#and because its so close to your heart it has a Lot of blood flow | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

seiwas · 10 months

Text

₊˚⊹｡ tell me about love (show me how) | gojo satoru

wc: 7.4k

summary: you teach gojo how to love.

contains: f!reader in mind but no pronouns mentioned, descriptions of blood (typical jjk canon type stuff), shibuya onwards manga spoilers, implied minor character death, there are swears, suggestive bit at the end (but it’s funny!), lots of internal thoughts/dialogues, kind of canon divergent

a/n: relates to my short blurb, do you believe in love?, explores a lot on how i think gojo would be when it comes to love; ambiguous but linear timeline (jumps through scenes)

collection masterlist: conversations on love 01. do you believe in love? <- you are here -> 2.5. and my body keeps saying (it's yours)

When Gojo has love for the taking, he makes no move to reach for it.

It’s unusual for him to be so restrained, being born into greed and predetermined purpose—a one-man clan fated to hold power close to God. There exists a hunger within him, insatiable and stubborn, unstoppable until he gets what he wants. It’s all he’s ever known: to take and devour, simply because he can.

Yet with this, he doesn’t. He can’t seem to.

“I think I’ll always want to be with you, Satoru.”

When you offer your heart to Gojo, he looks at you softly.

You catch his eyes and see the sky, bright, with flecks of light floating on his irises like cotton clouds in its periphery. It’s different from the piercing blue you’re used to—a terrifying riptide that washes you away.

It wasn’t intended as a confession, but Gojo always takes whatever you have to say. He commits it to memory each time; how could he not? Words that come from you flow so naturally, so earnestly that the air around you shifts all on its own.

His lips part slightly, red spatterings lining pink inner corners before they close again. He doesn’t say anything, but you know Gojo and the fingerprints of his soul—the way he bites his lips to withhold himself from speaking.

It’s dangerous, he thinks, how you make wanting something so complicated seem so simple.

He takes a small breath, then you feel it, pressed against you—the faint signature of his cursed energy overlaying his entirety. It tickles your skin a little, the effects of it brushing. You don’t remember the last time he put it up around you.

A million things run through Gojo’s mind for every split second he breathes, but at this point in time, he counts a million and one—one thought that if he touches you by infinity instead of his hands, he can have this good thing for now, that this is the only way how.

You’d think this a rejection, if any, but he doesn’t move away from you, and the blush blooming at the tips of his ears says more than he ever could.

The subtle intimacy you share with Gojo grows sporadically, from knuckles brushing to pinkies touching. He stands next to you more often, a few inches closer than he used to and sometimes, still, with an infinity connecting you.

When you hold Gojo’s hand for the first time, he jolts very slightly, as if you’ve shocked him. He’s started to put his infinity down around you again, and you continue the limbo of whatever it is you both are—except this time, he’s made it clearer, just a little bit.

During the last few leaves of fall, Gojo skips to an ice cream stand like a pre-schooler on early dismissal. You trail behind him slowly, shaking your head affectionately; he’s the only adult you know that still acts like he’s 5.

“You’re like a horse.” you jest, stopping next to him in line.

“You’re a snail.” he huffs, side-eyeing you, like a child.

You gasp exaggeratingly, hitting his arm. He fake-winces, but that’s all it is; Gojo’s the strongest and you don’t know of any human touch that has managed to hurt him, except—

Yeah. Your eyes trail to the side of his neck, hidden in the shadows of his jawline; there’s really nothing, but sometimes you blink and see crimson, oozing, gushing, leaking—you shake away the thought.

When he receives his ice cream cone stacked with vanilla-strawberry-vanilla and rainbow sprinkles on top, the smile on his face parallels the sun. He looks cozy, almost boyish, beaming against the autumn breeze blowing on his thick gray hoodie.

You wonder if he feels just as warm.

(Maybe that’s why you do it, then).

Once Gojo turns to give you the cone, you reach for his other hand tentatively, shyly—your fingertips grazing his palm lightly. You want to give him an out if he can’t take this, but he doesn’t move. He twitches a little, as if he’s been caught off guard, but that’s it.

His eyes widen briefly, just a bit, before turning into the same soft skies frequenting them lately.

“Sorry, is this okay?” you whisper, peering up at him.

He stares at you for a while, his hand in yours unmoving. You leave a sliver of space between your palms–your own version of his infinity–just in case. And he takes it all in: how tiny your hand is wrapped around his, how gently you speak—how warm he feels now amidst this autumn breeze.

“The strawberry’s really good,” he finally replies, pressing the dessert closer to you, “try it.”

You give him one last look before you indulge in his request. Gojo’s always been good at that: pushing and pulling—pushing you away with non-answers only to pull you back in with something else.

