single bit of it…was too much for Lucien. The feel of her walls tightly clenching his cock as he pounded into her, the throaty moans that left her as he body trembled and shook. 

Lucien’s hips faltered, and it was all he could do to slam a hand down on the bed to stop himself from collapsing. He slammed into her, against her, again and again and again, and he was roaring, stilling, spilling himself inside her. That one arm holding him upright shook, threatening to give out beneath him.

Drop after drop of his cum, he emptied into her, a whole concoction of curses and noises rolling off his tongue. And she eased him through it, rolling her hips against his, writhing under him.

Both of them were trembling. Too stunned to speak. And then together, their bodies collapsed against the bed. 

It was only when Lucien had caught his breaths that he pulled out of her. Rolled off of her. His arm brushed hers as he sprawled out beside her. 

His head turned to the side, and he just…stared. She hadn’t turned away from him, but she wasn’t looking at him. Not like he was gazing at her. 

Something had changed for him – he could feel it twisting tightly in his chest. Feel it becoming him as he studied her flushed skin, her swollen lips, her glazed eyes and messy hair.

He wanted to reach out and…and pull her inside his side. Brush that hair out of her face. Hold her against him as their thudding hearts calmed and they fell asleep.

He wanted her to stay with him. For them to spend the remainder of the night together, in one bed. Not fucking, just…just touching. Lying beside each other. 

He wanted her to stay.

And he was just about to say something – anything – when she rose from the bed, planted her feet on the ground on weak legs. 

Lucien angled himself up just slightly to watch. Was she going to wash up in the bathing room? To clean up before returning to him?

It was evident that no, she was not, as she retrieved her strewn clothes from the floor. And she turned to him, as if to say something. Her eyes looked…haunted, in a way.

But it wasn’t her reluctance to stay that threatened to break Lucien entirely, no. It was the way she covered her body – wrapped her arms around herself like she was trying to hide it from him. She looked…tiny. Fragile. Vulnerable. She turned away, shielding herself. Tugged her dress on.

He knew, whatever it was…it was all down to him. The thoughts that were currently in her head, the motivations behind covering herself up before him, despite how bare and unguarded she’d been minutes before.

All down to him. He’d made her feel like that.

And that was why he didn’t argue as she slipped out of the room. Why he didn’t make a move as he listened out for the sound of her door opening and closing behind her. 

He lay there, eyes on the ceiling, his heart thudding in his chest and in his ears. All bliss was gone and replaced by an aching coldness. Two realisations pelted themselves at him relentlessly. 

He’d wanted her to stay.

He’d made her not want to.

✧: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

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[melis-writes]

Sonny finding out Michael was cheating on Victoria though 🙈🙊

OH… OH NO. 😶 I remember when the “what if?” AU prompts of Michael cheating on Victoria were almost as popular as the Victonny prompts are, but now Mr. Santino Corleone finding out his brother’s cheating on the woman of his dreams? Bring on the drama. 🔥

‘What? Was I just in the wrong place at the wrong fuckin’ time or what? Married too soon? Married the wrong goddamn woman? And there you are, you smug son of a bitch…’

Sonny leans his back against the side of the boathouse, quietly and inconspicuously looking into the towards the back of you and Michael’s private estate.

Dozens of potted arrangements of plants and flowers cover Sonny up to the full length of his height, providing not just the perfect opportunity to take a sneak peek for himself but also remain hidden in one spot without the need to move around or worry about being caught.

“I will.” Michael gives a small smile to his mistress, keeping one hand lovingly wrapped over her waist. “I told you last week I would, wouldn’t I?”

A scowl spreads over Sonny’s face as he remains frozen in position, wanting to look away and pretend he’s seen nothing but at the same time take in the full scene and analyze everything to confirm what’s been going on between Michael and this new woman for the past few weeks.

“You know if it was up to me, I’d come to see you every single day.” The mystery woman speaks back to Michael softly as Sonny mostly realizes on reading both of their lips throughout the conversation; already having been his fourth time catching the two somewhere.

‘For fuck’s sake.’ Sonny presses his lips down firmly, feeling nothing but bitterness and resent building up inside of him. ‘You love lecturin’ me while you share Victoria’s side of the bed with someone else.’

“I’ll make it easier for you.” Michael caresses his mistress’ face with the back of his hand gently. “You’ll relocate to Tahoe and I’ll cover all of your expenses for you. Travel, moving, your new home, everything.”

Sonny frowns, knowing he can’t exactly tell anyone any of this, including Tom.

Sonny has no proof to show Michael has a mistress in any way possible, perfectly hidden and devised by Michael just as he wanted to, to ensure his little affair would stay as private and non-existent as possible even if someone had suspicions.

“That new Alfa Romeo wasn’t enough?” The mistress giggles, gazing up at Michael with such awe and delight in her eyes as she hugs his chest. “You really don’t have to, baby. Please.”

‘And it’s his word over mine all the damn time.’ Sonny grits his teeth, wondering just how much more of this disgusting scene he’s able to take.

“I insist.” Michael tilts her chin up, planting a soft kiss upon his new lover’s lips. “It will happen.”

‘You don’t deserve Vic. You’ve never deserved her. You’re proving it to me right now in front of my own eyes.’ Sonny knows lashing out and approaching the two isn’t going to make a difference—nobody else is home and Michael’s men won’t say a word.

“Fuck this.” Sonny mutters under his breath, quietly moving away from the boathouse building and back towards the docks to Lake Tahoe as he reaches into the pocket of his trousers for a cigarette.

Sonny glances down to see the half crushed cigarette he pulled out from his pocket, glowering at it before he throws it down to the ground.

Out of frustration and refusing to turn back around and acknowledge his younger brother doing something Sonny would never forgive himself for even having a nightmare about, Sonny crushes the mushed cigarette with the heel of his shoe.

Pacing around Lake Tahoe to make it look like he’s out for a breath of fresh air or taking a walk does nothing to calm Sonny’s nerves—a natural hot head only mounting further with frustration until Sonny can effectively get it off of his mind.

Sonny turns his head back to face you and Michael’s estate, making his way directly towards it knowing Michael will at least go back inside at some point after his little mistress can conveniently sneak off the compound grounds.

It’s only when Sonny sees the garden remains empty from where he stands does he pick up his pace, practically storming inside of the estate. ‘Now where the hell are you?’

Sonny pushes open the front door, stepping inside to see nobody and hear nothing else but the regular, calm atmosphere of your home.

Taking a deep breath and letting the door shut behind him, Sonny feels a strange sense of second hand guilt rack over him at the scent of your faint floral perfume still lingering around your home only you’re in Reno in the middle of a trial, completely unaware of everything transpiring behind your back now for weeks.

Sonny shoves his hands into the pockets of his trousers, walking down the hallway and towards Michael’s office door and expecting him to be inside only to spot his brother at the end of the hallway.

Michael reaches his hand out towards the door knob of his office door before glancing up at Sonny with a monotone expression, giving nothing away. “Still here, Santino?”

“I don’t do any of that shopping shit, you know me.” Sonny shakes his head, knowing Michael’s referring to the fact Sandra and the children are out for the day for shopping and lunch.

Michael doesn’t answer, simply opening his office door and stepping inside without bothering to look back at Sonny who follows directly behind.

“Nothing ever really goes the way you actually want it to, doesn’t it?” Sonny can no longer hide the bitterness in his voice the moment he walks into Michael’s office.

“Such as?” Michael’s not in the mood for vague or deep conversations, slipping a cigarette out of its pack from his office desk.

“For one, I should have married Victoria.” Sonny states boldly, staring at Michael.

Michael takes his lighter out of the inner pocket of his suit jacket, glancing up at Sonny with no reaction over his face. “Is that what you repeated to yourself all night when she rejected your advances in New York to help you fall asleep?”

“This isn’t about me.” Sonny narrows his eyes. “So save your insults for another time, eh? I’m talking about Victoria.”

“You’re talking about a married woman who doesn’t want you, has never wanted you, and is your fantasy.” Michael lights his cigarette, facing Sonny directly now. “And you think coming into my office to tell me about how much you want my wife is going to bode well?”

“Shit, I just thought I would let you know, considering you don’t want her anymore.” Sonny shrugs his shoulders. “You got that random broad off the streets in Reno or somethin’ and look happy with her, so maybe I just came in here to ask you why the hell you keep wasting Victoria’s time.”

“Amusing.” Michael notes, taking a long puff of his cigarette. “I suppose you don’t have proof of this ‘random broad’ you’re accusing me with?”

“You’re a sly motherfucker.” Sonny glares angrily at Michael, having never felt so repulsed and frustrated towards his younger brother in his life. “You hide the shit you do well, affair or not. I’m not here to air out your dirty laundry.”

“Then what are you here for?” Michael waits for Sonny to get to the point. “You’re wasting my time and your breath.”

“Victoria will find out one way or another.” Sonny points at him. “All this time—ten fuckin’ years of marriage—you really think you’re invincible, Michael? Vic knows you better than you know yourself. You’re not doing yourself any favours. She deserves so much better than you.”

“There is nothing better.” Michael states out sharply. “She’s my wife, Santino. Her place in my life is different. Coming from a man who cheats on his wife on a regular basis, this is quite ironic.”

“Let me know if Victoria ever decides to give you permission to cheat on her then.” Sonny forces a fake, taunting smile at Michael. “Because when that happens to be the case like Sandra, she can cheat on you with me. The one difference being that she’s not going to go back to you.”

“You disgust me.” Michael blows out smoke around him, beginning to grow thoroughly irritated with Sonny’s every word. “And your delusional little fantasies fuel your anger that you can barely control. You think I’ll let you even step a foot near Victoria after this proclamation?”

“You’re not gonna be able to keep her from me, is what I’m saying.” Sonny takes a step towards Michael. “Because the moment you decided to make that mistress yours, I made Victoria mine.”

[system-of-a-feather]

Feathers Story Time

So context to the hair shit with XIV, way way way way way way way way way back when XIV and I were still tearing at eachother's throats in a competition for dominance and who is "the real one" between the two of us - XIV 1.0 had a HUGE thing out for pissing me off any chance he could and trying to assert his existence over mine and basically taking any and every opportunity to remind me that he was in fact planning to take shit over at that he has the perseverance to get what he wants. He's admitted it to be chronic and passive psychological warfare and basically a passive way of terrorizing me with the intent that if he stressed me out enough I'd shut down and it'd be an easy grab.

And two of the many passive micro-reminders were 1) Lets get tattoos and 2) We will dye our hair white. And so when he started to turn around, he was STILL a snarky annoying asshole - but he lessened all the not-petty actually more harmful things and maintained his more petty ones cause admittedly it was kinda a nice mutual way to vent our inherent need to buttheads while we were still going from very negative enemies to where we are today. So when we weren't constantly chummy - it served to fill the conflict need by maintaining a sense of that "oooooh imma get you. im more determined and perseverant than you are a stubborn control freak" and a "no I am ignoring you because I am more stubborn and a control freak than you can last"

Which ORIGINALLY was genuine aggressive back and forth, cause XIV would always one up me back when it was genuine with a "no, you aren't. I can already tell you are waning in your effort and besides, I never loose, so by nature, you will loose" and he wouldn't be wrong cause honestly, at the time - the amount being able to self express himself as a host meant to him (and thus customizing the body to his taste) was a lot more than my arbitrary reactionary "No." and love for a pointless aesthetic status quo and HONESTLY it used to genuinely stress me out and he was right that if we hadn't worked on our dynamic, he probably could have stressed me out enough to win overall

But like again, as we developed into more of the dynamic we currently have, we really maintained the hair and tattoo saga as a banter that went from genuine to semi-genuine and now at this point it's just the principle and long term friendly competition on which parts of our brain has more stamina.

Cause in the semi-genuine phase, the content wasn't as much what we were arguing over so much as a "is XIV capable of imposing himself over my will" and that being a thing we actually quietly cared about even when we knew it wasn't something healthy for our dynamic because for me - admitting that he could still made me feel insecure and a bit frightened cause of his old rhetoric and for XIV it was a principle of his own principles of "never loosing"

(which has since changed his understanding of "never loosing" so while he still holds it, it is a much more mature version than just this petty level - in modern though, he intentionally holds onto that old XIV 1.0 definition SOLELY for this)

And so in that semi-genuine phase it was him holding up his pride and dedication to his pride of never loosing VERSUS my stubborn denial to acknowledge that XIV is more stubborn than me because honestly I am a bit proud of my stubbornness as - much like his principles and dedication to dominate and get needs met, my genre of stubborn has not only kept us safe but got us where we are today

And so in the MODERN era

The hair conflict is a very friendly nostalgic banter that rather than competition of insecurities and stuff, it's a competition to acknowledge the STUPIDITY of both of our "super powers" as parts.

The longer the conflict goes, the more we can acknowledge XIV's ability to focus down and dedicate himself to a cause and goal and maneuver obstacles to get where he wants

The longer the conflict holds, the more we can acknowledge my stubborn dedication to my idealism and most importantly, my dedication to serving as host for the system and just genuinely - for better or worse - how strongly the system can rely on me to not budge my ground when it matters

That being said, there is an unspoken mutual understanding that I will infact eventually cave in on the sole account that 1) XIV is more perseverant than I am stubborn because his perseverance is more ingrained and backed by his personal life experiences, trauma, and roll + the more he gets challenged the more he gets fight response set off which makes him more dedicated and its a frightening loop 2) we both acknowledge this is the stupidest of stupid conflicts since hair can be dyed, cut, grown out, etc whenever

And with THAT being said, we both still keep it up because in the end, we both - while different in most depictions - have a warrior's bond where it's not the content that matters but the principle of not giving up the ground to a rival XD

And this shit started to become an inside joke and meme in the system cause like after a year and a half of it - XIV would pester about it almost every day or anytime we saw a platnium blonde person or white haired character with a "Hey Riku, you know we should dye our hair white" as if it was a NEW SUGGESTION EVERY TIME then go quiet for like a month or so on it, let me get my guard down then randomly

"Hey ya know, Riku, I was thinking" "Yeah?" "We should dye our hair white" "ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME ITS BEEN X YEARS"

And once again

Once again, I was like ah. Its been like three or more months since he bothered me about it. Maybe he's gotten bored of it and no longer wants to bother with such a stupid petty argu-

Him: HEY TUMBLR TIPS ON DYEING HAIR POST NOW

and im just like

fucking hell

what the fuck XIV

It's been three years.

Three years of this constant pestering.

Here's the thing

For the pastl ike four days before he posted that

Everytime

Im on youtube

And that one Danny Phantom or something close to it guy comes up in youtube shorts

"Hey you know Riku, if we dye our hair white then when it grows longer we could have that really near bleached-nature kinda dynamic he has" "Hey you know Riku, gotta admit its an aesthetic good look" "You know Riku, I think I really deserve to live my white hair dreams ya know? What do you think?" "Have you ever considered how neat it would be to have white hair?" "You know now that we have a job that wouldn't care about us looking weird or extra we should TOTALLY dye our hair white" "Okay heres a deal, I'll stop asking about tattoos for a while if we dye our hair white. I mean dyeing your hair is a lot less permanent then tattoos no?" "Hey you know, that hair dye is on sale, I mean its probably really bad and not what we want cause you dont wanna cheap out on that, but ya know, it gets me thinking. We should probably bleach our hair."

AND EVERY TIME HE ACTS LIKE HES MENTIONING THE IDEA FOR THE FIRST TIME EVER

WHEN HES BEEN DOING IT FOR THREE YEARS

AND DOING IT FOR EVERY DAY FOR LIKE TWO OR THREE WEEKS BEFORE GOING SILENT FOR A MONTH OR TWO THEN COMING BACK AND HARRASSING ME EVERY DAY

JESUS CHRIST

this is why im going to loose

[writing-forever]

ayupp !! i got your form submission done :D sorry if it's bad or looks rushed cause it totally is. i would've loved to take the time to write it like really well but i have soo much writing to do. maybe i will make a comeback and let another opportunity to write for you prevent itself later on in the future :0 

for now tho, take this! :DD

words: 1154

tw: attempted vore (sfw), mention of fatal vore, mention of death, mouthplay

—–—

A lot of things were his fault, especially mishaps with things he’s claimed to be smart about, like sciences. So naturally he was really surprised when Ranboo wouldn't  reply to him and was instead sitting at the edge of his bed, looking ahead with a dull stare, completely silent. 

Tubbo parted ways with the table and fluttered his thin wings to keep his body up. He drifted to Ranboo, who still looked ahead and didn't acknowledge his existence in the slightest.

“Ranboo?” Tubbo asks, waving his hand in front of the Enderman. Ranboo remains silent and still. Tubbo purses his lips to the side and flys inches closer to the giant. Usually that action would leave Ranboo grabbing him and flashing a smug grin, but unfortunately nothing came of it this time. “Ranboo!” Tubbo tried again, yelling at the giant.

The silence drowned him and an uneasy expression grew on him, concern sprouting from his gut and grew until it was left jammed in his throat. “Ranboo?” Tubbo whispered, flying closer and placing a hand on Ranboo’s deep purple skin. 

Tubbo huffed and slapped him with the strength his tiny self offered, hoping it would do something. “Ranboo, you bitch, wake up!” he pleaded, flying back to study him. A thought occurred, but it hung right over his head and threatened to dispose. Word of a new discovery had sparked conversation between the two of them and amongst the town, the so-called ability to “switch minds” with someone. He entertained the idea, it certainly fascinated him gravely, but when he saw it in action—like when Phil and Sneeg had switched—it was nothing like this. Both of their bodies still functioned with their new consciouses. So who had Ranboo attempted to switch with? That is, if this was the cause. Again, a lot of things didn’t connect, and besides, Ranboo may be prissy and persistent with things, but Tubbo didn’t think he would be that interested in anything like this, let alone believe in it for a second.

With his newfound theory, his concern dried up, and instead was overthrown with mischief and a hunger for revenge for all the shitty things that Ranboo had done to him in the past. A smile grew on his face and his eyes flicked to Ranboo’s mouth, with an unclosed jaw that he could certainly see his way through. Tubbo buzzed nearer, a low giggle to himself leaving his mouth. He tensed up for just a moment, and relaxed in the air as Ranboo continued his mindless, almost lifeless stare. He positioned himself so he was sitting on Ranboo’s lip, then flattened his wings to his torso to the best of his ability. He swung around and placed his legs on the inside of Ranboo’s mouth, legs dangling against the interior of his lip. He slipped inside fully with ease, the moist “wall” behind him making for an effortless trip down. He cheered quietly at his entry and gently stepped over Ranboo’s row of incisors. It was nearly pitch black in the cavernous mouth, and humidity drifted around him, save for the thin stream of fresh air which drifted in through the gap in Ranboo’s mouth.

He had never properly had the time to explore the space; the only time he’d really been in Ranboo’s mouth was a quick move of panic that didn’t need to happen. It ended as soon as it began, though. So, now, it feels surreal to be back in a place he’d freaked out in. He can’t have an exact map, but with what little light he can see with he can almost see the outline of where he was pinned against the inside of Ranboo’s cheek, held in place with a tongue that doubled, almost tripled his body size. Tubbo shudders and almost considers rethinking his revenge. But, if he backed out now it would just show that he dwells, which he doesn’t. So, he flicks his attention away and finds footing on Ranboo’s tongue. It’s still and unmoving, and doesn’t even do so much as twitch as he steps along it with his arms spread out for balance. Soon, Tubbo reaches the back of Ranboo’s mouth, where the stream of light hits the entrance to his throat. He swallows nervously, afraid of fucking things up and getting him trapped, or killed. But he reminds himself that he can fly, and even with that as a reminder he also knows that he is smarter than what he credits himself for. 

That motivates him enough to sit down and let his legs hang over where he’ll soon be. Tubbo takes a shaky inhale, a thousand scenarios of good-and-bad possibilities drive around his mind like cars racing, and before he can even settle his head he absentmindedly slips down, where his fingers fail to grab at purchase when the panic settles in. A thousand things rotate so fast in his head that he can feel vomit rise in him and his vision gets dizzy.  “Fuck, no!” he cries out, trying to pry his nails into anything. Scenario after scenario after scenario—before he can get too far down, though, he can feel gravity defy and himself drift back up as Ranboo chokes. He tumbles through Ranboo’s mouth until he’s being spat out into the chilling air and right onto two cupped hands of deep purple skin. Tubbo groans and laughs out, a mixture of something relieved and genuine, heartfelt laughter. Adrenaline races through his head, making his ears hiss. Ranboo stares down at him, not unblinking but looking incredibly unimpressed, though he cracks the smallest of grins, one which he can easily make out. “You’re back!” Tubbo says through puffs of breath. He coughs and chokes as emotions settle in him finally.

“Was that your attempt to bring me back?! What the hell were you thinking?” Ranboo scolds him, the same look of fury and comic showing in his eyes, fittingly one for each color. “It worked! I just didn’t plan far ahead enough and freaked out,” Tubbo explained, shifting up from where he lay across the indent where Ranboo’s hands connect. He settles up, leaning against the Enderman’s inhumanly long and lean fingers.

Ranboo still looks unimpressed. “What were you even doing? I thought you, like, wouldn’t believe in that whole head-switching thing.”

“I’m not sure if I do. But, I tried it anyway, and I mean—like, you know how it’s only so far been people around here, yup, you following me? Imagine if we, like, expanded it. It would actually be cool as hell if we could reach people from out of our world, right?” Ranboo sets him down on the desk, meanwhile Tubbo is miles away while he considers the possibilities Ranboo is offering here. “Oh my god, I think you’re onto something, Boo,” he says. “Literally, that would be fucking amazing! I reckon we could get the server in on this!” 

—–—

[madametrashbin]

Wishful Dreaming

In which I pretend Part 3 of Inazuma’s story doesn’t exist and everyone is alive before shit goes down. Yes, people who read this, it’s time for best friend headcanons/drabbles/whatever the hell this is with Teppei. Honestly, it’s just no thoughts head empty right now and I might have gone off tangent a lot.

(And by a lot, I mean the majority of this piece, probably... by the way, credits to @streimiv and @myuni-moon for making my brain be hyper focused on Self Aware Cult Genshin... I can’t get it out of my head as of right now.)

Enjoy, even if it’s never going to be beta-read by anyone and I will never go back to edit this even if I find mistakes in this later on... and I also don’t know where my brain went for this, but what’s done is done. 

I’m not even sure if I did his personality correctly, ahaha...  (；^ω^)

(I’m going to project my denial in this, so please know it might be wince inducing and incredibly self-indulgent.)

The sun is bright at this time of day, the gentle breeze flowing through the tranquil lands of Inazuma, leaving those who are experiencing the nice morning in a blissful escape from its current reality. 

...much like a young foreigner who had left their current abode, leaving behind a note for their caretakers to see as they wander around the land of Eternity for some true fresh air and peace of mind away from the group that had more or less made their life a little too suffocating as of late.

It is also incredibly lonely in there, as they come to understand that no one (for the most part) look at them like they were a regular human... like they were them.

So they now wander, taking in the rarity of solitude that does not come as easily as one might think. Inazuma is beautiful, even if they know that the peace they see around these parts are but a veil that shields the horrible reality going on around them.

(They know what was happening outside the city, outside the teapot they were living in since they were brought here. They’ve experienced it happening before, many times in fact. They know what will happen, and they’re determined to change it. They just need to find a certain someone, and then they’re set.)

Meeting Teppei was something you didn’t really expect all that much, considering you knew he should be still a part of the logistic division of the Resistance Army and would be busy in their current base that was all the way to Yashiori Island.

Yet by sheer luck, or by fate, you meet the good fellow on Narukami Island and had managed to make a pretty good friendship with him over the course of coincidental meetings.

You’ve come to learn a few things about the young man, and it was that he was a pretty trusting guy, didn’t even think twice of being friends with you... which was a little worrisome, considering what happened in the actual storyline.

That’s okay though, you’ll make nothing happens to him... he is one of your only true friends in this world, after all.

“Teppei.”

They call to him as the Resistance Samurai turned his head away from the sight of the Tenshukaku to them.

“Is there anything you wish for? I mean, if you could have one wish granted, anything you want, what would it be?”

The young man looked rather confused at them, before they briefly clarified that they were just curious. As much as they enjoy the peacefulness of silence, they wanted to know what he really wanted... wondering if he really wanted a Vision, for the acknowledgement of the Gods.

“What would I wish for...”

The young man was quiet for a while, no doubt mulling it over before smiling when he comes to an answer, his head lifting to look at the glimmering stars.

“I would wish for the war to end... for the Sakoku Decree and Vision Hunt Decree to be abolished so people won’t have to suffer anymore.”

“Really? Not a Vision, or something like that?”

“Well, having a Vision would be nice, but thinking about it... I think it’s better if everyone is happy. A lot of people are suffering, and even if I did get a Vision, it’s still pretty difficult to win the war against the Shogunate.”

They could only hum quietly in understanding after that, not really certain what else to ask him before he gives them the same question. 

What do they wish for?

To go home. They would have said, but they chose not to because they knew there was probably little chance for them to be allowed to go home... Their “acolytes” are rather over-protective and notably possessive towards them, probably rampaging around Inazuma right now in search of them.

Well, they at least know what they’re going to do once they inevitably find them.

“Isn’t it time you should head back to your camp, Teppei?”

“Huh? Oh, right! It’s getting late! Then, if I have time, I’ll see you again!”

And he’s off in a rush, disappearing when he turned around the rocky walls and out of their sight. At the same time as he left, the bushes behind them rustle, and a frantic Zhongli appears with Venti following behind... both relaxed significantly once they saw them in perfect condition.

“We’ve been looking everywhere for you, Your Grace. It’s dangerous for you to go outside on your own like that.”

“Please don’t worry us like that again.”

They immediately take to their sides, quickly ushering them to head back to the Teapot before they stopped them in their tracks. 

“Your Grace?”

“I need to do something. Will the both of you accompany me for this?”

...and by the following morning, an official announcement is made to all of Inazuma with the abolishment of both the Sakoku Decree and Vision Hunt Decree. 

Teppei is rushing over to them with a beaming smile on his face when they meet again that noon, the young man happily shares the good news with them while they simply smiled and nodded along with what he said even if they knew the reason behind it.

They don’t tell him anything, nor mention that it was thanks to him that it ended... well, what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

Extra, because why not:

It becomes a frequent part of your days now that the War in Inazuma was over. Hanging out with Teppei as often as you could, granted you’d have a few people trailing in the shadows at all times, watching over you so you don’t pull the same stunt again.

You have to spend a bit of time giving warning glares behind you whenever Teppei mentions the cold chills that makes his bones shiver despite the relatively warm weather. 

When the two of you get roped up into a bit of trouble (whether by lingering Fatui grunts, stray Ronins or local Treasure Hoarders seeking to rob you), Teppei would always jump in between you and them, saying he’ll protect you as he holds his spear (that he brings with him out of habit).

...you thinks it’s endearing with how he’s trying to be brave, as you can see his hands shake just a tad bit due to the numbers.

But as much as you want to let him have his moment, you prefer that your friend doesn’t get himself hurt and therefore skillfully lead him away from the danger while the rest (your cult) dealt with them.

When you feel like the divine treatment is starting to get too overwhelming, and you’re feeling a little too lonely, you always make your way to Teppei who is there to provide comfort even if you never really talked about what’s troubling you.

Your friendship with Teppei is strong, even if you rarely talk about yourself to him and how he’s told you practically everything about himself.

There’s just something about that trust that bring you a lot of comfort... it gave a different feeling compared to Zhongli or Fischl’s kind of trust... it was warmer, and felt more like home.

You’re also very adamant in keeping him away from the whole cult business, not wanting him to think of you like how the others did... you don’t want to lose that friendship that practically kept you sane in this world.

The amount of times you have to keep reminding your cult to leave him be is absurd, and as much as they protest about him, the fact you’re upset at them for that is enough to get them to stop.

...for a while, at least. They go at it again for a while when Teppei does something they don’t like until you actually snapped at them. They stopped bothering him after that.

If Teppei does eventually find out about the cult, which will most likely happen because of Kokomi, you would be genuinely terrified in the beginning of it until he gives you proper reassurance that it doesn’t change anything.

Now he’s allowed to see you in the Teapot, often visiting with curious snacks he finds and occasionally sleeping over when you are feeling particularly lonely.

Overall, a very pleasant friendship to have. Being one of the few you can really be open with and not be concerned about how you’re viewed as.

Wholesome boy will always have your back whenever you need him... even if he is a little intimidated by the Raiden Shogun and the other intimidating acolytes that are a part of your cult.

[malfoysstilinski]

Hello love, I absolutely adore your writing. <3 Could you maybe do a tooth-rotting dracoxreader fluff. It can be anything, I just love soft draco sm haha. Tbh I feel like theres no such thing as too much soft draco asjdkhfask.

thank you so much!! hope this is okay :)) 

post shower | draco malfoy (fluff) 

pairing: draco malfoy x fem!reader

summary: you like picking out draco’s clothes for him and playing with his hair after he’s had a shower. and he’ll never admit it, but he likes it too.

warnings: extremely healthy relationship and soft!draco

word count: 1.9k

a/n: there’s a part where draco plays with your hair and i’m sorry if it’s not inclusive to yours (curly, afro-textured, braided etc.), i generally try to keep my imagines inclusive but this idea was just stuck in my head!! it’s quite brief but i thought i’d acknowledge that i realise some poc readers and others with curly hair just might not be able to relate and i’m really sorry about that!! :( but again, it doesn’t make up the whole imagine! <33

also not proof-read!! 

....

18.00. my dorm. prepare for cuddles.

my mother sent over some more of

those sweets you said you liked.

yours, draco

The ripped piece of parchment in your hand included an inked sketch beneath it; the image of a wrapped sweetie surrounded by some scribbled-out love hearts. Your heart skipped a beat at the message written in Draco’s usual rushed cursive, a small smile threatening to twitch at the corners of your lips. Glancing up towards the direction the charmed crane had come in, you sent the blond boy already watching you a small nod of confirmation.

A wink was your reward before he turned back to face Professor Snape at the front of the classroom. It made your heart flutter and your stomach fill with butterflies as you wondered how you’d ended up with a boyfriend as perfect as Draco Malfoy.

Not many would theorise that he was a secret romantic, but then again, not many truly knew Draco for who he actually was. You adored him - the way he looked, the way he smelled, how he loved you, his voice, his laugh, his jokes, and his sarcastic comments. If there was one person on the planet guaranteed to make you smile, it was the Malfoy heir.

You were thrilled to be invited back to his dorm, even if this was quite a regular occurrence that you probably should be more used to by now. The thought of spending the evening after a long day of lessons with Draco cuddled up on his bed eating sweets sent by his mother sounded like a dream come true. There was no other way you’d rather spend your time.

The rest of the day couldn’t have gone by slower, though. You finished your classes and then skipped dinner to shower, knowing you’d be stuffing your face later anyway. By the time you’d slipped on comfier clothes than your school uniform and had dried your hair, it was nearly time for you to head to Draco’s dormitory. He was lucky enough to have his own one as a prefect, with a huge bed and silk green sheets that felt amazing against your skin.

You did some last minute homework for your Herbology class in the morning, though your mind seemed to constantly drag back to your boyfriend. He was like some sort of drug and you clearly had an addiction.

Perhaps the best part was that the love she had for Draco was mirrored back onto her by the boy; their love was a redamancy to be jealous of. Students and teachers alike could see the adoration in their eyes when they looked at each other. They saw the grin on your face and the slight blush on Draco’s cheeks and knew that if what you two had wasn’t love, then love didn’t exist at all.

You had your ups and downs, of course you did. No relationship was ever always perfect. However, it was the way you were constantly able to bounce back and be stronger than before that kept the fire burning between the two of you. It was the way that Draco had worked on his communication, knowing it was the only way he’d be able to keep you, and how you’d worked on being more patient with him that meant the two of you could fall so indescribably in love.

So when you turned up to Draco’s dormitory at exactly 6 pm sharp, you opened the door without knocking, more than certain he wouldn’t mind. He never did. However, Draco was nowhere to be seen in his room. You thought maybe you’d managed to read the note wrong until you heard the running water coming from his bathroom.

You smiled to yourself as you headed towards his bed, dropping on top of the silky sheets you loved so much, your fingers tracing on top of it. Your ears strained to listen out for Draco, a deep hum filling your ears that you knew belonged to him. He had a good singing voice, but he refused to believe it whenever you told him.

You closed your eyes and listened as he hummed in the shower, his voice echoing off the walls in a way that had you wishing you could not only listen but watch him sing it. You weren’t sure when Draco stopped humming or when the water shut off, but the next thing you knew, the bathroom door was opening, steam rolling out as well as the scent of his green apple shampoo.

“Ah, darling,” Draco greeted upon seeing you lying on his bed.

You sat up, beaming at him. A white towel hung around his hips, his platinum hair wet on his head and dripping down his broad shoulders onto his platinum skin. You thought he looked beautiful like this, like some sort of God you’d like to worship. Especially with the smile that he wore upon his face, one that was reserved for you and you only.

“Hi, my love,” you said back, watching as he began to hunt through his drawers for something to wear. “You said six.”

“I must have lost track of time,” Draco admitted, “Cold days are meant for hot showers, you know.”

“No, cold days are meant for cuddles with your girlfriend,” you protested, but nevertheless scooted off the bed to join him by his dresser. “What are you gonna wear?”

“Y’wanna dress me up again, don’t you?” Draco acted as if he was annoyed, but a smile was threatening to tug at his lips.

“It’ll be cosy, ‘promise,” you replied, your hands moving through his dresser, hunting for the pair of black jogging bottoms that you liked on him. “Top or no?”

“No,” Draco replied as he stood in front of his mirror, towel drying his hair.

You found a pair of socks for him too, knowing how he hated if his feet got cold. As Draco cast a charm to dry his blond locks, you settled everything on the end of his bed for him and then began hunting through his drawers once more. You found one of his black tees and pulled your own off, shrugging his on instead.

Arms wrapped around your waist as soon as it went over your head and you shrieked as you were hauled onto his bed. You laughed as Draco suddenly crawled between your legs so he was straddling you a little, his fingers toying with the hem of his shirt.

“Did I say you could wear that, pretty girl?” Draco fauxed a glare.

“Please,” you pouted at him. “It’s comfy and smells so good. Like you.”

Draco rolled his eyes in amusement, smiling again as he kissed your forehead. “You’re lucky you’re so gorgeous. Can’t say no when you pull that face, can I?”

You beamed, feeling your cheeks heat up a little bit. You realised Draco had already pulled the joggers and socks on, his top half naked as he moved to grab his comb off of the dresser.

“Let me do it for you,” you said, holding your hand out.

Draco shot you a look. “Not a doll for you to dress up, you know.”

“‘Just wanna comb your hair for you,” you huffed, sitting on the edge of his bed, your legs dangling over the mattress.

Draco moved to stand in between them, your face level with his body as he began to brush the comb through the back of your own hair. Smiling, you leaned your head against his stomach, wrapping your arms around his middle and enjoying the sensations and tingles that Draco brushing your hair spread through your body.

Your eyes closed and you swore you could fall asleep like it - one of his large palms on your back, his comb brushing through your hair, the warmth of his toned stomach against your cheek and the smell of his aftershave and body wash fresh in your senses.

“You washed your hair, didn’t you?” Draco hummed, his hand moving off your back as he ditched the comb, his fingers playing with it.

“Yeah, had a shower before I came here,” you murmured, not peeling your eyes open, just relishing in the feeling of complete relaxation with your favourite person in the entire world.

“I can tell,” Draco murmured, his fingers gliding effortlessly through your newly-combed hair. “Your hair is really soft after washing it.”

“Good,” you replied, smiling a little against him. “That’s kind of the point of washing your hair, you know.”

“No, it’s to keep it clean,” Draco protested.

“It’s for both,” you compromised, knowing how stubborn he could get quickly. “Now can I comb your hair.”

About a minute later, Draco’s room was playing music quietly and he was slouched between your legs on the bed, the bag of sweets his mother had bought you both on his lap. Your back rested against the headboard behind you, your hands brushing through his silky platinum locks. You put the comb down, beginning to part his hair into tiny sections.

“Sweet?” Draco offered, his mouth full as he lifted his arm behind himself.

He felt you lean forwards and capture the sweet between your teeth from where your hands were occupied in his hair, making him chuckle. Draco knew you were making small plaits with the longer sections of his hair, but he closed his eyes and pretended he had no idea. To be honest, he cherished the feeling of you being so close to him, of your hands in his hair, your nails scratching gently on his scalp every now and then.

“Feels good?” You hummed, glancing down at him and seeing that his silver eyes had shut.

They flickered back open at your question, smiling when he saw you looking down at him. “A bit,” he admitted, which was an under exaggeration. He loved it.

“‘Nother sweetie, please,” you called as you moved onto your third tiny plait.

Draco’s hand came back over and fed the sweet straight into your mouth. You giggled as you carried on plaiting, humming lightly to yourself. A tug a little harder than the rest caused Draco to dramatically cry out.

“Ow!” Draco hissed, “Watch what you’re doing, woman!”

“Shh, I’m just braiding your hair,” you replied, rolling your eyes. “And if you call me woman like that one more time I will shove this comb so far up your arse-”

“Okay, okay,” Draco winced at the imagery. “By woman I meant ‘my lovely, beautiful, sweet, kind, intelligent girlfriend who I love with my whole heart’.”

“You’re such a kiss arse, Malfoy,” you replied, running your hand over the small plaits you’d created. “They look cute. You should grow your hair out like your father so I can do really good ones-”

“Y/N!” Draco grimaced, “If I ever grow my hair out as long as my fathers, feel free to cut it off for me in the middle of the night.”