But he doesn’t let go of your hand, so you keep yours there, palms nearly touching. (You make a point not to mention how the parts that do touch become clammy for the rest of the afternoon).

You start to think that your relationship with Gojo is going somewhere, then he disappears (‘gets sealed’ might be the more proper term).

His absence is deafening. You’ve all lost so much, and it hurts, but you carry on knowing full well that this is what being a jujutsu sorcerer means. There aren’t many left to fight his fight, so you do what you can to. You stay with Shoko, mostly, if not going back and forth with Utahime. You can’t afford to be crying when the students, the kids—you can’t even bear to think about what they’re going through.

Nights are the hardest, when the world is quiet but your mind is loud, throwing far too many questions you can’t find the answers to.

What will Gojo come back to? Then the scarier thought: Will he even come back?

You don’t want to doubt him, ever, but your mind continues to play back that day, like a final memory. The unintentional confession; his eyes like the sky.

You don’t want it to be the last important thing you tell him.

“I should start looking into retirement plans, like Nanamin.” you raise an eyebrow, questioning. Gojo’s never spoken this far into the future before, most especially his.

“Work is shit now for you too?” you scoff, leaning back on the wooden ledge.

Gojo rolls his eyes, skipping the coverage of his blindfold today.

“Well, after I remove the old geezers and change everything, there won’t be much left to do.”

You hum in response. He does make a point.

“Also, Megumi won’t need me anymore,” he pouts, whining, “who else will want me around?”

You try to hold back your laugh, wanting so badly to tell him that Megumi doesn’t even really like him around to begin with—but you figure breaking Gojo’s heart isn’t really something you want to do if you value your peace.

“I don’t know,” you reply, shifting your weight, “I think I’ll always want to be with you, Satoru.”

Even now, especially now. You wish you were with him, too.

The day you hear of Gojo’s potential return, you drop your breakfast outside the 7-Eleven near Jujutsu Tech. You’re supposed to meet up with Utahime for a weekly check-in but your feet take you to Shoko, and the footsteps in your heart have never echoed louder.

This is the first good news in a while—especially after finding out about the state of Megumi and what happened to Tsumiki, your sweet girl Tsumiki.

When Gojo comes back, it’s like he never left. He pops out of the box joking the same way, talking the same way. He proves himself to be the strongest all the same, and when he wins—there are scars, but he wins and that fact stays the same.

So, when you reach for his hand now and he moves away, you’re stuck wondering what’s changed.

You let it stay that way for a while, your understanding extending to Gojo the way it always has—you don’t push, and he gives you what he can. It honestly isn’t all that bad, because at least he’s still talking to you like he used to.

Jujutsu society is still shaken from its core. You and all who have survived bear the task of building everything from the ground up; it’s exhausting, especially since most of you are still mourning.

Megumi’s been put in an induced coma; you understand why but it still tugs at your heart when Shoko tells you it might take a while. Everyone else has been assigned to sweep through the rest of Japan to ensure that any remaining curses are taken care of.

You see Yuuji and Yuuta visit Megumi sometimes, along with Maki and Toge when they’re free. Gojo’s there pretty often too, using healing sessions with Shoko as an excuse to see the boy he’s practically raised at 17, with you.

But while Gojo’s smiles to everyone else remain as charming as ever, you can always tell when they’re untrue.

“Are you okay?”

You find Gojo a little after midnight on the rooftop of the faculty building. The city always looks pretty from up here—a sea of lights reflected up on the sky. It’s a running joke that rooftops are Gojo’s ‘thing’, but you know he really only comes to places like this to think. You wonder what’s on his mind now, coming here every single night since being unsealed.

Despite how quiet you try to be, sneaking up on Gojo is almost impossible; he senses you before he hears you, sees the familiar traces of your cursed energy through his Six Eyes.

“Can’t sleep thinking about me?” he teases, looking straight ahead.

The steps you take towards him are careful, afraid of running him off like you seem to be lately. You sit beside him, leaving a space larger than you usually do, then shrug, “These days, yeah.”

It’s times like this when Gojo forgets how honest you can be, how he takes your word for everything, completely.

It’s threatening, he thinks, how you can say so much with so little.

“Well, maybe I can suggest—”

“Seriously, Satoru,” you grip the ledge tightly, knuckles turning white, “please.”

You tend to let Gojo dodge your questions a lot of the time, his elusiveness a hallmark of who he is. So you never sound like you do now, serious, pleading.

Gojo fiddles with his fingers, pondering. He hums lowly before speaking, “Does it matter?”

It hurts you a little, how that’s even a question. He should know better than to ask that to you.