You laughed, pressing a kiss to his forehead as you cradled his head in your lap, your nails lightly scratching his skin. “Okay, okay. I like you with this haircut anyway. And I like the lack of gel in it. Looks so fluffy and cute.”

“Not what I’m going for, but thanks, darling,” Draco remarked, grabbing another sweet for himself. “You’re comfy, by the way.”

You simply hummed back as you began to undo the plaits, knowing Draco would be annoyed if you forgot and he had little curly bits in the morning. You grazed your fingers back through, watching his eyes flicker back.

“I love you,” Draco murmured sincerely. “So much.”

Your heart swelled. “I love you too, Draco.”

taglist: @lolooo22 @yyoflam @fjorelaant @cpetrova @bby-gxrnet @draysslytherclaw @dawnmalfoy @miarivic @hpotter3390 @justfangirlthingies @fleurwands @hufflepuffsophie @riddleswh0r3crux @dracosathenaeum @weaselbrownie @Dracoscumwh0re @miraclesoflove @wh0re4blaise @ilovemoviekidd826 @drarrysimp @secret-obsessions @writeandtranslate @aetheralist @wholebigboxofyikes @honeyloverogers @icecubewhat @edithreads @abbott27 @Sweetvnlla @skaratjung @dlmmdl @sw33tgirl @ayaosk @acosmis-t @astoria-malfcy 

[hotwings0203]

Based on a conversation I was having with @anima197

Imagine husband Dabi, scumbag as usual adapting as a newlywed to you

It’s been around a month of you two moving in a small but nice house that his parents bought for you. He’s always been an asshole by personality, but one day he goes too far.

Maybe it’s something he said in a cruel jest to see you rise to the bait, or maybe he touched you in a way that was more than offensive or hurtful. Either way, you finally snap- except, you don’t combust and break down quietly, you turn cold as stone.

You set your jaw, keep your eyes cool and indifferent as you skirt around him when he walks by. He doesn’t know that he’s upset you because you usually brush his tactics off with an eye roll or a pout. He’s never seen you like this, completely ignoring him and barely acknowledging his existence while he tries to get you bothered.

He tries pushing you against a wall to make you flustered, but it doesn’t work. You will your body to become limp and unresponsive as he snarls into your neck and litters it with hickies, desperately trying to pull some sort of sound of either pleasure or pain from you. It doesn’t matter how his hands dance around your tits and between your legs, you just stare ahead past him, your mouth set in a straight line.

He draws back uncertainly at your lack of response, and his heart drops to his stomach when he doesn’t even see tears in your eyes from overstimulation, like you usually do when he attacks you like this.

Before he can even open his mouth you’re already gently pushing past him, and it’s the fact that you’re not even angry or shoving him that makes panic settle on his heart.

This…this indifference, this feeling as if he doesn’t mean anything to you breaks his cocky attitude .

At first he tries to refute the feeling, he merely trails behind you from room to room picking up random objects and pretending that he’s actually doing something apart from eyeing you and assessing your demeanor.

You don’t pay any attention to him. You open your laptop and absentmindedly hum as you begin working on whatever class or job you have. He stands at the entrance, fiddling with a vase and looking at you from the corner of your eye.

“Did you eat yet?” He says in his hoarse voice, almost embarrassed to talk to you after his earlier libido was met with no reaction at all.

Silence.

He sighs frustratedly and runs a hand through his ivory hair. Turning on his heel, he storms out of the room and mindlessly goes to the kitchen, making as big as a racket as possible in hopes of luring you out of your catatonic state to yell at him for being too loud.

He eats alone, in silence.

He doesn’t finish his crappy sandwich, fuming at the bland bread that substitutes for the plentiful food you always make for him.

It’s almost evening now, and you haven’t come out of your room yet to even use the restroom. He’s getting worried now, you’ve never been so quiet before. You’ve at least been fed in the face, a finger pointed at his chest as you yell at him for how he fucked up. So why can’t you do that now? At least he’ll know what to apologize for, dammit! Why does he have to wring it out of you?

He decides a different tactic now.

Hed bully your emotions out of you, one way or another.

You’re about to change your clothes when he walks in for the umpteenth time. You don’t lift your head when he slams the door open and closes it behind him, a dangerous glint in his eyes.

“Why are you being such a bitch today?”

After a few beats of silence, he barrels towards you while you shrug on your nightie. He grabs your face towards him and knocks on your forehead harshly.

“Hello? Anyone in there?” He shakes your head lightly.

You look at his collarbones and then gently pull your face away, heading off to the bathroom to brush your teeth.

Dabi stares at you in shock, his ha da still suspended in midair. Did he really mess up that badly?

The panic in his heart has risen to his throat, and he feels like he can’t breathe.

He’s 13 years old again

His father is ignoring him

He messed up, he didn’t train well enough today

In the process of trying to be better than everyone else he had effectively isolated himself again

He’s practically invisible because he fucked up so bad

He stumbles back out of the room and falls onto the couch, clutching his hair and panting with wide eyes into a pillow. It takes him a couple of minutes to tone down his impending panic attack

By the time he has enough nerve to get into bed with you, the lights are already off and you’re seemingly fast asleep.

Dabi quietly trudges over to the side of the bed and stands over your sleeping figure.

You look so peaceful right now without any part of him to bother you. He wonders if you’re better off without him.

He slowly crawls under the sheets with you and faces your back. He knows you need space but he can’t help it when his arms move around you to hold you tight against him.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what I did to make you this upset, but I know I fucked up. Please just-“

His voice catches in his throat, and at this you crack an eye open, making sure to keep your breathing deep and level.

“Just tell me what I did. Or at least just forgive me for whatever I did…I miss you.” He whispers this last part and buried his head in your hair, taking deep breaths and inhaling your scent. It makes his aching heart beat a little slower.

You don’t say anything, but after a full minute of silence you slowly turn to face him. He unconsciously grips your body harder against him as if he were afraid you’re going to push him away again.

But instead to his amazement, you have both eyes open and trained on him. He knows to keep his mouth shut when you prop your head up on one hand and frown slightly at him.

“You’ve been on my nerves for the past week now. Every time I try to talk you either cut me off or just shut me up with sex. You never clean up after yourself and laugh it off when I actually ask you to do something.”

He swallows hard and waits with bated breath for you to finish.

“You literally hounded me down for almost years to get married, and only a month after we actually get together you start acting out.”

You stare at him and he knows he can talk now.

“I’m…sorry. I’ll try to be, uh, better.” He finished lamely, and he cringes when he realized how pathetic his apology was.

But much to his surprise, a small little smile forms at your lips. Compared to how he never even acknowledged how big of an ass he usually is, this was a huge step in your relationship with him.

“Yeah, we’ll see. You better be on your best behavior for a while now.” And with that, you turn over and flop down into the plushy comforter.

Dabi let’s put a breath he didn’t know he was holding, the weight on his chest being lifted.

“So, uh…can I still like, touch..you?” He trails off, and you’re glad he can’t see the 50k watt smile on your face when he shifts uncomfortably.

“If you make it up to me, maybe.”

Dabi grins too.

“I don’t think you’ll ever have a problem with that.”

[bitsandbobsofwriting]

Twin!AU Part 3:

Hunith and Uther alike have to face the consequences of their actions, Merlin (and everyone, really) decides that family doesn’t end in blood.

Part 1   Part 2

TW: Suicidal ideation (mostly past, but it sort of... flairs up a little here I guess)

Hunith’s face falls and she physically recoils at Merlin’s harsh declaration.

His hard gaze doesn’t leave her, even as she glances at Arthur, a little behind Merlin and to his side. The blonde has his gaze fixed on Hunith, but he looks away the moment they make eye contact, unable to stand the confused pain in her expression:

“Merlin? What happened?”

Lancelot and Percival approach slowly after handing the horses off to a couple of stablehands, and Gwaine puts his hand on Merlin’s shoulder, not that The Warlock notices; he clenches his jaw tightly before speaking, but continues resisting the urge to look away:

“You lied to me. About everything.”

Hunith’s eyes go wide and she gulps, opening her mouth and shutting it again as she struggles to think of a response. It’s then that Merlin finally looks away, gazing over the top of her head at the empty courtyard. Arthur quietly intervenes, his authoritative voice full of warring emotions despite it’s low volume:

“We should take this somewhere more private.”

Merlin doesn’t even nod, just turns around and walks back towards the castle, hands clenched tightly at his side before he pushes the doors open and stalks in without looking back. Gwaine and Arthur share a concerned look before the older knight rushes after him. Arthur gestures for Hunith to go first, but not without stopping her with a hand on her shoulder, and a muttered, almost teary:

“You had no right.”

Her face falls even further, but The Regent steps back and looks away before she can reply, and she timidly hurries through the door after Merlin and Gwaine. Arthur gives Lancelot and Percival a pointed look:

“I imagine we’ll be in my chambers, make sure we are undisturbed. I don’t want anyone interrupting unless the world is about to end. Let Leon and Morgana know that they can take charge of any meetings today.”

They both nod, but Lancelot jogs up the steps to stop Arthur before he can leave:

“I... know what she did was wrong, but don’t let Merlin be too harsh. He’s always been close to his mother, he’ll regret it later if he pushes her away completely.”

Arthur almost snaps out something about how Hunith isn’t Merlin’s mother, but he keeps it to himself, sighing and nodding:

“Yeah, I know, but she... she needs to know what this has done to him, how much he’s suffered needlessly because of this. There isn’t... I know she probably just did what she thought was right but... she needs to know. Merlin deserves an apology, and he certainly deserves the truth.”

Lancelot nods hesitatingly, but doesn’t say anything else, stepping aside to allow The Regent through. He catches up to the others just as Merlin slams the door open to his chambers, continuing to not look back as he heads over to the large dining table, leaning his hand against the back of one of the chairs and staring towards the window.

Gwaine and Arthur approach slowly, standing either side of him but not touching him as they wait in suspense for someone to start the conversation. Hunith already has tears in her eyes as she stands on the other side of the table, trying and failing to get Merlin to look at her. The harsh glare he laid on her before was horrific, but this... him being unable to look at her at all, that is worse:

“Merlin, please, I only did what-”

She’s cut off by Merlin’s harsh instruction:

“Sit.”

She glances to Arthur once more, but he just nods wordlessly at the chair in front of her; the only sounds in the room are the scraping of the chair on the stone floor and Merlin’s laboured breathing. He was evidently trying very hard to hold his anger in, and when he says nothing more once she’s sat down, Gwaine puts his hand back on his shoulder. He shrugs it off, finally turning to face Hunith but remaining unable to look in her eyes:

“Why?”

A tears slips loose from her eye and she sniffles, taking a deep, shaky breath and fiddling with her hands on the table. Arthur absent-mindedly wonders if Merlin would still do that too if he’d been raised with his actual family, if it was natural, or if he’d picked it up from her:

“Please, Merlin, I’m so sorry, I didn’t-”

Merlin takes in a sharp breath, tightening his gip on the chair in a way that looks painful, shaking his head:

“No. No apologies, no excuses. I want to know exactly why you lied to me, why you took this from me.”

His voice is deadly in a quiet kind of way, like he could snap clean in two and set the world alight at any moment. Gwaine looks worriedly between the other two men, clearly thinking on the same lines as Lancelot, but neither of them notice, Merlin’s gaze stuck to the table and Arthur’s stuck on Hunith:

“I would have told you one day, Merlin, you-”

Merlin finally looks up at her, the blazing fury in his eyes contrasting in a rather horrific manner with the steady stream of tears on his cheeks:

“One day when? Arthur’s known about my magic for ages. I’ve been in Camelot for years, you have had every opportunity.”

Hunith lets out a low sob, but doesn’t look away:

“I didn’t think you were ready, Mer-”

Merlin bites his lip and turns away, running his hands through his hair harshly before turning around again, quick as lightening, and pointing an accusing finger at her:

“No, you weren’t ready! You weren’t ready to face the fact that you lied to me about who I am, because you knew you had no right, because you knew I would be angry!”

Hunith stands, but doesn’t make any moves to approach Merlin at Arthur’s harsh glare and Gwaine’s worried gesture. He doesn’t think Merlin or Arthur would hurt her, he’d never even consider the idea, but he knows that his partner needs space to be angry:

“I didn’t want you to be upset,-”

Merlin scoffs and lets out a sob of his own, wiping his face harshly before responding loudly:

“Gods, I wonder why I would be upset! Maybe because you lied to me about everything?!-”

Hunith shakes her head desperately, but Merlin carries on without pause:

“-You had no right to keep this from me! I grew up alone, with no one but you to rely on because you made me think I was some kind of beast! Keeping me from Camelot, I understand, keeping it from me as I child even, I understand. But you’ve had years of opportunity, you are selfish, a hypocrite and a coward.-”

Hunith looks horrified at his admission, mainly the sudden reveal at how her treatment of Merlin had effected him independently of the lie:

“-I hated myself, I was terrified, I didn’t want to exist, because of you! You made me think I was some kind of unnatural monster and then you sent me to Gaius under the guise of teaching me control, so he could carry on the lie for you! He promised me I wasn’t a monster, that I wasn’t born evil, over and over, but he’s lied to me from the moment I met him, how am I supposed to trust anything he says?! How am I supposed to trust anything you say when I was just some unwanted, throwaway thing that you never asked for, and got rid of at the earliest opportunity?!-”

Gwaine and Arthur stare at Merlin with matching heartbreak in their expressions; it seems that Merlin is upset at more than just the base lie. The New Prince doesn’t even try to stop the tears, his breathing quick and ragged, and after a few moments of thick silence, he takes a deep breath and quietly continues:

“-I didn’t have to be so alone, that was all you, and Gaius, and Kilgharrah, and everyone else who lied to me. When I had nothing, I had you, and you lied to me.-”

Merlin’s voice cracks, his breathing shaky and his face pale as his entire world seemingly crumbles down around him:

“-You took my brother from me and you had no right. You’re not my mother, you’re just as bad as Uther.”

With those last words, he storms from the room, Gwaine hot on his heels. Arthur stays however, feeling the need to comfort the crying woman, but also feeling, maybe slightly cruelly, that she deserves this. He sighs, pushing the though from his mind and moving around to put a hand on her shoulder as she buries her face in her hands, sobbing:

“I... you did your best, I think he knows that, but that doesn’t change what you took from him, from both of us. He needs time.”

She just about manages a nod, and Arthur sighs again, standing awkwardly for a few minutes before he realises she isn’t going to stop any time soon. He gently pushes her to sit back in the chair before heading to the door, following Gwaine and Merlin.

They’re not in the corridor when he shuts the door behind him, but he’s not surprised at that. Merlin has always been private about his true emotions, always kept them close to his chest, he wouldn’t want anyone to see him having a breakdown in the middle of the hall. Months ago, Arthur would have thought it was left over fear of his magic being discovered, but now he bitterly thinks that it probably has more to do with the way he was raised.

He runs a hand through his hair, sparing a glance to the—previously unnoticed—worried looking guards. Thankfully, they were two of the men that had been trusted with the truth (Arthur reminds himself to thank Leon later for paying attention to who was stationed where), so Arthur isn’t too worried at the fact that they had likely overheard the one-sided yelling match. He fixes them with a commanding stare and clears his throat:

“Escort the Lady Hunith to the physician’s chambers when she emerges, leave her with Gaius, but don’t rush her.-”

They bow briefly in acknowledgement of his orders, and his question comes out quietly:

“-Do you know where they went?”

They needn’t ask who, and one of the guards answers lowly, matching Arthur’s volume:

“I think they headed to Sir Gwaine’s chambers, Sire.” 

He nods and mutters a quiet thank you, slowly heading in that direction, knowing he had to go see them but also wanting to give them few extra minutes of privacy. They still had a lot to take care of, they’d missed several council meetings over the last few days, and whilst Arthur trusts Leon and Morgana to keep things rolling, he really should be making regular appearances. That, and they still haven’t dealt with Uther; to be perfectly honest, Arthur is surprised that rumours haven’t started spreading about The King’s disappearance and Arthur’s sudden growth of responsibilities, but he’s grateful. Don’t look a gift Griffin in the mouth or... something.

He finally stops outside the knight’s room—nodding at Lance who wordlessly stands guard in the corridor—before flinching at the quiet crying he can hear from inside. He knocks a few times softly before entering, shutting the door behind him and approaching the bed. Gwaine sits leant against the headboard, tears in his eyes as he holds a shaking Merlin in his arms. The Warlock lays besides Gwaine, in the middle of the bed, his face buried in the knight’s chest and his hands twisted into the fabric of his tunic.

Arthur lets out a deep, mournful breath at the sight of his brother so distraught, and he moves around to the other side of the bed, raising his eyebrow in question at Gwaine and settling next to Merlin at his singular nod. Merlin doesn’t seem to notice his presence, not until Arthur settles a hand on his back and whispers his name. He instantly calms a little, and Gwaine mentally scolds himself for the slight flair of jealousy; Merlin had discovered he has a brother, that his best friend is his brother, it’s no surprise that he calms easier in his presence, especially considering the reveal unburied so much hidden trauma.

After a few more minutes, Merlin turns to be laying on his back, though he makes sure to stay in Gwaine’s embrace. The knight leans down to press a kiss to the top of his head, and though he can’t see it, he can almost feel the slight smile on The Warlock’s face. Arthur moves his hand back to his lap, looking at the two of them out of the corner of his eye; he sees nothing but worry and utter adoration on Gwaine’s face, and he wonders just how he hadn’t approved of their relationship. Gwaine’s whispered words just solidify Arthur’s newfound belief in the man:

“I love you, Merls, no matter what.”

Merlin lets out a quiet, choked laugh, and Gwaine considers that a win, even more so when Merlin responds in kind:

“I love you.”

Despite their relationship not being a particularly new thing, Arthur hadn’t even considered the possibility that they’d reached that far, that their partnership was that solid; perhaps that had something to do with their general lack of PDA, which he had always wondered how Gwaine had put up with. He grimaces with a quiet realisation, but it catches Merlin’s gaze and he raises a questioning eyebrow, his tears thankfully dried. Arthur glances up at Gwaine, who smirks at him knowingly, before looking back down to his brother:

“Making you Crown Prince is something I’m actually quite looking forward to, but I’m going to have to crown Gwaine as well.”

Gwaine snorts in amusement but Merlin turns pink and coughs slightly:

“Well.. we haven’t really discussed marriage, Arthur.”

Arthur looks to him with an apologetic expression:

“Merlin, royals have different courting rules. Royal partnerships tend to be incredibly short before a marriage has to happen. Back when me and Gwen were courting, we hid not only because Uther wouldn’t have approved, but also because we didn’t want to rush things. I’m especially glad we did now, otherwise we would have had to be married by now. The whole kingdom know that you two have been together for at least a year, the moment you’re crowned...”

His voice trails off as he comes to a second, horrifying realisation. He stands from the bed and stares at Gwaine with wide eyes and a pale face:

“Oh my God. Oh my God. If neither me, you, or Morgana have children... once you two have been married... Gwaine will officially be third in line for the throne. Oh... fuck.”

Merlin and Gwaine freeze for just a moment before they burst into loud laughter, and Arthur shakes his head, pacing slightly and not paying attention to the knocking at the door. Lancelot walks in slowly, an amused smile of his face despite his confusion:

“Do I even want to ask?”

Arthur fixes him with an almost distraught gaze before glaring half-heartedly at Merlin:

“Why? Why couldn’t it have been Leon, or Lancelot?? Elyan or Percival?? Hell, I would have been happier with fucking George.”

Gwaine’s laughter gets even louder but Merlin calmly wipes the tears (of laughter, thankfully) from his face and looks to Lancelot with bitten lips and held in hysterics:

“Arthur just realised that once all the crowning ceremonies happen, Gwaine will be third in line for the throne, if I’m the last one to die and there aren’t any children.”

Lance’s eyes go wide and he clamps a hand over his moth in a poor attempt to hold in his laughter. He fails miserably, bursting just like Gwaine and Merlin had moments earlier. Arthur fixes an annoyed glare on him and waves a desperate hand:

“This is not funny.”

Gwaine just shakes his head as he finally manages to calm himself, wiping his face clean and sitting up straight, one hand still on Merlin’s shoulder:

“It’s hilarious, Princess. God imagine Geoffrey’s face. Imagine the council.”

Arthur just takes a deep breath and looks to the ceiling again:

“Fuck. Ok, alright, whatever. That is a problem for another time.-”

He looks back down to Merlin with an apologetic smile, after shooting one last withering glare at a still-smirking Gwaine:

“-You feeling up to council? I’ve missed a fair few, and I think it might be a good idea for you two to start making appearances as well. That and... as much as we’ve told them you have magic, it might be worth showing it off a little.-”

At Merlin’s wide, fearful eyes, Arthur holds his hands out placatingly and hurries to continue:

“-You don’t have to, but they're working on the ban repeal. Obviously not anything huge, but passing jugs or paper or whatever with magic might help desensitise them to the idea. Plus, now that you’re semi-officially royalty, and you have Gwaine or Leon trailing you almost everywhere, no one would dare attack you. And if they do, you have every right to defend yourself in whatever capacity you deem necessary.”

At Merlin’s still nervous face, Lancelot quickly tacks on:

“And they all know that Arthur would go ape-shit if anything were to happen to you.”

Arthur gestures at the knight and nods in agreement, nodding further at Gwaine’s quiet “He’s not the only one.” . Merlin takes a deep breath and shuffles off the bed, standing and straightening his clothes out with unsteady hands:

“Let’s go. You’re right, I’m going to have to get used to stupid council meetings at some point if you’re insisting on crowning me, might as well be now.”

Arthur and Lancelot smile proudly and Gwaine moves to stand at his side, straightening his own clothes before running his hands through Merlin’s hair, flattening and neatening it. Merlin stands still and lets himself be assessed and fixed with a soft smile on his face, and Arthur feels almost as if he were intruding on something personal and domestic, even more so than when they were professing their love for each other; he looks away awkwardly and Lancelot raises an amused eyebrow at him.

The four of them finally exit the room, Arthur and Merlin falling into step besides each other, Gwaine slightly behind them, and Lancelot trailing the three of them with his face pulled into a blank mask and his hand on his sword.

This time, there is no hesitation before they enter the council room, and no raised eyebrows when Merlin takes his rightful place alongside Arthur at the head of the table. Flanked by Morgana, Leon, Lancelot, and Gwaine, Arthur effortlessly takes control of the meeting, hurrying things along with a proud confidence and an easy authority that was slowly but surely being taken on by his brother, at his side.

~

The council session lasts for the remainder of the day, and though at least half of the councilmen yelp, Gaius obviously not included, when Merlin first starts floating things about or magically highlighting words or moving the room’s lighting around with a flick of his wrist, most of them are used to it by the time the sun touches the horizon.

Arthur finally calls an end to the meeting when it gets dark. Though he was in a slightly manic mood and desperate to get as much work done as possible now that he was actually free to attend meetings, he could see that the others, Merlin especially, were flagging. He knew it would happen eventually, he can’t imagine The Warlock has been sleeping much, and he definitely came to some sort of private, horrifying conclusion around half a candle-mark ago. The hitch in Merlin’s breath, the widening of his eyes, and the slight, tiny flair of every candle in the room thankfully went unnoticed by everyone bar Arthur, Gwaine, and Lancelot.

When the room empties of councilmen, Merlin stands and paces away from the table, hands fiddling roughly with his sleeves. Arthur waves Morgana and Leon away, thanking them briefly before nodding pointedly at the door. Lancelot follows shortly, and Arthur has half a mind to send Gwaine away as well, but he knows that would be somewhat selfish as the other man approaches his partner’s turned back:

“Merlin? Something wrong? I thought that went remarkably well.”

Merlin’s head turns quickly, his furrowed brows confused:

“What? What went well?”

Gwaine raises an eyebrow, glancing briefly at the neatly stacked paperwork on the table:

“The meeting? About planning your coronation and the legalisation of magic? That we’ve been in all afternoon?”

Merlin untenses slightly, turning around properly and using one hand to rub at his eyes tiredly:

“Oh, yeah right. It did go well. They didn’t freak out too much at my evil sorcery, did they?”

He tries to go for a joking smirk, but it falls flat, and Arthur walks towards him to put a hand on his brother’s shoulder:

“What’s on your mind?”

Merlin sags even more and Arthur quickly steps forward, gathering the suddenly distraught man in a tight hug. Merlin easily accepts, burying his face in Arthur’s neck and clutching the back of his tunic with shaking hands:

“I compared my mother to Uther. I told her it was her fault that I didn’t want to be alive. She’s never going to forgive me.”

Arthur shuts his eyes, stroking a hand through Merlin’s hair and muttering a quiet:

“Oh, Merlin, she loves you more than anything in this world, there’s nothing to forgive.”

Merlin doesn’t look up, but shakes his head roughly; before he can argue, Gwaine steps around the two of them, pressing a kiss to the nape of Merlin’s neck before stepping back and stroking a soft hand over his back:

“What she did was wrong, Merls, you’re allowed to be angry. And now you’re not so angry anymore you can go sit down with her and talk it out, ok? There was no way that first conversation was going to be anything other than difficult and heartbreaking, but you got through it, and now you can sort it out properly.”

Merlin relaxes just a touch, and Arthur gets the disturbing feeling swelling in his gut that Gwaine knew of Merlin’s (hopefully, former) despairs before the whole... twin thing. When The Warlock finally pulls away, he thankfully looks a little more confident, despite the drying tears on his cheeks; Arthur gives him a soft smile and nods towards the door:

“Tonight, or tomorrow?”

Merlin takes a deep, fortifying breath, and walks towards the door purposefully, wiping his face clean before taking Gwaine’s offered hand in his own:

“Tonight, now. I should... I need to talk to Gaius as well. I’ve been unfairly punishing him for long enough, I think.”

Gwaine smiles understandingly, though Arthur, who rushes to catch up and walk on Merlin’s other side, shakes his head with a frown:

“Not unfairly, Merlin. It would be well within your rights to cut them out of your life for the foreseeable future for this. But I also understand wanting to forgive them so you have more... support. They may not be blood, Merlin, but... they are family, and that’s ok.”

Gwaine gives him an annoyed look at his first words, over Merlin’s shoulder, but doesn’t say anything. Merlin stops in the middle of the hallway, suddenly and without warning, and Gwaine grunts slightly when his arm is pulled back. The Warlock spares him an apologetic smile before turning his gaze to Arthur. Arthur raises an eyebrow, but Merlin tilts his head and frowns:

“Arthur you do know that... I consider you family above all others, right? you’re right, family doesn’t have to be blood,-”

He squeezes Gwaine’s hand, almost subconsciously, and receives a gentle squeeze back:

“-but after what we’ve found out, after all of this, all that we’re doing to... fix it, to fix what was done to us... you’re everything, you’re my brother. Me forgiving Hu... my mother, and Gaius, doesn’t change that I trust you above them, I consider you before them. They’re family, but you’re family first.”

Arthur’s eyes widen slightly at Merlin’s stern assertion, but he wills the tears in his eyes to disappear as he nods once, his jaw clenched with emotion. Merlin smirks slightly and rolls his eyes, muttering something about an “emotionally repressed idiot” before pulling him into an eagerly returned hug. Gwaine just snorts at both of them, happily leaning against the wall with crossed arms as he waits. They pull away fairly quickly, hyper aware of the fact that they were in the middle of the corridor, and whilst basically the whole citadel had picked up on the fact that something had changed, is changing, they didn’t want to let on too much until official public announcements were made.

They hurry in their journey to the Physician’s chambers, it was getting late and they wanted to sort this out as soon as possible; Gods know Merlin isn’t going to sleep a wink until he's spoken to his mother again.

They pause momentarily outside the door, taking deep breaths as they attempt to block out the hushed conversations coming from inside, not wanting to eavesdrop. Merlin turns to Gwaine with a nervous frown:

“Would you mind... waiting out here? Just for a minute?”

Gwaine gives him a soft smile and nods, pressing a kiss to his forehead and muttering “Call for me when you want me to come in, alright? I’m not going anywhere.” before giving Arthur an encouraging clap on the shoulder and stepping back to lean against the opposite wall.

Arthur sends a grateful smile the knight’s way, receiving a respectful nod in return, before he turns to the door. After a nod from Merlin, he raises a hand that shakes only slightly, and knocks. The murmured conversations stop immediately, and Gaius’ voice calls out:

“Enter.”

With one last look to each other, the brothers open the door and walk in together, shutting it gently behind them and turning to face the shocked pair. Hunith stares at Merlin with tears in her hopeful eyes, but Gaius quickly clears his throat and stands straight:

“How can I help, My Lords?”

Arthur sighs and Merlin shakes his head at the Physician’s formal address of them, rubbing a tired hand over his eyes before taking a small step forward :

“Don’t... I’m not... just Merlin, please.-”

His voice is quiet and tired, and the pleading tone it takes on deepens Arthur’s frown. He lets out a shaky breath, biting his lip before looking up to Hunith and continuing:

“-I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled. And I didn’t have any right to say those things; you’re... you’re nothing like Uther, and you did your best in a terrifying situation. You didn’t know any better, I shouldn’t blame you for how I turned out.”

Hunith’s tears overflow once again, and she takes in a shuddering breath as she steps hesitatingly towards the Warlock:

“Oh, my boy, you were right. I wasn’t ready to lose you, and I let that fear overcloud my judgement of what I knew to be right. I’m so sorry sweetheart, I should have told you who you were a long time ago, and it wasn’t fair of me to expect Gaius to carry on the lie, especially when you met Arthur, and especially when he found out about your magic.”

With that, Merlin pulls her into a tight hug, height difference be damned as he buries his face in her neck and shakes. Arthur gulps as he looks upon the scene, sharing a small, mournful smile with Gaius, the Physician understanding The Regent’s forgiveness in the small nod of his head. The hug doesn’t last quite as long as Arthur was expecting, though he supposes that forgiveness is more than just saying it aloud, and Merlin still has a great deal of self-worth related issues to get over, thanks to Hunith’s overly cautious raising of the boy. The Warlock clears his throat, his hands still on his mother’s shoulders as he gives her a weak smile:

“Igraine says thank you, by the way, for raising me with so much love.”

Hunith lets out a small chuckle, wiping away Merlin’s tears with soft hands:

“It was my honour,  I’m glad that your... mother, is pleased.”

Merlin’s frown is brief, and he responds quickly:

“You’re my mother.”

Hunith’s smile grows, as does Merlin’s and she nods shakily, almost whispering:

“Ok... I... ok.”

Merlin lets go hesitatingly, but turns to Gaius after a moment or two. The Physician quickly interrupts anything the younger man could have said with a shake of his head and a soft smile, pulling him into a hug as he softly speaks:

“It’s alright, my boy. You were well within your rights to be angry, we had no right to lie to you in such a way.”

With Gaius and Merlin’s soft conversation happening to the side of the room, Hunith turns to Arthur with a hopeful smile on her face. He returns it faintly, and she pulls him into his own hug. He stiffens in her hold, wide eyes darting around the room as he clenches his hands at his side. It only takes her stroking a hand through his knotted hair for him to relax and hug her back:

“I’m honoured to have been able to raise your brother, Arthur, and I am sorry for keeping him from you for so long, it was selfish of me. I didn’t consider what you were losing, in not knowing that you weren’t alone, only what I would lose should I tell the truth.”

Arthur gulps and nods, but tightens his hold on her as the tears come to his eyes:

“It’s... ok. I understand, I think. The danger you put yourself in to raise and protect him was immense, I just wished I’d known sooner, so I could have done all of this sooner.”

They pull back, but Hunith keeps a tight hold on Arthur’s shoulders, an assessing frown on her face as she raises a hand to cup his cheek. Arthur leans into it, blushing slightly under her motherly gaze:

“I know. But you’re doing wonderfully, Arthur. You and Merlin will be the saviours of this Kingdom, I’m sure of it. Your mother would be so proud of you.”

A tear slips loose from Arthur’s eye as he harshly bites his lip. His voice comes out small and unsure, and Hunith has to resist the urge to pull him into another hug:

“You think?”

She just smiles and nods instead:

“I’m sure.”

Merlin and Gaius look upon the scene fondly, and Arthur’s blush deepens when he catches them staring. He steps back from Hunith who smirks at him knowingly as he frowns at Merlin:

“Shut up, Merlin.”

He just laughs and shakes his head:

“I always knew you had a soft spot for my mum.”

The Regent shakes his head and rolls his eyes, ignoring Merlin’s continued laughter:

“Either of you eaten? I’m starved.”

Gaius and Hunith’s smiles come a lot easier at that, and they shake their heads. Arthur leads the way out of the chambers, smiling and nodding at Gwaine’s raised eyebrow. The knight returns the smile, quickly sidling up to Merlin and re-taking his hand as Arthur speaks:

“I’ll let the kitchens know to have five meals sent up to my chambers, I’ll see you there in a moment.”

They part ways in the corridor, all of them with easy smiles and lighter hearts, especially when Gwaine eagerly regales his interpretation of Arthur’s reaction to having to crown him.

~

The next morning was once again tense. Arthur’s assertion late last night that he intended to finally deal with Uther weighs heavy in everyone’s minds.

Hunith and Gaius are once again tucked safely into the Physician’s chambers, and all of the King’s most trusted knights are called to stand guard in the corridor. Merlin and Arthur wear their smart clothes (a suggestion by Morgana that Gwaine thought was funny enough that he begged and begged until Merlin gave in), and they take in with them Leon and Morgana. 

Uther looks manic, his hair unkept, his face unshaven. His clothes are clean at least, but they’re rumpled, likely due to the near constant pacing of the former King. The room is dark, the curtains obviously haven’t been opened in several days, but the dim candles highlight the mess throughout the room. Uther may still be being passed meals by the guards, but out of concern for the staff’s safety, no servants were granted access to tidy or otherwise serve. 

His head whips around when the door opens, his enraged face turning red at the four people stood smartly by his door. He storms towards them, but Morgana, no longer scared of the consequences, holds a hand out and mutters a few golden words, halting him in his tracks. He apparently hasn’t lost his voice though, as he turns to Merlin:

“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO MY DAUGHTER?! YOU-”

Merlin rolls his eyes and clicks his fingers, his eyes also turning golden as Uther’s mouth shuts with a clack. Leon manages to hold his smirk in, just stands still as the perfect guard, his hand on the hilt of his sword, but Morgana doesn’t even try, smiling openly. Merlin holds Uther’s furious gaze for a few more moments before looking to Arthur at his side, tilting his head in question. The Regent nods at him before stepping forward, his back straight and his face and voice Kingly:

“You will listen, and you will listen well, because I will not repeat myself. You are the only abomination in this room, and you will live with that for the rest of your days. How long that is, is up to you. I am Regent, soon enough I will be King, Myrddin will be Crown Prince, and Morgana will be Princess; when that happens, magic will finally be fully legalised, and the public will be made aware of your crimes. I will not hide things from my people, not like you have. No matter what you deserve, I struggle to bring myself to sentence you to execution, and you’ll be humiliated to learn, I imagine, that Merlin argued in favour of letting you keep your head when I brought it up.-”

Uther glances angrily at Merlin, but looks back to Arthur when he realises that he’s still incapable of speaking:

“-Therefor your options are as follows: You may go to the summer home on the coast, where you will be under constant guard, but will otherwise have a semi-free life. You will stay in Camelot, but live out the remainder of your days in this room only. Or me and Merlin will take a week long trip away to, say, Nemeth, whilst Princess Morgana and Sir Leon announce, organise, and undergo your execution. You have today to decide, we’ll be back this evening.”

Arthur doesn’t bother waiting for a reaction, turning his back on Uther and gesturing the others to lead the way through the door. He pauses momentarily, one hand on the door frame as he turns back, a mournful frown on his face as he quietly speaks:

“If you had just told the truth, if you had just owned up to making a mistake, you, me, Myrddin, Morgana, we... we could have been a family. You’re the one that ruined that, you’re the one that tore us apart, and I swear to you now, that whatever option you pick, I will never forgive you.”

That only seems to enrage Uther more, but Arthur isn’t quite sure why he bothered to hope for another reaction. He shuts the door behind him, waving at Merlin to reset the magical locks as he sighs and rubs tired hands over his face:

“Well at least that’s over and done with.”

Leon pats him on the shoulder consolingly, and Elyan raises an eyebrow, glancing around at the others and sighing when he realises no one else is going to ask:

“He didn’t take it well then, I’m guessing?”

Arthur takes a deep breath and stands straight, shaking his head. Morgana is the one to answer however, and Arthur appreciates the way she makes a genuine attempt to keep the humour out of her voice:

“No, he wasn’t best pleased, but I think he’s accepted that he has well and truly lost this battle. Something he’s not entirely used to, I suppose.”

The knights nod in understanding, and Merlin lets out a deep breath, tilting his head slightly:

“Weird to think that he’s my... dad... ugh.”

They all chuckle at that, even Arthur, though they all stop with concerned frowns when Merlin suddenly straightens up with wide eyes and an open mouth:

“Oh... my God... how did I...- What?!”

Arthur puts a hand on his shoulder, his frown deepening:

“Merls?”

The Warlock just ignores him, turning to Morgana with still wide eyes:

“You’re my sister! I’ve been focusing so much on how Arthur’s my brother that I didn’t even consider the fact that you’re my sister!”

Morgana takes in a sudden breath, and all bar Leon (who just raises an eyebrow and then rolls his eyes when he realises that he’s the only one unsurprised by this) stare at the two of them in shock. Morgana slowly pulls Merlin into a hug, and the two of them clutch each other tightly as a grin grows on Arthur’s face. Leon gives him another clap on the back, this one more congratulatory (if a little confused. Honestly, how did they miss that?), and the others cheer just as Gwen turns the corner into the corridor. She smiles confusedly at Merlin and Morgana, still hugging, as she sidles up to Leon, whispering:

“What’s the occasion? They find Uther dead?”