“It matters to me, Satoru,” you sigh, “you know it does.”

You barely catch the way his brows furrow at your response, but there are creases on his blindfold that can’t be created by anything else. And Gojo knows—is so painfully aware of the way you care.

Since coming back, he’s never felt like he’s fully returned. It’s an odd existence of in-between, like he breathes everything and nothing all at the same time. The emotions are even worse, overloading his senses with feelings he can never pinpoint.

How does he tell you that he must be fucked in the head? That every second in his mind is another step closer to insanity? That he’s lost your tether on Satoru in pursuit of Gojo—of being a god?

“I’ll tell you,” he starts, “but you have to look away.”

You’ve always treated Gojo tenderly, patiently, and he knows, without a doubt, that no matter what he says you will continue to do the same. But he can’t allow that, not anymore. Not after the way you looked at him that day.

“Okay,” you mutter, turning your head the other way.

He breathes out and you can almost picture it: half-bitten lips and eyes like low tide.

“I’m fine,” he says to the back of your head, “you have nothing to worry about.”

A breeze picks up and brushes past your neck. It’s a lie. He knows it, knows you know it too, but—

it’s easier this way, he thinks, to give you answers when you’re not looking.

Gojo’s never found a weakness he can’t work around, but he might have just found one with you—in your eyes, that read through his every lie. If you turn around now, he’ll want to tell you everything.

“Satoru,” you whisper, letting his name fill the air. You get it—him, and even when you don’t, you try damn hard to because you refuse to let Gojo carry all of it on his own.

There are crescent indents on your palm from squeezing your knuckles too hard. You think, is this how you form shallow cuts on your heart?

“It’s just me,” you continue, facing him when you say it.

He takes you all in—your eyes that hold the city lights, your lips, the only vessel that handles his name so delicately. It’s that look on your face again and Gojo’s hit with an ache in his chest—the overwhelming truth that whatever it is, he feels the same.

There’s a secret Gojo keeps, one he’s certain he’ll never tell you: that when he looks at you upon his return and finds an emotion he refuses to name, he’s never felt so afraid.

He takes in the shadows under your eyes and the sunkenness of your cheeks—the number of blinks it takes you to reign in tears on the brink of leaking. The way your voice shakes when you say his name.

Shoko tells him about it because she knows you never will—about how you’ve been running yourself dry, speeding through colonies to gather intel for any possible way to break the seal. She tells him about the sleepless nights, how she catches you standing outside his office at 3 a.m. before travelling to Utahime the next morning.

And he cannot comprehend it at first, cannot understand how he’s caused you to crumble this way.

If this is all because of him, how you’ve broken yourself all for his sake, he can’t allow it. To see you ruin yourself over him, over anyone ever—you deserve better.

So, when Gojo has love for the taking, he makes no move to reach for it; he cannot possibly take any more from you if this is what is left of you when he does.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” you catch him by the door of the conference room.

Rebuilding an entire society requires work and apparently a lot of meetings. Gojo doesn’t usually go to most of them, leaving you and Utahime to carry the chunk of his attendance when he’s not there. In the rare times that he does show up, he makes it a point to be the last one in and the first one out. Utahime hates him for it but you don’t blame him—he isn’t exactly amicable with other figures of authority.

He pauses when he steps out of the door, hands in pockets as he turns to face you.

You’re not mad or anything, just stating the fact. He’s always known you to speak this way. You lean against the wall next to you, keeping your arms crossed. More people continue to file out of the conference room, some eyeing the two of you curiously as they pass by.

Gojo glances at them, suddenly self-conscious as he clears his throat, “Right, I’ve been avoiding the paperwork you left in my office,” he emphasizes, practically announcing it to everyone in the vicinity, “let’s finish it now.”

You don’t know whether it’s irritating that Gojo’s so terribly bad at acting, or comforting that he still can’t, for the life of him, successfully lie in front of you.

He motions for you to follow him as he strolls down the hallway, but you intentionally lag a few steps behind, careful not to encroach on his space lest it make him avoid you any more than he already is.

Stepping into Gojo’s office after so long feels weird, like you belong here but only to a memory of it—as if closing the door behind you feels like activating a muscle you haven’t for a while. It’s been months after all.

Your eyes skim over the entire room, zeroing in on the stacks of paper lined up on his desk; paperwork has always been Gojo’s least favorite part of the job, often leaving you to do them with him (or alone, when you’re feeling generous). Not much has changed in his space; the mini living area still exists to the left of the room, with little bits of you in its interiors—the pillows, the coffee table books.

Gojo plops down on the sofa chair and props his feet up on the ottoman, giving four scrolls to his phone before pocketing it. He has the audacity to casually offer you the seat across from him, as if nothing’s wrong—as if he hasn’t been avoiding you for god’s sake.