Leon laughs but shakes his head, leaning down to mutter his response:

“They only just now figured out that they’re siblings.”

She looks up to him quickly with a disbelieving raise of the eyebrows:

“Wait, just now as in, just now?-”

Leon smirks and nods firmly, and Gwen shakes her head as she laughs:

“-It’s been almost a week.”

Leon laughs as well leaning against the wall as the others chatter excitedly among themselves:

“Yeah, apparently you and I are the only ones who had considered the idea. These are all the smartest people I’ve ever come across...”

He trails off, but Gwen looks up at him with a teasing smirk:

“And yet sometimes...?”

They both laugh quietly, shaking their heads when Percival catches their eyes and tilts his head in question.

The group walks away soon enough, heading to one of the smaller dining rooms for an early lunch and a chance to discuss their intentions for this afternoon’s council meeting. Morgana, Merlin, and Arthur walk together, and conversation flows between all bar Gwaine, who stares at the back of his now betrothed’s head with the quiet adoration and lowly simmering excitement of someone that knew the man he loves is finally getting all that he deserves.

~

END of Part 3!!!

Part 4 will be VERY short. Will be just about post coronation and public announcement, will probably contain Merwaine’s wedding, some casual magic, some more family bonding.

I hope y’all enjoyed this!!! I wrote it surprisingly quickly once I set my mind to it

[s-brant]

The Endless Summer (2/?)

(gif: @beccs) (PART ONE) (SERIES MASTERLIST)

Summary: A day out on the water goes awry and puts JJ, John B, and Y/N in danger. With tensions rising and the stakes higher than ever, JJ finds it difficult to control his feelings.

Word Count: 9.1k

Warnings: Angst, implied sexual content, strong language, graphic violence, and JJ being an emotionally confused asshat.

A/N: Welcome back! Thanks for the love on this series, I’m so glad you guys like it and I hope this part is just as good. Things get a little heated in this chapter, so buckle up. Let me know if you enjoyed this. Have fun!

JJ isn't sure why she did it.

He wasn't sure then and he isn't sure now, but he knows one thing for certain: there isn't any going back to how things once were now that the barrier between them came crashing down.

Sweat drips off of his skin from the relentless heat of the Caribbean that has made their recent lives hell with the painful tinge of sunburn atop their tans and heat exhaustion they must be careful to avoid at all costs. They were educated on both topics by Pope, their godsend of a survival encyclopedia in human form, who advised them to spend most of their day outside of necessary tasks like fishing and constructing stable shelter under the shady cover of the treetops.

The sole reason he and John B aren't hiding in the safety of the shade is that it's their day to fish, but he's not thinking about the sun. In fact, neither of them is. They're both wondering where their third fishing buddy is.

It took roughly ten minutes of spearfishing with him in comfortable silence for JJ to finally break and spill his guts about what happened last night. Though there was an unspoken agreement to never tell anyone that their hatred has turned into desire, he couldn't help it. He was going mad trying to unravel it in his head.

After all, he already had a conversation with JB about the recent shift in their behavior with each other by the ocean last night, so it seems fitting to pick up where they left off with the calm and clear blue water in front of them again.

He walks on the jagged outcropping of rock that serves as their perch to observe the fish without disturbing the pattern of the current they swim through with John B closely behind.

"One second she's pissed at me, the next she's all over me. It makes no sense. Then, she didn’t say anything to me after it happened," JJ says with his face hardened into a look of concentration at the fish he squints against the sun to aim at, "Not even "Fuck you, Maybank" or one of her weirdly creative threats. She just sat there all night and talked to everyone but me."

His gaze slips away from the water as his chosen fish disappears from sight before he can bother to throw the spear, eyeing up his friend's reaction to the news.

John B doesn't seem that surprised by it, because who else, aside from everyone else in Kildare who knows of their "hatred" for one another, could've seen it coming as much as he did? He considers it for a second, then props his arm up on the handle side of the spear he digs into the rock to lean against.

"I'm pretty sure that means she likes you."

JJ retorts, "That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard you say."

Why would anyone ignore a person they like? It makes no sense to him. Every time he wanted a person, he'd simply walk over and make it happen. It's never been difficult for him to pursue the people he finds himself attracted to...Well, except for her. For a guy that also ignored her for the rest of the night and pretended their moment in the woods didn't happen, he has some balls of steel to be chastising her for the same things he did.

John B shrugs and says, "I'm being serious, dude. Sarah wouldn't even acknowledge my existence when I worked on the Druthers, and I thought it was some stuck-up rich person thing but it wasn't."

They shouldn't be talking at all right now as to not scare away the fish, but they do it anyway. They both know he won't let it go until it's out of his system for good. He wouldn't allow himself to forget it if he wanted to, so its better to talk it out than turn stir crazy from ruminating over it 24/7.

Though it's, as he worded it yesterday, hot as balls out, being by the sea lessens the feeling of it by a landslide.

The breeze they crave whenever they work on their huts or forage through the forest for wild berries, coconuts, or potential building supplies blows on them without pause for the time they spend here, which almost makes it more dangerous. They stand under the direct harm of the UV rays frying them without truly feeling it burn yet, and he dreads the next few days in anticipation of the returning sunburn he just peeled off of his shoulders the other day.

JJ walks down the side to get a better view of the water, balancing precariously on the sharpened edge with the spear clenched tightly in one hand. The breeze is strong enough to threaten his balance, but he holds firm and digs his toes into the sedimentary rock for traction. His body sways in the midday sun with the struggle for stability, or, at least he suspects its midday.

Since being stranded here, time is a foreign concept to them. With no phones, clocks, or any guide to go off of other that the position of the sun above to display the hours that pass, they've lost complete track of what day it is, let alone how long minutes or hours truly are in comparison to the endless summer they live within. They suspect it's been a month since they were left here, but, in all honesty, it could be two. None of them had the sense to mark the days in a tally until it was too late.

He says, lifting his arm to throw the spear, "Well, she is a stuck up rich person, so maybe it's just—"

"You know I'm right here, don't you?"

The sound of her voice from a few feet behind them startles JJ into turning around to look at her right when he lets go of the spear.

Unfortunately for him, the jerking movement throws off his carefully distributed weight and skews his balance, making the feet placed on the edge slip from underneath him and send him slipping down into the water. His calf is the first body part to hit the rocks, and the groan of pain he lets out at the feeling of the jagged rock slicing through his skin could make her heart stop mid-beat. But what truly scares her is seeing the back of his head hit the ground too.

Before he can slide the rest of the way into the water, two pairs of hands are grabbing onto his arms and heaving him up with all of their strength. She and John B grit their teeth with the effort it takes to pull him back up, their muscles burning from the strain, and once his feet are over the ledge, he pushes off the rock to help them the rest of the way. Drops of his blood disperse into the water off the edge from where he cut himself, dripping until there's hardly any left.

Once he's safely laid back down a few feet from where he slipped, Y/N is kneeling in front of him in a matter of seconds. The rock beneath her knees opens small cuts into her skin, but she doesn't pay it any heed. She sits on her heels to lessen the minor pain and lean forward to inspect the damage he took with nothing on her mind other than worry.

Soon enough, John B joins her to kneel at his feet as he sits up and watches them eye up his injury as though it’s some sort of ghastly, life threatening thing instead of a gash that won't need stitches. He watches them against the glittering ocean, waves washing up on the rocks around them to sting his wound with saltwater.

"It's a scratch, not an amputation," JJ says.

She ignores him with a frown lining her pretty features and twists his leg by the ankle to get a better view of the wound in the sunlight. It extends up the entire length of his calf, almost from ankle to knee, and dribbles fresh blood onto her hands as well as the ground beneath them. From what he can tell, it doesn't look all too severe. No muscle or bone can be seen, so it's a simple, superficial scratch.

When he doesn't get a response from either her or John B while they're too busy checking out his leg, he says again, "Guys, I'm serious, it's fine."

This time, she doesn't hesitate to answer.

"Yeah, well you may not need stitches but you still have infection to worry about. This wilderness isn't exactly the cleanliest place," she says retorts with as much snark as usual, and he quietly rejoices in the fact that she's finally acting normal after what happened last night, "Not to mention, you hit your head pretty hard. There's no need to act all tough."

He shrugs.

"It's not an act, it really doesn't hurt that bad."

John B stands and smears the blood on his hands off on the front of his shorts.

"I'll be right back, guys, I'm gonna go get stuff to patch him up."

Just like that, they are left plunging into silence as he is running away down the peninsula back to the beach they've claimed as their own.

Silence has always been her least favorite thing to share with JJ. She'd rather anything over it—screaming, fighting, joking, friendly conversation, or even what they did together yesterday night. Anything is preferable over the tense and insufferable feeling of silence when they're alone together with none of their friends, or their playful hatred, between them as a barrier between them.

Instead of seeing the same pestering jerk she always used to when she looks at him, she sees the memory of how he looked at her in the woods. He didn't look at her like she was the worst person to ever walk the planet, or like she was his least favorite Kook "Princess", he looked at her like she meant something to him.

They sit together in uncomfortable silence in the time it takes John B to rush to the beach and back, careful not to slip on the rocks the way JJ did, with the supplies from the dinghy in his arms. It isn't much to work with, but at least it's something to keep the nasty wound on his leg protected from dirt and germs. She's sure he'd leave it uncovered and up to fate if he had it his way.

Before he can set them down on the wet rocks, thus ruining the gauze and bandages in craters filled with ocean water, she gestures at JJ with a stern command, "Take off your shirt."

His brows raise.

"Shit, Princess, take me out to dinner first."

She groans in frustration, "Can you be quiet for a second and actually listen to me for once?"

He catches John B's gaze with wide eyes, but complies nonetheless, reaching down to tug the tank off of his torso by the frayed hem until it's balled up in his closed fist to hand off to her. Her eyes only linger on his body for a quick second on accident before snatching it from him.

Her bloodstained palms lay the shirt out on the flattest stretch of rock she can find to act as a barrier from the small puddles of water to protect the supplies. One nod at John B has him setting them down atop the navy fabric as she glances up at JJ with a smug smile.

"Believe it or not," she taunts, unscrewing the cap to the disinfectant, "I didn't ask for it so you could sit there and look pretty."

The words throw him back in time to their conversation on the beach while they thatched the roof to their hut, and he wonders how long she's been waiting to throw that back in his face since he first said it.

He grins at her as he asks, "You think I'm pretty?" but before he can say more, she's pouring a generous amount of the hydrogen peroxide along the length of his cut without a warning for him to prepare himself. His leg jerks away on instinct to save himself from the burning sensation, but she grips his ankle tightly enough to force him to stay still.

His nose scrunches up with the urge to groan in pain, and he does a little. Through grinding teeth, he winces in response to the peroxide slipping into every cell of open skin and bubbling up like the white water of the waves as it kills the bacteria lingering in the gash.

"Does it hurt now?" Y/N asks.

She's looking up at him through her lashes with her lips curled into a smirk as she packs gauze onto the wound until it's covered to her satisfaction. And it should be the last thing he's thinking about right now after cutting up his leg and hitting his head hard enough to worry her about concussions, but he can't help it. Looking down at her like this, it's impossible for him to not think about the unfinished business they have.

Everything is the same as it was yesterday—the tattered white top, the red panties in place of a bikini, sunburnt cheeks, and a taunting look that he'll never get tired of seeing. But that's precisely why he's reminded of it. She's wearing the same clothes and looking at him the way she did on the beach before any of last night's antics occurred, and he can't keep himself from wondering if it'll happen again.

"Yeah," he finally responds.

Her smirk grows for a second before she gets back to work.

"Good."

JJ subtly eyes her up from where she shifts on her knees to set the open gauze wrappers under the peroxide bottle in exchange for the bandage wrap, but he isn't as subtle as he thinks. She can feel his stare no matter how sneaky he attempts to be. He may be able to evade John B's attention, since he dove into the ocean to retrieve the wooden spear that began to float out in the tide, but she never misses a thing. Not when it comes to him.

When he looks at her, he finds memories.

Her legs folded up beneath her bring him back to how smooth they felt on his palms when he lifted them up around his hips. Her rosy lips pressing into a line in concentration bring him back to the coconut flavor he tasted on them. Her nipples poking against the fabric of her shirt bring him back to when he lifted it up over her breasts to suck at the sensitive skin until he got a moan from her—There isn't a place he can stare without going back to last night.

Part of him hates that.

He can't stand that a girl who he spent the last five years hating has found a way into his daydreams. Why couldn't it have been anyone else? Why did she have to lure him into her trap? He supposes there's nothing he can do about it now, though. After hours of stewing over it, he's reached the conclusion that it was likely a one-time thing, a mistake made in the heat of the moment that she won't make again, and he should get the idea of it out of his head.

When she has to adjust her grip to hold the gauze in place while she wraps the bandage around his leg, he sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth and jerks away again. She glances up at him with her best, "Are you kidding me?" face. Didn't he say he was tough?

"I'm starting to think you're a sadist, 'cause it's like you're trying to make it hurt," he says.

She gasps, feigning offense.

"Me? Enjoying this? It's not like we've hated each other for years or anything."

And though he may not realize it, this is her way of distracting him from the pain of having her apply added pressure to his cut while she wraps the bandage into place. It has to be tight enough to keep water and sand out, but not so tight that it cuts off circulation, and while it may have been tolerable without her touching it, the contact is enough to make it worse for him.

He asks, "Uh, speaking of, why are you the one doing this? Isn't it some kind of HIPAA thing to treat patients you've threatened to violate with tree branches before?"

The sound of her laughter makes his stomach flutter with butterflies, and he wonders what the hell is wrong with him.

"That's not what HIPAA is, genius"—her eyes crinkle at the sides with her wide smile while she wraps his leg—"and I'm the one doing this because I know way more medical shit than the rest of you."

Even Pope.

"Ohhh right, I forgot. Your dad is this hotshot surgeon and that makes you think you know everything," he taunts.

The casual mention of her father makes her chest ache with something not many of the Pogues, excluding Pope, have felt since being stranded on this island. With their parents either disowning them, absent, abusive, or dead, they have no reason to resist the allure of living here for the months or years it may take to be rescued, but she does.

She misses him.

For the longest time since her mom died, it was her and her dad versus the world. In everything they did, they did it together, and before she met Sarah, he was the closest she had to a best friend. Since they had no other family to help watch her as a child, she grew up in the hospital with him, drawing with crayons on his office’s printer paper with her babysitter and picking up small things along the way from watching him for so long.

He could've chosen to leave her at home, sure, but he didn't want to miss out on seeing her more than he already did, so she spent the majority of her childhood in offices, waiting rooms, and the indoor playground of the PEDs wing.

She takes a deep breath to steady herself after the sucker punch of being reminded of her dad and says, "Well, I know enough and, thankfully for you, I'm the one doing this instead of John B."

From far away, twenty or so feet offshore where their friend is paddling through the water with the lost spear held in one hand, they hear John B shouting an offended, "I heard that!" back at her. It draws a soft chuckle from them both, and she silently thanks him for distracting JJ one last time as she finishes and secures the bandage so it won't unravel.

She wipes her hands off on her water-soaked thighs one more time to get as much of his blood off of her fingers as possible before she reaches out with both arms extended to offer him help to stand. He takes them with a murmured, "Thanks," as they both try not to show how affected they are by the casual touch.

It makes them feel pathetic that something as small as holding each other's hands makes them remember what they did and desperately wish to continue it. Her throat bobs with how she must swallow the lump in her throat at their close proximity, barely breathing now that he's standing close to her with less than a few inches between them.

For a second, they don't move away. They stay face to face, and all she can think of is how badly she wants to kiss him again. But she can't do anything yet, not when she hears someone screaming from the water.

"There's a shark!" John B screams as he paddles back faster than he's ever swam in his life, already close enough to the peninsula that they can see the terror in his eyes when they turn to look.

Surely enough, there a tip of a fin too pointed to pass off as a dolphin cutting through the surface of the water to alert them of the fish's presence, but if that weren't enough, the water is clear enough for them to see its outline.

Thankfully for him, it isn't huge. It looks about as long as he is tall, but that doesn't change the degree of danger. Just because it isn't as big as other sharks doesn't make a bite any less lethal, especially when their only form of medical attention rests on her knowledgeable yet inexperienced shoulders.

For once in his life, JJ is frozen with no clue of what to do.

He's always the man with the plan, the one who jumps into action when others choke up and sit on the sidelines, but this makes him falter. What can he do to help other than stand here and pray John B can out-swim a shark? He's helpless, and now that he's faced with the prospect of losing his best friend for a second time, he doesn't know what to do.

It was his blood in the water that must have attracted the shark, and he was so caught up in his own drama with her and the pain of his cut that he didn't consider the danger of John B jumping in to retrieve the spear he dropped. It's his fault. His best friend is about to be eaten by a shark and it's his fault—

The blurred image of her rushing past in his peripheral vision rips him from his stormy thoughts, and right when he thought it couldn't get worse, it does. Water splashes up around her body and swallows her under the surface after she leaps off the edge of the rock with the aluminum spear from the dinghy raised in her dominant arm.

"Y/N!"

Before he even realizes what he's doing, JJ is screaming out her name, screaming it like he cares, and damns the consequences to dive in after her.

While he was frozen, she sprung into action without thinking of her own life first. She knew he was close to the rock, but not close enough to swim faster than a predator designed for the conditions of the ocean. It took one glance at the spear resting to the side for her to lean down, scoop it up, and get a running start to jump out as far as humanly possible. Various joints and muscles ached from how she strained to push herself far off the rock, taking flight with nothing but their survival in mind.

She sucks in a heaving breath upon breaking the surface, but she doesn't take a second to pause with John B paddling up to her so soon.

"Go back!"

The only answer she gives him is, "Use your spear!" before she brings hers out of the water in anticipation of the grey figure bolting straight for them.

It's a stupid plan, but it's the only one she has, and if one of them is in danger, they'd all risk everything they have to protect them. After all, they're already trapped here with the threat of death every day. Is there anything more worthy of dying for than your friends?

Neither of them is necessarily trying to kill it yet either, they're trying to keep it at a safe distance or hurt it enough so it swims away from them, but she puts all of her strength into spearing the fish between the eyes anyway. Her legs kick tirelessly to keep her afloat while she and John B stab as accurately as they can, choking down a mouthful of salty ocean water from how her head sinks at the surface without the help of her arms to keep her up.

Blood stains the water with a crimson hue spreading out around their bodies—whether it's theirs or the shark's, she doesn't know—and she must keep her lips clamped shut to prevent it from spilling into her mouth, breathing solely through her nose. She can tell her legs are soon to give out on her, but then a pair of hands latch onto her body. Call her irrational or stupid, but even with the clear distinction of human hands on her waist, her mind reacts in instinctual fear.

The touch makes her jolt mid-stab and sobers her feral mind back to reality for a moment until she realizes it's a human touching her, not the shark.

It's JJ.

His arms wrap around her thighs and hoist her up out of the water as much as he can while still swimming, effectively pushing himself underwater with one last gasp for air.

The sudden shift in view has her gaze shifting around to take in the new sights with a gush of red water rushing off of her onto the splashing surface: a light grey tail whips around in the chaos, the shark's head oozes blood from the multiple puncture wounds that didn't push quite deep enough, and its jaws snap right where John B's arm is before he yanks it back.

After a fraction of a second, it clicks with her that there's no time to waste watching her friend almost get his arm chomped off while she takes in the unbelievable sight. Her slippery grip on the handle remains as firm as possible, and she raises the spear over her head with an improved accuracy she never could've had from where she previously aimed it before. All of their shots landed well enough, but with the height advantage, she won't allow herself to fuck it up this time with her friend's life hanging in the balance.

She hardly recognizes her own frantic voice shouting at him, "Spear it in the gills!"

Her hands bring the razor-sharp tip of the spear down into its head repeatedly, and she isn't sure whether it's the splashing water or tears wetting her face when she buries the weapon down into it for a final time right when John B lodges his wooden spear in its gills.

Whatever she did, it must've hit its brain, because the animal halts its thrashing. Its teeth no longer snap at her friend, nor does its tail whip around in the water as violently as it did a moment ago.

As quickly as it started, it drops off into a sickening calm that leaves the white bubbles dissolving into a puddle of bloody water surrounding the trio and the fish that dies with no small amount of guilt on her part. There was no choice but to kill it. It makes her ache on the inside, but how could she regret it if she knows it saved them? The guilt might ravage her for the upcoming days, but she can't bring herself to regret jumping in after him.

She hardly has the chance to process it before she's being pulled away by both of the boys, her view of the scene shifting drastically once more with the abrupt drop of JJ letting her down in favor of guiding her through the gentle waves. His calloused hand squeezes her arm enough to cut circulation off on their journey back.

Time rushes past her in the next thirty seconds or so it takes them to reach the peninsula again in a paranoid sprint away from where the dead fish floats. One of them, John B she thinks, tosses the aluminum spear he dislodged from the shark's head up onto the rocks and clambers his way back up on his own. The waves closer to land grow rougher than the tender current out where they killed the shark, and she grunts in pain as one sends her and JJ straight into the rocks. His body hits her back with a solid ‘thump’ and forces her to wheeze with the wind getting knocked from her lungs upon impact, nails cracking on the black rock from the desperate grip she uses in an attempt to lift herself.

Meanwhile, JJ can't seem to catch his breath either, nor can he think of anything other than her once he sees that John B isn’t injured.

As soon as he sees his friend is unmarked from the teeth of the shark after he's out of the water, he positions himself behind Y/N to help her out first. He places his hands on her backside to push her up as quickly as he can. Knowing that the carcass in the water will soon attract more sharks in the surrounding area into a feeding frenzy, he'd rather it be him than her. It's a thought that shoots by too fast for him to fully acknowledge the meaning or weight of it at a time like this.

Somehow within his adrenaline-crazed mind, he is careful not to push her onto the jagged edge that sliced his leg open earlier, then climbs after her with little space left between them.

She's coughing up saltwater onto the rocks as he scrambles over to her, eyes wild with the petrifying worry of anything bad happening to her. They scan over her arms, legs, stomach, and back, and he doesn't even realize his hands are reaching out to inspect her as frantically as she had with him when he got hurt.

His hands cup her face, petting over her dripping hair and forcing her to look up so he can see if she somehow got hit in the face. Never has his mind been so void of rational thought, and, knowing him and his impulsive tendencies, that's saying a lot. The confusion of his contradictory feelings for her muddle his mind. Worry and hatred, attraction and anger—they battle it out, but only two manage to reach him externally.

Worry and anger it is. Worry for obvious reasons. Anger because—

"What the fuck were you thinking?"

She has never heard him sound so vicious since the start of whatever odd relationship/friendship/enemy-ship they have. With his worried expression and how he checked her entire body for injury after helping her out of the water, the last thing she would've anticipated from him was anger. Especially not after she saved his best friend's life. Considering what she just did for him, she thinks he should be thanking her, not chastising her.

Behind her back, she can hear a collection of yelling voices and splashing footsteps over the water dripping from them. It can only be the rest of their friends racing up the peninsula to them, but she can't turn around.

She stares at him with utter confusion flooding her at his unexpected outburst. Speechless.

"What was I thinking?" she asks incredulously with her face still cradled between his hands, "I was saving John B's life!"

Their emotional distance and disagreement are made up for in abundance by how physically entangled they've become. It wasn't intentional. It was a result of him needing to get close enough to scour her exposed skin for any bites, but now that they're sitting so near to each other, they forget to back away.

John B is too busy to engage with them.

He's doubled over on the ground with the compulsion to vomit the contents of his stomach into the ocean, but he doesn't dare get close to the edge again after what they went through. Instead, he positions himself away from them and their approaching friends until the half-digested food is forced back through his mouth. The acidic bile scorches his throat and nostrils on the way out.

JJ doesn't have the opportunity to retort back something about her being stupid, because Pope is the first person to reach them and ask, "What the hell happened?"

The rest of the group isn't far behind. It's Kie who asks the next question, then Sarah, then Cleo. They all pop off in rapid succession before either of the three of them can answer.

"Are any of you hurt?"

"Why is he throwing up?"

"Is that a shark?"

The last question draws everyone's attention over to the half-sunken mass of fish bobbing up and down on the breaths of the sea with a wooden spear sticking straight out of its gills. Though it isn't the biggest, most intimidating shark to roam the ocean, its presence doesn't fail to make everyone who looks at it shudder with the realization of what must have happened.

John B wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and points over at her with his trembling arm outstretched.

"She killed it."

The four of them whip their heads in her direction, jaws nearly falling off their faces in disbelief, but she doesn't say anything yet. Because as soon as they feel the eyes of their friends burning into them, she and JJ realize, as though they're returning to reality from the hazy layers of a dreamscape, that they're still holding each other.

She's slumped halfway onto him from when he hauled her body closer to inspect her, so she's essentially sitting on top of him at this point. Her legs, bruised and scratched up from when the waves crested to send them crashing into the rocks, are entangled around his enough that they look back and forth between them and where his hands cup her face in surprise.

JJ doesn't know what came over him.

Now that he snaps out of it at the same time as her, both of them separating and nudging each other away until their bodies are no longer entwined, he feels his cheeks flush in embarrassment.

When he saw her leaping past him to jump into the water, his mind shut off. He wasn't thinking about himself, or the possibility of getting killed, or anything at all. He was only thinking of the danger she put herself in, then he dove in and the rest of his conscious mind faded away into pure survival instinct. Yet, even after he knew the immediate danger was gone, the adrenaline kept him on edge, desperate to get her back to land and pray none of them were hurt.

"It was trying to attack him," she rasps. Her throat is raw from the saltwater she choked on, and every word burns. "But we did it together."

She pushes herself off the ground with an exhausted sigh.

Muscles spent from the struggle in the water, her legs wobble beneath the weight of her upper body as she takes a few steps to help John B up from his position on his hands and knees. From what she heard, he has thrown up all he has left in his stomach and hasn't gagged again in a minute or so, so attempting to stand again shouldn't be too strenuous for him.

His hand is cold in her grasp from the water soaking their bodies, but it holds firmly enough for her to help him into his feet without their palms slipping apart. No patches of blood are visible on his shorts, nor are there any puncture wounds on him from the sharp teeth that snapped at his arm in the quick but vigorous fight.

They were very, very fortunate to have made it out alive, and when he looks down at her face, he feels nothing but gratitude for the girl he previously saw as nothing more than his girlfriend's best friend. They went into the water as casual acquaintances, companions of convenience and the happenstance of being forced onto this island together, but they've come out of it differently. Now, they're friends.

Now, she's a Pogue.

He smiles at her, glancing up at their friends as their questions die down at the sight of his crazy grin, and says, "That was some real Pogue shit right there, Y/N." His eyes come back to meet hers. "I think it's about time we officially make you one of us. What do you think?"

She's opening her mouth to respond when Kiara cuts her off. The rest of them are staring at the trio as if they have ten heads sprouting from their bodies for not immediately surrendering more details of their near-death encounter other than saying she killed it.

"I'm sorry, can we please rewind to the part where you got attacked by a shark first?"

"Ladies and gentlemen, can I get a drumroll please for..."

The campfire is roaring with the abundance of sticks, leaves, and branches thrown onto the pile to fuel it as she feels a strong pair of arms looping around her thighs to lift her into the expansive, star-flecked sky.

In a flash of haunting memory, she relives the moment where JJ dove into the water after her and lifted her body above the surface to give her the high ground over the shark. She relives its thrashing hunger, the water splashing on her, and the cloudy hue of blood around them that she hoped wasn't either of the boys. For a second, as the world grows taller with her new perspective, she is brought back to the sudden shift she felt then and feels her stomach drop in panic, anticipating the danger.

But then the sound of her friends laughing, as well as the surging fire and crashing waves, comes back to her and forces the frightful flashback away. Her hip fits perfectly in the curve of John B's shoulder, and she lets her head fall back in giggling laughter at how he hoists her up in the air as though she's a holy figure of worship for the Pogues to kneel to.

His voice can likely be heard across the entire island when he shouts, "The Shark Conqueror!"

The group erupts into a triumphant mixture of cheers and laughter that fills the beach, everyone celebrating in their narrow escape earlier today...everyone except JJ.

After John B divulged the gory details of what happened, from JJ's fall to her picking up the spear and jumping in to save him from the shark, they made their way back with enough conversation to last the month. They all asked questions and took peeks back at where it happened in morbid curiosity, wondering how on earth they managed to come out of the situation without a scratch.

The rest of the afternoon continued on with the same buzzing energy that can only be created from the thrill of being alive. She's felt it many times since joining Sarah's group of friends that seem to find trouble wherever they go, but she has never felt it as vehemently as she does tonight. It's a mixture of euphoria, shock, and soul-crushing guilt for having to hurt another living creature, even one that was intending to make a meal of her friend.

No matter how much she grows up or discovers more about herself as a person, feelings never stop being as frustrating as they were to her as a child. You can get better at processing and hindering explosive reactions to them, but they never simplify. She doesn't know why she feels so much at once. She doesn't know why she feels simultaneously on top of the world and thrown off the edge of a cliff, but she thinks it has to do with him.

Since they walked back to the beach and talked about what happened until the day withered into night, which led them here to the “official” ceremony of her being named a Pogue for life, JJ hasn't spoken to her once.

Suddenly, the shoe is on the other foot.

Much like how she avoided him all night last night leading into this morning, he doesn't talk to her. He tries not to look at her too from where he sits on the log of driftwood across the fire, but it's somewhat inevitable with the spectacle John B is making of her at the moment.

Painted in the warm tones of the firelight like a goddess in her own right, Y/N is impossible to look away from, and it makes him angrier than he already is. A handwoven circlet crafted from the hibiscus and hippeastrum flowers growing in the forest around their camp sits atop her head. It doesn't fall to the ground with the movement of her throwing her head back in laughter. It stays in its rightful place against the rule of gravity until her face comes back into view for him to quickly look away from.

It dampers her laughter to see him avoiding her gaze so adamantly, taking a swig of water from one of the small cups they carved from wood and turning to talk to Kie to keep himself busy. The distinct sensation of being on top of the world slips away with the feeling of his cold avoidance and John B lowering her back to the ground until her bare feet sink into the soft sand.

Before she can start sulking about it for the foreseeable future, Sarah steps up beside her.

The familiar touch of a hand on her shoulder brings her comfort amidst her confusion and hurt over the way JJ is acting, and when she turns to see a pretty face looking fondly at her, a warm smile finds her lips.

"Pogue for life?" Sarah asks.

The three words bring make her smile grow the same way it had when she was talking to JJ on the peninsula. It crinkles the skin around her eyes with its unrestrained happiness to hear them because, as much as she pretends to let JJ's comments roll off of her, tonight marks one of the first times she's felt at home with them.

That's not to say they haven't made her feel welcome in the past, they did, but this isn’t the same. This is closer, this is the type of bond that's forged in situations like these where people have no choice but to rely on each other or let their worlds collectively fall apart, and she thinks, for the first time, that she could live here with them forever if she must.

None of them know how much time has passed since they arrived here, least of all her, but it sure as hell feels like an eternity. At first, she could barely withstand the idea of living here for months with the intention of being rescued as soon as possible, but now...

She brings Sarah into an embrace tight enough to force the air from their lungs.

"Pogue for life," she echoes back with her face buried into the salt-scented tresses of dirty blonde hair cascading over her tan shoulders.

Would it be crazy of her to think that this is where they're meant to be? That they're her family and this place she has fantasized about escaping is now their home?

After all, the lush island provides everything they need to sustain themselves with the rationing, scavenging, and hunting routines they adhere themselves to. Freshwater runs down the land in a stream from a water source uphill, plenty of different edible plants grow in the forest, and there's so much left of the expansive land to explore; it's perfect. Everything here is perfect for them, calling out to them to make it their home, but there's one little problem as of right now, and he's sitting across the fire behind her back.

Sarah's arms squeeze around her shoulders once to bring her in even closer.

"Thank you for saving him," her voice is so hushed, Y/N can hardly hear it with her lips brushing the shell of her ear to whisper into it, "I'm not gonna get all mushy with you right now, but I don't know what I would've done if"—Sarah's breath hitches in her throat, and she shakes her head—"I just wanted to thank you."

When they pull apart, Y/N is looking back at her with a knowing expression, one that says everything she can't in the presence of the others, and Sarah can't help but mirror it.

It isn't long before the blonde-haired beauty is whisked away by her boyfriend to help him cook the crabs they caught closer to shore after their encounter with the shark. Not wanting to swim out or risk slipping off the rocks again with the dead fish promising to lure more predators to their area for the next week or so, they settled for hunting for shellfish and making good use of the fruits they find growing in wild abundance in the forest.

The night ticks away in swiftly passing minutes thanks to the humorous company of the people around her.

She nearly chokes on a mouthful of banana as Cleo tells a story from before she met them, when she used to live in Nassau and work jobs with Terence and Stubbs on ships. For such new additions to the group, they both fit surprisingly well with the lifelong childhood friends that sit around and banter with such ease together.

They talk, laugh, dance, and eat together, and there are moments when she feels happier than ever. There are moments exactly like when John B lifted her up and made her giggle at how their friends cheered on her behalf in indulgence of the silly "ceremony" they did, half out of boredom and half out of gratitude for what she did. But then she is reminded of the man sitting on the outskirts of the group with his features hardened into an expression of contemplation she wishes she could decode.

The night breeze feels heavenly on her perpetually overexposed skin. It blows into the fire and allows it to swell from the oxygen supply, crackling and popping embers out every so often like the spark of the zippo lighter JJ fidgets with in his restless hands. The movement attracts her wandering eyes while they should be focused on Cleo and Kie dancing around the fire with boisterous laughter while Sarah and Pope sing for them.

She keeps herself honed in on the opening and closing of the lighter under the guidance of his ring-clad fingers for the next minute or so.

They may have been pitting themselves against each other since they met, but that doesn't mean she doesn't know him well. If anything, the keen attention that her old hatred for him forced her to keep on him made her memorize everything there is to know. And she surely has picked up on the nervous habit of him playing with the lighter whenever he's thinking, whenever there's something crawling under his skin that he can't piece together.

He sits with his back to her, facing out toward the ocean so all she can see is the hand he uses to flick the lighter open and shut with. With a quick glance at the rest of their friends to see if any of them are watching or wanting to speak with her, she pushes herself up from the log and dusts her sandy palms on her shirt.

The tracks of her footsteps lead around the corner of the driftwood he rests against until her feet appear, sunken into the sand in front of him. It takes a lot of control to not allow himself to follow up the length of her body, panning up along her legs until he sees that infuriatingly tenderhearted set of eyes looking down at him.

However, he doesn't have a choice in looking when her hand outstretches in a silent invitation. His first glimpse of her in the last half-hour shows her jerking her chin in the direction of the beach curving around the bend of the island.

This morning, he probably would've taken her up on the offer. He would've done anything to get a few minutes alone with her, but now he can't see past his anger and doesn't know why. He doesn't know why it hasn't calmed yet, but, in truth, it has more to do with him than it does her idiotic yet brave decision to fight off a shark today. Trust him, it still has a lot to do with the idiotic shark thing, but the rest is lost in translation for him.

"Not in the mood," he dismisses her.

Her brows furrow and form a crease between them as she tries to find something to say but comes up with nothing. At least not until it clicks with her what he thought she was trying to do by inviting him to walk with her.

The last time they went off on their own together, it ended in an explosive encounter they have yet to erase from their minds. It's what greets them whenever they close their eyes for a second too long, existing in their wildest daydreams and fantasies whenever they have a spare moment to themselves. Hell, he can't stop thinking about it even when he's already occupied. It was the reason why he didn't catch any fish this morning before the incident that made him pissed at her in the first place. He couldn't stop thinking of her.

"Oh," she murmurs and starts to kneel down until her knees are sinking into the sand the same way she did when patching up his leg. Her eyes peek over his shoulder to ensure the others didn't hear them—"That wasn't what I meant...I was just wondering if you wanted to talk about today. It must have been a lot to process, since he's your best friend and all, and—"

JJ snaps, unable to tolerate it anymore, and stands up from his spot on the sand to move away from her.

"You don't need act all therapist with me, okay? I'm fine, and I don't need you to fix me if that's what you wanted. Today was fine. Everything's fine, so let it go."

Her mouth opens and closes like a fish with a loss for words. For the second time in the span of a minute, she is grasping blindly for something to say in the wake of him shocking her to silence. He's starting to walk past her but she doesn't let him. Her hand shoots out to stop him and holds onto his arm to turn him back despite his rudeness.

Underneath it all, her concern touches him deeply. It shouldn't trigger a reaction like this in him, so why does it? What about today set him off? He hasn't been this genuinely angry with her since before the hunt for the gold began, before she started to blend into their friend group and establish herself as one of them.

"Woah, woah, woah," she says, "I never said that. I thought that you needed someone to talk to. You know, as a friend."

Their friends start to notice their interaction tensing up now. Before, they didn't pick up on her stepping away for a second to check on him. Now, it's impossible to ignore what unfolds hardly six steps from where they watch as slyly as they can. The two of them haven't had a conversation as cold as this one in months, and what he says next takes it to a place that freezes over the connection they made last night and shatters the warm place it held in her heart.

He scoffs.

"We're not friends. If you think you gotta act different 'cause you threw yourself at me last night, don't bother. You hate me and I hate you. That's how it is."

No nicknames, jokes, or anything to act as a buffer, just cruelty. Rejection.

Though they truly were trying to pretend like they weren't paying attention, every single one of their friends stops and stares. A chorus of hushed reactions sound off from across the fire, and the faint sound of Kie muttering, "Oh shit," is the first thing to reach their ears. It's needless to say that none of them could've expected something so callous to come from him, not after what they saw when they ran up to them on the peninsula this morning.