Ever since the rooftop, he’s canceled lunch with you six times for reasons that you’re now realizing are less likely to be true. He’s kept a distance of at least one person in between you at all times, and to this day, you still don’t understand why.

You sigh, taking a seat and leaning back to cross your legs.

“You’re so bad at acting.” you start.

Being with Gojo for so long, you’ve come to realize that there’s no point being angry with him when your heart can never take it.

“I technically wasn’t lying.” he replies, sticking his index finger up.

“Yeah, I can see that,” you snicker, nodding to his desk.

It’s always like this with Gojo: he pulls you in and you follow. No matter the distance between you, when you sit down together like this, it still always flows so easily. The banter you’ve built together over a decade and more shines through no matter what state your relationship is in.

Neither of you say anything until Gojo replaces his blindfold for his sunglasses, placing the piece of cloth on the coffee table.

You break the silence.

“Why have you been avoiding me?” you ask quietly. Gojo aches at that, how you still choose to regard him so kindly.

Why has he been avoiding you? It’s a good question, completely valid with how he’s been treating you lately, but he could draw up every answer he has, all one million and one, and still not know what to say.

Gojo’s a pretty bad communicator; for how much he talks, he doesn’t really say much—and maybe that’s the root of all this. There are too many things he wants to say but can’t formulate in the right way.

“If it’s something I did, can you at least let me know?” you continue. Gojo frowns, how can you be wronged yet still think of yourself as the one to blame?

“Why do you do that?” he tuts, head tilting sideways as his hands dig deeper into his pockets.

“Do what?” you furrow your brows, confused.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, so don’t worry about it.” he says dismissively.

You arch an eyebrow; he has it all mistaken.

“Satoru, I’m not worried because I feel guilty,” you sit up, inching towards the edge of your seat, “I’m worried because you’re pushing me away.” your voice is level, but your pupils shake.

Something grips at his chest seeing you this way; together or apart, he seems to be the main contributor to your heartache.

You wonder if confronting him like this is any good if he’s not going to say anything anyway.

“If you want space, that’s okay, I get it, but,” you exhale, “at least just tell me why.”

This entire time avoiding you, Gojo’s had you on his mind—the million and one. He’s come to terms with what he feels when you’re together, and how it amplifies when you’re not.

It’s shitty of him to practically ghost you, not just in text but in real life too. But he’s thought about it logically, really, that removing himself from your life should be just like ripping off a bandaid—painful but quick. At least that way, you’d get over it fast.

He’d been resigned to doing that and that was the plan—until now.

All it takes is seeing that look in your eyes, and his resolve falls apart.

“I can’t.” he speaks softly.

What hurts the most is that beneath his sunglasses, his eyes still hold the sky.

You think you want to cry.

You take this as your answer and close your eyes, taking a deep breath before getting up to leave. If this is goodbye, you don’t want your last interaction to be an awkward memory of him watching you bawl in his office chair.

You push yourself up with the armrest only to sit back down—because Gojo is right in front of you, blocking your way. His infinity is up but touching, a tingling sensation sweeping across your knees.

“Wait,” he swallows, a franticness you’ve never seen before. His head stays down as he bites his lips, sunglasses hanging by his fingertips. You wonder what he wants to say, that even if it comes out messy, it’s okay. You want to tell him that it’s just you—that you’ll always want to hear it all anyway.

What comes next is unlike any version of Satoru you have ever known—nervous and uncertain, almost like he’s afraid. He lowers himself, slowly coming down to his knees in front of you. A giant of a man so small in your presence.

“I don’t know how.” he mutters, dropping his sunglasses to the floor.

You blink once, twice, still surprised by what’s in front of you. Gojo has always towered above you, has always known how to do anything and everything so effortlessly without fail.

Watching him now, with every inhale and exhale dragging in slow motion, you do your best not to startle him.

“How to what?” you whisper, the moment so fragile.

He looks up, eyes locking with yours. A reaction happens in that moment—the split second of all his thoughts collapsing into one. You see a clear sky, blue and bright as day, the Satoru he saves for you—while he sees you, with that look on your face, the one that he knows has always only meant love.

The sincerity in your gaze overwhelms him—makes him look away before it becomes too much. Red blooms at the tips of his ears as he bites the inner corners of his lips, fingers grabbing at the fabric of his pants. You’re afraid he might run away again, but he doesn’t and stays right where you are.

“You know…” he looks to the side, pouting, “whatever you do….”

“Like…?” you coax lightly, trying hard to hide the small smile forming on your lips.