With the way he was holding her then, doting on her and cradling her face between his hands even in the midst of his anger at what she did, they sooner expected the pair to admit they're dating than have a blowout like this.

In the delayed seconds it takes for her to realize what the fuck he just said to her, he watches her face shift from a look of concern to sadness, to flush-faced embarrassment, then finally to anger. Her teeth grind together, nostrils flaring on her inhale, and in one quick moment, she comes to a conclusion within herself.

She reaches up to rip the handmade crown of vibrant flowers off her head with flames to match the camp fire flaring up in her eyes for him. Before she can do anything, he already knows he crossed a line, if not multiple lines. It's evident in everything he sees, from the hurt look on her face to the force with which she shoves the crown into the center of his chest to send him stumbling back a few steps. Just like yesterday, except it couldn't be any more different.

"Fuck. You." She spits the words as though they're venomous, and he almost shrinks away under the intensity of her stare, “Go find somewhere else to sleep tonight, 'cause it sure as hell isn't gonna be with me."

Petals flutter out upon impact against his solid chest and float peacefully to the sand around his feet as he watches her turn on her heels and storm off toward their hut. Though, after what he did and what she said to him as a goodbye, it isn't really theirs anymore, is it? At least not for tonight, tomorrow, or the next day until he finds a way to make her hear him out for an apology.

He stands there, frozen, the entire time he watches her leave. Nothing can move him from the spot, not even Sarah knocking her shoulder against his with a pointed glare on her way past to follow her into the moonlit darkness.

He doesn't even resist the disappointed looks he gets, or the shoulder check from Sarah. This time, he deserves it. He deserves every ounce of their judgment. All she was trying to do was make sure he was okay and he was too consumed in his unreleased frustration from today to see it. And, in a way, he's still frustrated over it, but it's greatly overshadowed by the guilt seeping through him.

The shadowy shapes of the two girls disappear into the small hut further down the beach, and JJ is left with nothing to do but look down at the flower crown clutched to his chest in regret.

Tag List: @gabiatthedisco, @fangirlvoice, @black-syren, @apparrio, @particularcth, @planetdemon, @idk-ijustworkhere, @krisphann, @astrydis, @k-k0129, @zarahsloves, and @stilesflannels.

[dreamerstreamer]

Telltale Talent

Pairing: Dream / Clay x gn!reader

Summary: [Dream SMP!AU] When Dream tries to teach you how to spar, he learns that you’re more than what meets the eye.

Word Count: 2.1k

A/N: this was requested by an anon who wanted a fun sparring practice with a surprise! here’s to the first fic of 2021, and i hope you enjoy <3

Clay stared down at the map on his desk, his fingers curling tighter around the quill in his hands. A mess of scribbles and circles gazed back up at him as he made another mark. He bit back the sigh that threatened to escape his throat, his brow twitching.

You were doing it, again.

He could feel your eyes on him from the other side of the room, practically boring a hole through his skull. He clenched his jaw, chewing on his lip as he tried to focus his attention on the map lying before him. If you were going to do what he thought you were going t—

At that exact moment, you opened your mouth, but he spoke before you could.

“No.”

Almost immediately, a whine flew from your lips, and you thrashed your legs in annoyance. “What?! Why not?” You frowned, determination etched into your features. “It’ll be a good experience!”

This time, he actually did sigh, lifting his head to look at you dead on, balancing his quill between his fingers. “For one, it’s not like you’re not going to go into battle, anyway.”

Your frown deepened, a line forming between your brows as you shot him a longing look. “That doesn’t mean you still can’t teach me how to spar.”

He pursed his lips, his tongue poking at the inside of his cheek. “There’s no need to.”

For a few seconds, you simply stared at one another, your eyes swimming with resolve as he grimaced. Then your face lit up, and you shot your arm into the air, making him jump. 

“Self-defence!” you shouted, your entire body practically glowing with hope. “If you teach me how to spar, then I could use it for self-defence purposes.” Before he could open his mouth to retort, you cut him off with a cold look. “Clay, you can’t tell me that there’s no chance that I won’t ever have to defend myself—you just can’t.”

Clay blinked at you, glowering. You weren’t wrong, per se. He didn’t want to acknowledge it, but there was still a very real possibility that at any point, you could be in danger, regardless of whether or not you were on the battlefield. It wasn’t that he didn’t think you were capable of keeping yourself safe, but teaching you how to fight would mean having to admit that there may come a time where he couldn’t be there for you.

The mere thought left a bitter taste in his mouth.

He stared at you for a long moment, taking in the sight of your pleading face and clenched hands, your eyes desperately searching his. Then, he sighed once more, setting his quill down in its holder. “Fine.”

You let out a delighted squeal, springing to your feet before bounding over to his desk. Bending over, you pressed a quick peck to his cheek. His heart skipped a loving beat in his chest, and his cheeks flushed pink.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you, Clay!” you cried, flashing him a bright grin as you pulled back. Your eyes curved into crescent moons as you giggled with glee. “You won’t regret this, I promise!”

He rested his head on his hand as he watched you cheer to yourself, pumping your air in a successful dance. A small smile flitted across his face, his emerald eyes crinkling at the corners as his map lay forgotten on the desk.

Oh, who was he kidding? You were far too cute to say no to, even if he wanted to.

“So, what’s first?”

He hummed, tucking a hand under his chin. Above you, the midday sun beat down on you both, the clouds watching with eager eyes as Clay paced around the clearing.

He was lucky to have found a spot within the forest that was both open and had plenty of soft grass. This way, you’d have a proper spot to practice while also having some semblance of cushioning beneath you in case you fell. As much as he wanted to simulate a real fight scenario for you, he didn’t want you to actually get injured. He could hardly manage to keep his cool when you got a simple scrape on your finger—there was no way he’d remain calm if you got hurt in a fight, practice or not.

His steps suddenly came to a halt, and he turned on his heel to look at you with a thoughtful glance. “Before we even properly start practicing,” he began, raising two fingers, “there are two things you should know and remember.”

Your eyebrows knit together as you let out a small whine, your shoulders sinking at your side. “Aw, is this a lecture?” You frowned. “I just want to skip to the fun part, already.”

Clay rolled his eyes as shook his head, but you didn’t miss the tiny smile on his lips as he wagged his fingers at you. “Ah, ah, ah. I’m the teacher here, so you better pay attention.”

You shot him a sour look, then quietly grumbled, “Well, you’re not a very fun teacher.”

He scowled at that, placing a hand on his hip. “We’re getting there!” His gaze softened, and his tone grew gentle as he offered, “Let’s just do this first, okay? I promise I’ll keep it short, and you will get to try a real spar, today.”

Your frown was slowly replaced by a smile, and you sent him a keen look, shifting forward onto your toes. “Okay.”

He grinned, taking a few steps back from you until he was standing on the opposite side of the clearing. “Good. First,” he said, pointing his two fingers at his eyes then to yours, “never take your eyes off your enemy.” He cocked his head as he lowered his arm. “It may seem obvious to you, but you’d be surprised by how often people forget in the heat of the moment.”

Your gaze was serious when you nodded, and he was almost taken aback by how quickly your demeanour had changed. “I can do that.”

He blinked for a second, then sent you another encouraging smile. “Perfect. Second,” he carried on, pointing downward, “remember that your feet exist.”

“Okay—wait.” You froze, your eyebrows furrowing together as confusion flickered across your face. “What?”

He chuckled at your confused expression, dropping his arm. “I know it sounds dumb, but it’s true! You see,” he explained, tapping a finger against his temple, “the human brain is kind of dumb, and a lot of the time when it comes to fights, a person’s first instinct is to focus on their enemy’s hands and immobilize them.” He raised his hand toward you, curling it into a tight fist. “After all, they are pretty effective weapons. But your feet can be just as, if not more, powerful.” His gaze darted back to yours. “Do you follow?”

Slowly, you nodded, your eyes staring directly at his knuckles. “In the same way,” he continued, “it’s also good to remember that your elbows and knees are two of the strongest parts of your body.” He raised one hand, the other reaching over to tap his elbow. “Don’t be afraid to use them, because they can be especially useful.”

Your lips parted as you bobbed your head. He could practically see the gears churning in your head, and he almost wanted to coo at how focused you looked. “Feet, elbows, knees,” your murmured quietly to yourself, huffing. “Got it.”

He dropped his arm, his lips quirking. “Awesome.” He turned slightly to the side, shifting his weight onto his back foot. “Now that the so-called boring part is done, do you just want to give it a first go and try a practice fight? First person to knock the other person over wins.”

Your eyes lit up, and for a split second, Clay could have sworn he saw something dark flicker through your gaze. But it was gone as soon as it had appeared, and he was soon blinded by your dazzling grin. “Sure!”

His expression mirrored yours as he brought his arms up in front of him, his hands forming fists. In front of him, your eyes quickly scanned him up and down, and you slowly moved to copy his stance. He felt a tinge of satisfaction shoot through him. You were a fast learner.

“I’m ready when you are,” he called, cracking his neck with a grunt.

Your eyes narrowed, your tongue darting out to wet your lips, and for a moment, all was still.

Then, in a flash, you were charging toward him, stopping only just in front of him to throw your fist at his skull. He smiled at your earnest effort, quickly twisting to the side. You nearly toppled forward when your fist met empty air, and he reveled in your widening eyes. A split second later, you leapt back, swinging your left leg up and into his side. But just before your shin made impact with his hoodie, he lifted his arm, his hand quickly latching onto your ankle and holding it in place.

“Ooh, nice try, sweetheart,” he hummed, shooting you a crooked grin. He drank in the shocked look on your face as his expression grew a fraction darker and his grip on your ankle tightened.

“But not nice enough.”

He swiftly threw down your foot, watching as you stumbled back at the force. You didn’t get the chance to regain your balance before he was suddenly looming beside you, his fist flying toward your nose. With a yelp, you ducked, your arm shooting above your head to grab his arm in midair. He blinked as your fingers dug into his sweater, curling tightly into the fabric. Then, a devious grin crept onto his face.

As much as you may try, he had the upper hand when it came to brute strength.

But to his shock, he felt something sharp and hard slam into his gut, knocking the air straight out of his lungs. He quickly back-pedaled, but your hold on his sleeve didn’t let up. He only barely caught a glimpse of your kneecap before you stepped behind him, twisting his arm around and pinning it to his back. Just then, he felt something brush against his ankle.

No way.

In the blink of an eye, his legs were flying out beneath him, and he was flipping into the air. With a thud, he slammed into the ground, a dull ache shooting through his back as the grass cushioned his fall. Before he could even react, you quickly placed your foot on his chest, keeping him thoroughly pinned down.

His eyes were the size of saucers as he took in your half-shaking figure, your eyes trained on his fallen form. You panted above him, your fists slowly uncurling. “Was—was that good?”

Clay gaped at you, his head spinning with what you’d just done. You had just knocked him, a trained soldier and practiced assassin, flat on his back with practically no instructions whatsoever. He had only given you two—well, two and a half—simple tips before putting you on the spot, and you still managed to take him down.

There was no sugarcoating it—you were a prodigy. 

If he wasn’t in love with you before, then he definitely was, now.

Pride swelled in his chest as he closed his mouth, swallowing. He stared at you for a moment longer before shaking his head free from his reverie. He couldn’t wait to teach you more.

“[Y/N],” he breathed, his lips stretching into an awed grin, “you’re amazing.”

You blinked, pointing to yourself in surprise. “I-I am?”

He nodded without even an ounce hesitation, his grin growing even wider. “Very.” With a small grunt, he pushed himself back onto his feet, dusting off his behind before turning back to you. “Now,” he said, “do it again.” His eyes glinted with something akin to mischief. “I won’t go easy on you this time.”

You tilted your head at him as a devilish smile of your own tugged at your lips. “In that case, neither will I.”

He raised a brow at you, but he couldn’t stop the affection bubbling up in between his lungs. He felt his heart beat faster as you settled into a fighting stance, your arms raised in front of you. “That’s the spirit.”

Your eyes locked onto each other, and for a moment, all was still.

Then, you came barreling towards him, your eyes glimmering in the sunlight. His lips curled into a smirk as he raised his foot.

Perhaps teaching you to fight wasn’t too bad of an idea, after all.

[inhuman-obey-me]

God-Fearing Faith

Can also be read on AO3 here

Word Count: 5.7k

Description: In the Great Celestial War, torn between Lucifer and his Father, Simeon chose not to fight. That comes with its own consequences. There's a reason Simeon's greatest fear is his own Father.

[cw: body horror, abusive parent, PTSD]

This was, of course, always going to have been the outcome.

He had made his choice. As soon as he heard that Lucifer was planning on rebelling, he had made his choice. It was not an easy choice, or a simple one, but it was his choice nonetheless.

Alas, they say that neutrality is the side of the oppressor, but a tyrant never sees it that way.

"You did this to yourself," Michael reminds him disapprovingly.

Simeon stands at the center of the Council of Seraphs, awaiting a judgment that was already preordained before he ever stepped in the room. They will convict him, because there is no other option - their Father has demanded it. The trial is merely a formality.

He did not plead his case. There is no point in trying, after all. Father will not listen, and the other seraphs will never listen to another angel over God. Lucifer had just proven that, hadn't he? And maybe he had chosen wrong - maybe, all in all, he should have chosen Lucifer's side. Because it wasn't as though he hadn't been asked, and oh, how Simeon had longed to stay with his fellow seraph, his closest friend who was like a brother to him.

But between a brother and a father, he chose neither, praying quietly that it could end in peace.

Yet, who do you pray to for peace when God himself is party to war? What higher power could he have appealed to when the highest power in existence was one of the ones at fault?

Though he cannot bring himself to regret his decision, he feels the slightest twinge of regret for not supporting Lucifer more. At least, if Lucifer had won, he wouldn't have ended up here now, standing trial for not being loyal enough to their Father.

Simeon stares Michael in the face, and reminds him that he too loved and adored Lucifer not too long ago. That he still does, no matter how he votes in this trial. That, after everything, Lucifer is still precious to all of them. He knows it, and so does Simeon, and so do all the seraphs in this room. All of them still deeply love Lucifer. Even now. No matter what they say.

Michael's expression twists with anger. How dare Simeon say such things in front of their Father.

With a vengeful sneer, he reads the judgement firmly, steadily - "With unanimous votes from the Council of Seraphs, we do hereby declare you, Simeon, angel of devotion, guilty of desertion and treason. For your crimes, you are hereby sentenced to demotion - from Seraph, to Cherub, to Throne, to Dominion, to Virtue, to Power, to Principality, and finally, to Archangel. The ceremony shall be performed two moons from today, in this room, at the highest point of the sun. You may not appeal this decision. You are dismissed."

And so it has to be. This has always been, after all, the only possible ending.

--

Well before the ritual has even begun, Simeon feels himself burning. He repeats a prayer, day after day, for two long months - praising the glory of God, worshipping his light, acknowledging his greatness.

Begging for peace and mercy, again. Because that worked so well before, right?

But there is nothing else he can do when the burning begins. So he prays.

“Master, now dismiss your servant in peace, according to your word; for my eyes have seen your salvation, which you have prepared in the presence of all peoples, a light for revelation and for glory.”

--

When the day arrives, the chill of the chamber feels like the coldest he's ever been. It isn't, not really, but after two months of flickering heat burning on and off within him, it's strange to be left cold this way. But he relishes the cool air while he can, because he knows what's coming.

Uriel gives him an almost pitying look as he wraps the chains around his disgraced colleague. For a split second, it almost looks like he wants to say something - but the look is gone as quickly as it came, and he retreats quickly back to his place in the circle. And Simeon is left alone in the center, wrists and torso bound in ropes of thick gold chains.

He looks defiantly at his Father, positioned directly before him in the circle. No matter how he thought it over in these past months, still he did not regret his decision. So he would stand by it. The punishment is coming either way, so he might as well be proud of the choice he made.

His Father glares back.

You will regret defying me, his voice echoes in Simeon's mind.

With a wave of his hand, the ceremony begins.

The seraphs kneel, pouring holy water into an intricate pattern engraved in the ground, which glows with magic as the liquid flows down to the center of the circle. It feels cool against Simeon's bare feet, for the moment at least.

Michael steps forward to recite the prayer chant:

"Holy, holy, holy, is the Lord God Almighty, for you created all things, and by your will, they do exist. Purify this one from all unrighteousness."

The seraphs clasp their hands together in a circle, locking the magic into the ceremonial space, and repeat the chant back.

At once, his Father's heavenly fire strikes him, a pillar of light beaming down upon him and spreading through his body. All six wings of fire burst from his back against his will, stretching out their full length as if to try to escape from the blast. He feels his form contort; his brown hair shifts to a snakeskin halo of spikes; his face melts away to reveal the twisting golden rings of his true angelic form. It travels down to his feet, absorbed by the holy water, which burns at his soles as though he is standing on coals. The gold chains, too, absorb the searing heat of the fire, and as he strains against his bindings in pain, it only serves to etch the curves of the chains into his body.

His eyes, normally covered modestly by his wings, ignite with the fire as it spills through him, but still, his Father maintains his cruel gaze, and even without eyes, it is all Simeon sees.

The heavenly fire has engulfed his entire form now, and he gasps at the sudden weight as his wings turn to molten rock. They rip themselves from his back, crashing behind him with a reverberating thud against the marble floor, and his shoulder blades expand behind him, tearing themselves out of his back to create four new wings of feathers and steel. Under the chains, his arms become metallic themselves, as do his chest and neck. He tries to scream, but there is only fire in his lungs, and it travels through his throat, tearing through every part of his head. When he feels a mouth to close again, it is not one mouth, but four - the four faces of the cherubim.

After what feels like hours but was surely only a few minutes, the fire drains into the holy water beneath him. He gasps, finally able to breathe, as his many faces and wings draw themselves back into his body. Everything in him aches at the transformation.

His Father's cold eyes are still locked with his.

The seraphs pour fresh holy water to the ground and begin the chant again:

"Holy, holy, holy, is the Lord God Almighty, for you created all things, and by your will, they do exist. Purify this one from all unrighteousness."

It hurts no less the second time - the fire smiting him down, drawing back out the form that had just folded itself into him. His face tears into four; his wings again force their way from his back. His legs buckle beneath him, forcing him to the ground before burning away entirely. The metal of his hands breaks apart into floating shards, and thin wheels of gold extricate themselves from the gold plates of his waist. His vision blurs as hundreds of new eyes burst open upon the wheels, every single one trained on his Father's own unforgiving gaze as he watches the angel morph again. He feels the melting of the metal in his new wings, and feels with anguish the searing of the metal against the feathers of the same, as both shift shape to rounder wings that wrap the fire all around him.

Vaguely, Simeon can hear the echoing roar of his own lion's face as it is engulfed by the flames, followed by the eagle's caw, and the human scream. The ox face left behind stretches into a sphere of hollow rings of gold, and yet more eyes merge their way into his vision.

And then, in a flash, cold hits his skin, the fire retreating into the holy water as suddenly as it had come, pulling all his ophanic features back into his human-like form.