You wonder how many versions of Satoru you’ll meet in your lifetime, and if this one, shy and nervous, will be one you’ll fit into the crevices of your heart just like all the others.

He grips his pants tighter, fabric bunching under his fingers, “When you hold my hand… those things. You get it.”

And you do (get it), so you don’t push, taking whatever Gojo has to give you like you always have.

The tension relieves from you slowly, comforted by the fact that at least he’s given you his reasons now (no matter how vague they still seem to be). That at least there are no non-answers this time.

You tell yourself that it’s okay, that you’re content as long as Gojo’s in your life even without the possibility of becoming something more.

“Ok—”

But there’s always one thing you forget about Gojo—

“So show me how.”

—in the moments you least expect it, he speaks the words that matter most.

You choose to show him slowly, gently, like the trickling introduction of water to a man who is first learning how to drink.

In the first few weeks of you and Gojo readjusting to one another, he turns on his infinity again—but only when he gets close enough to touch you. Lunches together happen more often, dinners sometimes too. Then he puts his infinity down, indefinitely.

For the most part, your relationship falls into the usual steps of your dynamic with Gojo; there’s no pressure for anything and he likes that, appreciates the time you’re giving him to learn things at his own pace.

It grows organically that way: knuckles brushing as you both reach for the stapler, pinkies touching whenever you walk side-by-side during site visits—until you’re able to hold his hand fully again, leaving that little infinity between your palms for him to close (hopefully, one day).

The faculty room is cold, especially during winter. The heating system is never warm enough to keep your hands from shaking whenever you mix your morning coffee.

“So loud so early,” Gojo saunters into the kitchen, hands in pockets as he approaches the pantry.

You stop mixing, ceasing the clinking of the spoon against your mug. “How are you not freezing?”

He shrugs, grabbing his box of (heavily sugared) cereal. “I guess I’m just hot.” he says, turning to wiggle his eyebrows.

You roll your eyes and set your coffee on the table, Gojo following with a bowl brimming with cereal and milk.

Mornings usually consist of you and Gojo, with an occasional new hire who has an early class that day. Most of the time, it’s just you two though, with Shoko coming in much closer to lunch time already.

“Want some?” he asks, holding out his spoon.

It’s routine—Gojo asks and you decline, choosing to save yourself from the cavities that he somehow manages to evade despite having a diet of 80% sugar.

Today though, you’re feeling a little adventurous.

You nod, opening your mouth. Gojo’s eyes widen, nearly dropping the spoon at your request. You see the flush of his cheeks and smile, corners of your mouth extending wider. The spoon is shoved to your mouth too quickly, almost like he’s embarrassed to feed you.

“Too sweet,” you scrunch your face, swallowing down the copious amount of sugar you’ll feel for days.

If there’s one thing you’ve learned about Gojo throughout this whole relationship trial period, he recovers from any state within a nanosecond. There’s no end to how shameless he can be.

“Like me, right?” he winks.

“Sure,” you drawl sarcastically and Gojo smiles like it’s high praise.

You sip your coffee slowly, revelling in the heat that flows down your throat.

“Can I have half of that?” you point to his bowl. Gojo looks at you, confused, but slides it over anyway.

What happens next is an abomination to Gojo’s eyes—pure absolute disgust: you pour half of his cereal into your coffee and mix, sipping and crunching on a few pieces every now and then.

His face contorts into complete distaste, horror and revulsion in the way his mouth hangs open.

“What are you doing? That’s gross!” he nearly yells, reaching over to bring your mug down. His hand covers yours for a moment, the contact still causing gallops in his heartbeat.

You laugh, giggling as he processes what you’d wasted his cereal on. It honestly doesn’t taste that bad, you think.

“You’re weird,” he says to you, the grin on his face uncontained. This morning, he feels fond, like the butterflies in his stomach are warm, tickling him from the inside. “Give me.” he motions to your mug.

You hold it up for him to take a sip but he keeps his hand over yours when he tastes, sticking his tongue out once the bitterness of your coffee hits. You set the mug down, preparing to reach for your spoon, but he takes your hand in his, long fingers slotting right between yours, interlacing.

Gojo doesn’t normally reach for your hand, much less interlace them together (a recent evolution to your hand-holding), but this feels nice, how your fingers fit right in the spaces of his.

You turn to him, a shy smile on your face. The tips of his ears are blush red but he looks at you the same, “Your hands were cold,” he pouts, “is this– is this okay?”

“Yeah, it’s warm. Thank you, Satoru.” you nod, beaming. And it’s not a competition but he hopes you see the light in his eyes, how it feels to be ignited within him only when he’s spending breakfasts like this with you.