His father's contemptuous stare continues to bore into him.

Are you still so defiant now?

Is he? With the dizzying slew of transformations, Simeon can hardly think straight to even consider the question. His mind is still catching up to the vision of one thousand eyes bursting into existence across his body. His head is throbbing, and trying to cradle it in his hands only leads to the still-hot metal chains searing marks into his wrists.

What he does know for certain, however, is that his Father is far from done. Seraph, to Cherub, to Throne, to Dominion, to Virtue, to Power, to Principality, to Archangel. Step by step, stage by stage, the demotion ceremony would continue. There is still a long, long way to go.

As if reading his mind - and knowing his Father, he probably is - the ritual begins again.

Holy water. Hands clasping. The same prayer, again.

"Holy, holy, holy, is the Lord God Almighty, for you created all things, and by your will, they do exist. Purify this one from all unrighteousness."

The third time, he releases himself easily to the fire, giving in to it at once as it draws out his chariot-like Throne form, but it doesn't burn any less all the same. Wheels, rings, eyes - all dissolving to the flames, blasting apart and falling from his form.

For a moment, fire is all he is - no body, no mind, only soul and blazing heat. And then the pyre takes shape - brilliantly burning stars for arms, a halo of embers, sparks shifting constantly in his belly. His hands twist long and thin - one into a sword, the other to a sceptre, planetary orbs swirling into existence at opposite ends of each. A mass of dark matter settles as his face, and tiny galaxies piece themselves together beneath him for legs.

Simeon grasps helplessly at balance, trying to stabilize a form made of formlessness. He can feel himself spilling out of himself and coming back together, pulsing without edges, and all the while still - burning, burning, burning. Wet tears form but are immediately lost in the void of his shapelessness.

When he is abruptly returned again to human form, he is thankful just to feel himself contained within a definite body again, grateful to feel the warm wet streaks as the tears welling at the edges of his eyes roll down solid cheeks.

Yet, again, still trapped with the other definite - the harsh stare of his Father.

Any strength left in his legs leaves him, and he collapses to the ground, ignoring the pain as his wrists pull against the hot gold of the chains yet again. On his chest, too, the metal constricts against him as he frantically gasps for air.

It's almost a surprise to him that they give him this moment to recover - though, having been a seraph himself as recently as an hour ago, he knows it's purely out of strict adherence to the rules of the ritual, not out of any kind of sympathy for him.

When he pulls himself together enough to stand again, Michael motions to Uriel. Three levels down, which means he has fallen to the Middle Order already. Time to adjust the bindings accordingly.

"I'm sorry," Uriel whispers quietly to him, maintaining expressionlessness as he wraps new, thinner chains around him, reaching further along his arms and chest than before.

Bitterly,Simeon thinks to himself that there is no apologizing for this - it was voted upon, and it was unanimous. But he knows, too, that the other seraphs had no choice either. Their Father had demanded this verdict, and none of them could ignore a direct order from him.

Doing so was, after all, precisely why Simeon himself was in this situation now.

So without breaking eye contact with their Father, he responds simply, "Don't be. Or you'll be next."

His former peer completes the rest of his work in silence, and as soon as he resumes his place in the circle, the ritual begins again.

"Holy, holy, holy, is the Lord God Almighty, for you created all things, and by your will, they do exist. Purify this one from all unrighteousness."

Going from Dominion to Virtue is an almost welcome reprieve, relative to the earlier transformations. Fire strikes him down again, but Simeon braces himself this time for the feeling of nothingness as the edges of himself fall away, galaxies and empty space bursting from inside him. A million stars explode into existence along his body, then explode again out of it, the black holes left behind dancing with the heavenly flames coursing through him.

Gradually, the fire slows and hardens. The light of embers flickers through cracks in molten rock left behind along his core. His wrists, too, tremble with new mass as crags form beneath the chains, connected to his shoulders only by stormy flashes of lightning. Dark clouds fill his form like billowing smoke, and he almost feels like he will choke on his own existence. Blinding rings of light wrap themselves along his limbs like snakes. He is at once heavy and weightless, dark and light, chained and unmoored.

In this confusing contradiction of his newest form of existence, Simeon is almost glad for the holy fire and icy glare of his Father. He clings to them as his anchor, however painful of one to hold onto, lest his mind drift too far away and leave him entirely. Or is it better to lose himself by letting go, than to focus on the pain? He isn't sure, but he's not certain that he will come back to himself if he doesn't hold on. So he clings to the thread of stability he has, embracing the burning as best he can.

It makes it all the more jarring when the heavenly flames abruptly retreat again, leaving him solid and cold, everything around him a blur except his Father. The sudden chill sends an involuntary shiver through him, echoed by rattling chains reverberating through the chamber.

He shuts his eyes, tries to reorient himself. Deep breaths. Halfway through now. Just three more, and it will be done. His fall from grace will be complete, and he'll be free. Or at least, as free as the angels ever are, given their roles as God's warriors and messengers. But he'll be out of this ceremony, freed of these chains. And...then what? A low-level grunt worker, to be bossed around by all his former equals in this room?

Maybe that's a good thing. At least, that's what he tries to tell himself. True, a demotion is a demotion, and he'll have less power available to him, less respect from the other angels. Less freedom to do as he pleases. But in truth, can he say he's ever had that much freedom? Isn't that why he's here now? Because he never really had that freedom in the first place - just the space to do the things his Father approved of, which had just happened to be the same things he'd wanted to do, until now. And at least, once his full demotion is complete, perhaps the freedom he loses in the work he does will be a worthwhile exchange for being freed of the pressures of being a seraph, from being always close to their Father and his strict command.

That's what he thinks, at least, until he opens his eyes again and sees his Father still staring down at him.

There is no escape from me, his Father's voice taunts in response, and Simeon isn't quite sure whether the voice in his head is actually sent by his Father or just created from his own fear.

Regardless, another half of the ceremony is still to come, and so it must continue.

"Holy, holy, holy, is the Lord God Almighty, for you created all things, and by your will, they do exist. Purify this one from all unrighteousness."

Heavenly fire comes down, and his insides ignite once more. His legs stretch and split apart into glowing rings; his arms turn stormy again. His chest hardens back to molten rock, tightening against his attempts to breathe before breaking apart, leaving trails of flame and lava dripping down through the rings of light below. The dark clouds throughout his form catch fire as well and burn away to steam and smoke.

His shape changes less drastically now as his rank falls lower and lower, yet the heavenly fire lingers longer this time. The transformation aches through him, new pieces stretching and pulling themselves into place.

Slowly, thin metal plates emerge through the fire and settle as his new face, locking his expression to neutrality - as if mocking the neutrality he'd tried to take in the war. More sheets of steel fold themselves together into layers of a round shield for a torso. A ring of eyes opens along the outer border of the shield, confusing his vision again, along with six larger eyes in a circular pattern around the center. It takes his mind a moment to catch up to processing all of them, trying to orient to so many new perspectives all turned to different directions. Thorns prick all over as two long rose stems grow from his chest, wrapping themselves around his neck, and another eye opens at the center of each flower. Sharp golden wings extricate themselves from his back, and a harsh golden halo slices in an arc behind his head.

Simeon clenches his fists as the flames travel through him, clinging to his insides and pulling his new form gradually, painfully back in. Unlike the previous times, it holds onto him on its way down to the holy water this time. He feels every inch of his wings scraping against his returning flesh as they drag themselves back inside his body, as with the rest of the form.

It's strange - angel transformations are usually instant. They aren't meant to be this slow.

That's when it sinks in that this isn't just rote punishment for law's sake - it is spite. He lifts his gaze again to see that his Father's cold expression has not changed at all, but there is wrath in those eyes. He can feel fury emanating from the light that always surrounds him.

Simeon has never heard of their Father drawing out a punishment for vengeance's sake before. This ceremony, the entire demotion process, was always just a ritual that was part of a judgment given for the sake of upholding a realm of law and obedience. But then, their Father had also never personally weighed in on a trial to tell the seraphs what way to vote until this, either. And there is no mistaking the anger coming from him now.

All for choosing neutrality...?

No, that's not it. It's not for choosing neutrality; it's for not choosing against Lucifer. The realization dawns on him - this isn't about him, never was about him or his refusal to fight. It is about Lucifer. It is about their Father's most beloved angel until the war, rebelling against him. It is about the fact that the war that ensued was the first time any of the angels had ever really questioned their Father's rule. It is about reminding everyone in this room of his power as the unmistakable, undeniable ruler of the Celestial Realm.

This is not about punishing Simeon. It is about punishing Lucifer.

And for the first time since his trial began, Simeon is truly, deeply afraid. He had known that the punishment for his refusal to fight would be intense and painful, but he had prepared himself for that when he made his decision in the first place. But to be a proxy for punishment against Lucifer for rebelling, now that the Morning Star himself was out of reach, fallen to the Devildom?

But the realization has come far too late, and there are two more rounds of this still to go.

New holy water flows down to his feet, and the seraphs begin the chant again.

"Holy, holy, holy, is the Lord God Almighty, for you created all things, and by your will, they do exist. Purify this one from all unrighteousness."

The heavenly fire burns hotter this time than any of the ones before, and in the fog of pain, the knowledge that the last one will only be worse briefly flits across his mind. But his thoughts are quickly pulled away by what is now a slow, excruciating transformation back into the form that had just left him moments ago.

His wings cut their way out of his back again like jagged knives, hot from the blazing heat pushing them from his body. They quickly melt away as they exit him, dripping molten streaks of metal down his back, as do the sheets of steel making up his shield-like frame. The liquid metal snakes its way down him, hardening back into rough shards cutting against his feet as they reach the holy water below. His neck feels choked with prickling flames as the blaze travels up the thorny stems of the roses growing from his chest, framing his face with fire.

The chains binding him stretch and grow, twisting themselves up his arms and wrapping his torso in a constricting suit of armor that feels more like it's meant to squeeze the life out of him than protect him. Each ring burns itself against his newly reforming skin beneath, merging into his flesh - it is not actually armor, after all, but a part of his own body. The metal continues threading its way up him, wrapping his neck, his face, his hair, until it grows past him into a twisting, tulip-shaped crown atop his head. From the flames at his core, jewels start pushing their way out of him, each one piercing him on its way out, and they spin together into a blinding orb in front of him. From his fingertips, thin needles of yet more metal prick as they join the gems, sending a reverberation of eerie music through the hall as they merge to form a long, thin scepter.

Simeon can feel his mouth being pried open by the flames, or perhaps it is being burned away entirely - in the shifting uncertainty of transformation, he's not quite sure which. Against his will, his voice joins the echoing notes of the scepter, until the sounds accumulate and stretch into haunting shriek.

And then, all at once, the flames leave him, the form of Principality leaves him, the scepter and the armor and everything leave him - and he is left standing, alone, silent, cold, enchained, mouth still agape with the memory of the sounds that had just moments before been wrenched from his throat.

He gasps for air, shuts his eyes as he readjust his vision from the now-gone blinding light of the jeweled scepter. Phantom pinpricks still tingle at his stomach, and for a moment, he almost thinks he's going to vomit. Still, he hangs on to the barest shred of dignity and composure until the feeling passes, and waits for the pain of everything to subside.

When he opens his eyes again, he meets the gaze of his Father in almost a plea. Stop this. Please. I am not Lucifer. Lucifer is gone.

But if his Father can hear the begging of his thoughts, as he seemed to hear him earlier, he doesn't show it. He doesn't respond at all, merely staring Simeon down with the same ice cold stare he's held this entire time. And the ceremony continues.

Michael waves to Uriel, who steps forth to replace the chains again. Simeon is down to the Lower Order now, the last and lowest ranks of angels. Redundant as it feels to replace his bindings, given all the transformations that have already happened, the ritual demands it.

Uriel doesn't meet his eyes this time - despite his remorse, he keeps in mind Simeon's earlier words of warning. But he can't quite bring himself to do this with pride, either. Just earlier that day, they had still been colleagues and equals. It's a cold reminder that no matter how strict or obedient any of them are, their Father is the ultimate in charge, and they are all only one displeasure away from the same fate. Likewise, Simeon avoids eye contact, neither ashamed nor proud of his current state.

The chains are even more slender now, almost elegant in the way they snake around his wrists. As a seraph, he could have broken these new chains easily, but now as a principality, they're more than enough to hold him. Deep inside, he can still feel the great well of power within him, but as if a glass cloche sits in the way, he knows instinctively that he can't summon any of that strength anymore. He will never be able to again.

Somewhere, just as deep inside, he starts to question whether he even wants to - to access the strength given him by the one now putting him through all of this.

He pushes the feeling far away though. He should be grateful that, following the war, he wasn't equally cast out of the Celestial Realm, shouldn't he? Those who had fallen, they were informed, had met a far worse fate. Lucifer and his brothers flit across his mind; though he wasn't close with all of them, he wonders if they are okay. Lucifer, at least, proud and full of conviction, surely must have made it out with his head held high as ever, right? What fate had befallen him worse than this, that Simeon was experiencing now...?

When Uriel finishes and retreats back to his place, Simeon hangs his head down, giving up on his silent begging to his Father. It's clear at this point that there is no mercy coming. Their father does not forgive; he condemns.

Until the war, Simeon had really believed that his condemnations were right and just.

But are they, after all? Can he truly believe it anymore? He had understood Lucifer well enough, but...he had really believed that trusting their Father was the right way to go. That Lucifer's rebellion was wrong. That their Father was, always, in all cases, correct, and that there was a reason for everything he did.

The cool brush of holy water at his feet pulls him back from his dark thoughts.

"Holy, holy, holy, is the Lord God Almighty, for you created all things, and by your will, they do exist. Purify this one from all unrighteousness."

Even the heavenly fire seems to come slower, now on this final time. His Father's eyes, though still coldly distant and unreadable, almost seem to shine with the voraciousness of his vengeance.

The flames lick at his face like hounds hungry for a meal.

In the pain, time seems to slow to a stop.

And then it does. It stops. Everything stops. He doesn't feel the chain metal armor searing itself back into his skin, or the gems pulling themselves through his body. Everything falls away; all becomes just a bright, white brilliance. Simeon feels weightless.

Is this it? Has his Father abandoned the ceremony after all? Is this...

No, a booming inner voice answers him. You won't die. That's too soft for an angel like you.

"Father?" he calls back silently. His eyes would have widened, if he'd had feeling left of them to widen. So it was true, his Father could hear every one of his thoughts.

And yet, he had ignored Simeon's begging for this to stop.

I told you that you would regret defying me.

"Father, I-I'm sorry. I thought - Lucifer is so precious to us. He was acting on what he believed in. I know that he was wrong, but -"

Yes, he was. And you, Simeon. You are an angel, one of my children, my creations. And yet you dared defy me. Pathetic.

He almost wishes he could summon the courage to defy his Father again, but he is too exhausted from round after round of transformation. Instead, he feels only sorrow. For Lucifer. For the other angels that fell. For himself.

You still don't understand your lesson? Troublesome child, Lucifer wouldn't listen either. I've removed him. Miserable wretch as you are, you will learn. You ought to be more grateful I chose not to eject you too.

Darkness floods his blinded vision, and Simeon sees himself in his mind's eye. His reflection smiles sweetly at him, before its eyes widen. Its mouth twists into a scream, expression more pained even than the shrieks pulled from him in his last transformation, but rather than sound coming out, shadows spill inwards, consuming him.

As if in answer, Simeon's own soul suddenly twists equally in pain, choking on a flood of umbra enveloping him from inside, until he's unsure if the image before him is a reflection or just him seeing himself from the outside. The dusty taste of ash and soot covers his tongue, as a fire unlike the clean holy flames chokes him from within - the smoke of hellfire.

Feathers, light and dark both, explode in bursts through his body. Flurries of new wings extrude themselves from his back, pulling patchwork marble patterns in jagged edges, fighting with each other for dominance as they clash in their growth. He feels his face split into two, one side drawing the hoop of a thin metal crown behind him, while a thin horn twists out from the other and loops back over to pierce his cheek. Scattered across his hands, fingers stretch into sharp, wicked claws, while his palms turn to pure light.

Though this twisted form is removed from his actual, physical body, the heavenly fire burns harshly against him still, and harsher yet upon his new demon-like features, incinerating them away almost as quickly as they emerge from his body. His angelic elements fare hardly better, as the hellfire within him eats away at them.

And all the while, his Father's voice hums tauntingly in his mind.

Feeble excuse for an angel, you are blessed to still hold my power. Do not forget who made you. I created you, gifted you with my divine power, and I can wipe you from this existence. And it will make not a shred of difference, for I shall make another, one more obedient, who understands his place...unless, my child, you submit now. Surrender yourself back to my command, and I shan't destroy you completely. Or this will be the last of your miserable, wretched life.

Amidst the pain, the infinity of nonexistence blankets despair upon his mind in threat, an incomprehensible emptiness.

It's too much. He is not able - was not created to be able - to endure all of this agony. An infinite void, heavenly smiting, darkness corrupting, all at once - his whole soul feels on the verge of collapse.

"I swear, Father!" Simeon cries. "Please, anything! Anything you ask, I'll obey! Forgive me, please...!"

It feels like another eternity before his Father murmurs his satisfaction, letting the frozen moment fall away back to the reality of the seraph council's chamber.

The rest of the transformation ritual proceeds as before, though after the jumbled, aching blending of transforming into both angel and demon at once, turning to an Archangel feels as though it passes quickly by comparison. When the last of the fire extinguishes upon the holy water at his feet, and the chains release themselves to mark the end of the ceremony, he collapses to the ground, succumbing at last to the blissful release of unconsciousness.

--

For a long time after his demotion ceremony, Simeon cannot sleep through the night. He wakes at random times, gasping for air, from dreams of being on fire again. A few times, when he wakes, he finds his wings actually alight, as though they remember their seraph form when they used to be made of flame, and he screams at the half-asleep memory of how those wings turned to rock and tore themselves from his body. Other times, he is wrought from his rest by a phantom feeling of ash in his throat, choking on the taste of hellfire.

He wonders if these dreams are being sent to him by his Father, or by his own mind.

Which would be worse?

Night after night, he prays desperately for release, exhausted.

“Master, now dismiss your servant in peace, according to your word; for my eyes have seen your salvation, which you have prepared in the presence of all peoples, a light for revelation and for glory.”

He never receives any answer.

It is years before he makes it through a night without waking, and many years more before he manages a peaceful, dreamless night. It is centuries more before those nights outnumber the dreams of flames.

All the while, he hears the whispers and snickering of older angels as he passes through the Celestial Realm halls now, particularly from Middle Order angels smugly delighting in now outranking a former seraph. Gossip of his restless nights spreads between them, rumors flying around of the demonic screams that come from his room when all should be asleep.

Some of them wonder if perhaps he's not an angel at all anymore. Others sneer that maybe he shouldn't be.

Maybe they're right. Maybe he shouldn't be.

He doesn't enter his angel form very often anymore. He still remembers the feeling of corrupting, of horn instead of halo.

Maybe he's not fit to be an angel.

He prays again.