Shoko asks what you are and you don’t know what to tell her other than you’re happy and it’s good. Gojo’s existence is loud and vibrant, easy to spot from miles away—but he cares for you discreetly, in the hand that gently rests on your lower back while crossing the street, and the seemingly unlimited supply of your favorite coffee when you have no recollection of restocking it ever.

He gives you a new mug for Christmas, one with little cereals painted all over while you give him his own tube of hand cream that he claims always smells like you.

During the faculty New Year celebration, you overhear one of the new hires make a move on Gojo. You aren’t bothered by it or anything, simply walking past to sip your sake by the couch. You can hear them talk a bit from the kitchen, but you try not to pry despite how curious you are about his response.

Until—

“I’m taken,” you hear Gojo say bluntly.

Everything rings in your ears after that. The countdown music is loud, but your heart beats louder; there are murmurs and footsteps around you, but only one man crouches down to check on you, glass of water in hand.

You snap out of it and see blue, the sky—a familiar light; you don’t think you can control the smile on your face, the alcohol lowering your inhibitions to paint on something lovesick.

And when he smiles back, pink lips stretching wide—oh your heart can’t take it. He places one hand on your knee, rubbing gently. You hear it faintly, how he asks if you’re okay, but all you can do is nod, words failing to express how you feel right now.

The countdown starts. 3 — and you take his face in your hands, squishing his cheeks to an image of him on your phone from many, many years ago. 2 — you go closer and his eyes go wide, a mixture of panic and surprise, but soft at the same time. 1 — you lean in and his eyelids fall shut, his chest on rampage. Then it lands, there, on the tip of his nose: a delicate peck and the smell of sake mixed with mint (like the lip balm you always carry around in your pocket).

When you pull away from him, you’re smiling the biggest he’s ever seen, and he can’t feel it from how numb his cheeks have become, but he’s doing the same.

That kiss to his nose serves as the catalyst to the months that follow: Gojo becomes more comfortable touching you now, and though he blushes every single time, there’s nothing to be ashamed of because you do too. Shoko can’t believe the slow burn this is taking you both, having watched this on the sides since you were both 22, but you think you like it—like the slow drizzle of honey on Gojo’s favorite breakfast waffles.

“How is it?” you ask, watching as Gojo takes a big bite.

“D Beft.” he replies, mouth full as he chews. You take the seat beside him and take a spoonful.

“There’s a secret ingredient.” you say mischievously, wiggling your eyebrows.

He swallows before he scoffs, “What?” cutting up another piece, “Love?”

You’re surprised because he says it so casually, and Gojo’s never talked about love, has never even mentioned the word since this shift in your relationship. He realizes a beat late by the expression on your face and gets flustered, thinking immediately of ways to brush past it.

You had meant to say that you used that infused sugar he buys whenever he goes to Kyoto, but… you suppose love works too. He should know by now, right?

“If it is?” you whisper, pretending to stir your coffee.

Gojo doesn’t know how to approach this, really, but he’s come too far to back out now. He clears his throat, mentally running through what he wants to say, then, “Good. ‘Cause that’s what I put in your coffee too.”

You laugh and the tension dissipates; there are hearts in your eyes for how hard Gojo has tried after denying himself of this for so long.

He stares at you—at the laugh lines by your eyes and the soft curves of your lips, the moment moving much too slow, stop motion in his mind. He’s drawn in until you’re all too close, a few centimeters from your noses touching.

Your laughter dies and your cheeks feel like they’re on fire; he’s so close you think he might kiss you. The signs are there—his eyes scaling your face to focus on your lips, his tongue peeping ever so slightly to wet his lips.

So you wait.

But he doesn’t, because he moves away after wiping his thumb on the side of your mouth. Even though you know there was nothing there.

Gojo continues to eat, blabbering about a site visit he’s assigned to next week, but you don’t miss the way his ears are fully red and how he’s biting his lips to death.

The tension this time is different; instead of a growing rift, you can’t seem to be close enough. Every time you part ways, he lets go of your hand more reluctantly—as if he wants to say more, do more, but stops himself while he still can.

When he leaves for missions, you kiss his cheek, pull him in by the hand and linger there, shyly. He gets embarrassingly red but tries to cover it up by telling you not to miss him too much (even though you know you will, and he knows he’ll miss you more).

Your near-kisses with Gojo happen more frequently, and it comes to a point where he even manages to land one on your forehead, while you fall asleep next to him on his office couch.

It’s driving you crazy, this tension—the mixed signals of it all. You try to kiss him a few times on the lips, but he evades them each time. You’ve caught Gojo staring at your lips more times than you can count; if that isn’t a sign, you don’t know what is.

Now that Gojo thinks about it, he’s come so far yet the prospect of kissing you properly still scares him. What if he fucks up? Doesn’t do it right? What if it’s not how he wants you to be kissed?

There’s that secret Gojo will never tell you, of how seeing that look on you has never gotten him more afraid. And he’s worked through that now, but it’s evolved into something else: how Gojo is now afraid of love, more than anything else, not because of loss but because he might not know how.

And kissing you, loving you this way—he’s never done it before, doesn’t know how to make you feel love without his lips shaking and heart palpitating; how to do it while letting you know he feels the same.

It happens during an assignment out of town. Curses aren’t as bad as they used to be, but they’re still stronger than what any of the available sorcerers right now can handle.

You don’t remember the last time you saw Gojo use his technique that way—almost forgotten how powerful and ruthless he can be. Every time since, holding your hand, keeping you close—he’s just been your Satoru.

Your apartment for the weekend is a two-bedroom unit with one bathroom and a decently sized living area and kitchenette; Gojo always chooses the room in front of the bathroom because he tends to wake up in the middle of the night to pee (information you know from your many other assignments with him before). Still, going as what you are now—it feels different.

There’s a charged air between you as you move around the unit; you make your nightly tea while Gojo looks through the groceries for some crackers. It’s peaceful and quiet—domestic almost, but there are goosebumps on your skin for reasons you can’t explain. Being around Gojo lately has felt that way.

He brushes past you to throw the finished packet of crackers and the feeling intensifies; it’s not awkward, just tense, like anticipation sitting deep in your bellies, waiting on each other to make the first move.

He announces that he’ll use the bathroom first, if you don’t mind, and you motion for him to go ahead. Your mind is fuzzy and having Gojo around seems to only make it worse.

When you walk past the bathroom and straight to your room, you hear Gojo humming that soft pop tune from a popular girl group on the radio earlier. You giggle, thinking it’s sweet—how he sings obnoxiously around everyone else but is admittedly pretty good when it’s just him, alone.

You still have the rest of the weekend in this area, having agreed to monitor the site and any nearby locations for other suspicious activity, but at least the worst of it is over (maybe just to you though; Gojo hates paperwork).

The sound of running water stops and you hear the bathroom door swing open. You don’t see Gojo when you exit your room but he leaves the door open to release any remaining steam.

There’s a reason why people say showers are good for the mind. You’re happy for those who’ve found it, but that couldn’t be you, because the only thought plaguing your head right now is Gojo—and whether you should greet him goodnight, if you should kiss his cheek or hug him tight. The tension between you now is palpable, an electric current waiting to zap on both ends.

Your mind is so out of it that you don't realize you’re missing your skincare bag until after you finish brushing your teeth and dressing for bed. You open the bathroom door with the sole intention of going back to your room to get it, but instead, you’re met with a wall of chest.

Gojo’s eyes are wide, bright blue with damp strands of white falling like curtains barely shielding the sky. He’s just as surprised as you are, toothbrush in his hand as you hold up the towel wrapped around your head.

You’ve seen Gojo in his pajamas many times before—white long sleeves with gray cotton pants, but your eyes trail to his collarbones and the way the bathroom lights cast it under a soft glow. The redness on his cheeks, a visual manifestation of the heat on yours.

Gojo can’t stop staring at your lips, at how soft they look—at how soft you look fresh out of the shower. The little baby hairs sticking out under your towel are cute, and he leans in without knowing—a pull he can’t seem to resist. For once in his life, Gojo’s mind is still.

You try to meet him halfway, tiptoeing, but you’re a little out of your element; you don’t know where to put your hands and your heart’s about to explode out of your chest. When your noses touch, you can’t breathe, closing your eyes while you wait for it.

But it doesn’t come.

You feel Gojo’s breath stilling before speeding up into little exhales. Something is wrong. You open your eyes and find him staring back at you, a version of Gojo you haven’t seen in a while—that you rarely see ever, except that day during your confrontation in his office.

Concern laces your features and you move back a little, hands coming up to caress his cheeks. His eyes still look frantic, but they focus on you when you cup his face so gently.

“Satoru,” you whisper, voice grounding. His breaths slow down a little.

You realize that it must be true then, what they say, that those who love to be feared, fear to be loved, because you’ve never seen anyone afraid of something so good as Gojo is of this.

“Satoru,” you repeat, massaging his temples with your thumb, “we don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

Gojo hates it, how you’ve always had to adjust for him. He hates that he can’t give you this one thing, hates that you’re still so patient, that he’s still so afraid. He swallows, closing his eyes tight before opening them again.

“I want to,” he chokes out, “I just don’t know—”

You chuckle, without judgment, “I don’t either,” you lean forward, foreheads touching, “but do you want to try together?”

You learn that Gojo sees himself so differently from how you do—and maybe that’s everyone, but Gojo tends to say things while doing the other. He says he can’t bother with kids, but continues to take so many of them under his wing anyway; he calls your cereal concoction disgusting but tastes it regardless; and he says he can’t think about love, doesn’t know how, but proceeds to try so much harder, everyday.

When you look at Gojo, you see a heart so big, so capable, that he can’t see it himself.

You nudge his nose with yours and he breathes deeply, closing his eyes once again. If he doesn’t do this now, how much longer ‘till he does?

Gojo hums before nodding his head slightly. His hands come up to cover yours, toothbrush wedged in the spaces between his fingers; they’re clammy, he’s sure, but he’s kept you waiting long enough.

When you kiss Gojo for the first time, everything trembles—his pupils, his lips, the breath he takes. It’s all shaky and nervous, but your lips touch and all you know is that you like it there. He’s a little bit stiff but you don’t mind, pressing closer just for a little bit before pulling away.

Gojo keeps your hands in place, half-lidded eyes staring at you lazily. His ears are fully red now but he’s giving you a look you’ve never seen before—like lightning crackling in the gaps between his eyelids.

When you kiss Gojo for the first time, you don’t expect it to be by the bathroom door of a rented apartment, while away on a mission. You don’t expect it to be in your pajamas, towel wrapped around your hair as you’re getting ready for bed. You definitely don’t expect him to guide your hands down his neck while he places his on your lower back, squeezing lightly before pulling you in to kiss you again.

This time, his lips move more pliantly, parting yours slightly; he tastes mint, mixed with the strawberry candy he had earlier and it’s nothing he could have ever imagined before, but is now everything he’s ever wanted. The push and pull between you is magnetic, soft lips and the intermingling of held breaths. All Gojo can think of now is to take, to devour—to keep you with him, like this, always.

You wonder if Gojo is lying—that he’s never done this before, because you don’t think you can kiss anyone after this and not think of his lips on yours.

By the time you part, the air is significantly warmer. Your fingers thread through the hair at the base of his neck and you smile, sighing. Gojo looks warm, with his swollen lips and flushed cheeks.

“That…” you trail off, nudging his nose.

Gojo looks at you fondly; to ever even think he could have this now, with you—he doesn’t believe in any higher being but you must be his prayer come true.

“We can practice a bit more, I think.” he pulls you closer, hands gripping your hips.

You feel it against you, something solid and firm against your stomach and your eyes go wide at the realization; Gojo does the same.

“Satoru, you–” he moves back and freezes, untangling himself from you completely. There’s a faint outline on the crotch of his pants and your whole face goes red.

“Let me use the bathroom real quick.” he panics, rushing past you and closing the bathroom door.

You stand there stunned for a good minute before you shake out of it, laughing. Gojo yells about how you’re being so mean, making fun of him when he’s like this, but you aren’t—not really.

It’s been a long time getting to this point with Gojo, but considering all things, you think, this might just be the beginning.

thank you notes: i would also like to shoutout @stellamancer for leaving such lovely comments on dybil that it actually kinda pushed me to write this longer piece connected to it!!

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

#gojo satoru x reader #gojo x reader #satoru x reader #satoru gojo x reader #gojo fluff #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk #satoru #shotorus.writes #oh my god i cant believe i finished this !!!!!!!#its a big one ... jhbfhsdbfja woops #shoutout to niku for being so supportive !!!#col

2K notes · View notes

lxvebun · 10 months

Text

Dreamcatcher

synopsis: waking leon up from a nightmare.

content:Leon kennedy x gender neutral reader. (Written with re4r!leon in mind) around 500 words. hurt+comfort. Nightmares. Kissing. Consensually waking up by kisses. Use of nickname sweetheart. English is not my first language so i'm sorry for any mistakes!

Based on nonnies request:" may I suggest Leon comforting the reader after a nightmare? Or vice versa"

after everything he's been through, it doesn't come as a surprise that he suffers from horrific nightmares. The mutilation, the blood, the inhumane experiments in the name of salvation…the darkness of it all continues to linger in his head and it would have consumed him entirely if it weren't for you, he's sure.

You are truly a breath of fresh air, a single ray of light scaring the darkness away to the edges and corners. A dreamcatcher of sorts

Leon is already quite a physically affectionate person, but he seeks out your touch more desperately after a particularly rough day of repressing the memories or after a punishing mission. Even when his wounds have long healed into scars, sometimes it still feels like the infection is flowing through his veins, tearing him up from the inside out.

But it is only when he is awake that he is able to come to you when things get bad. It's a lot more difficult to notice that he's hurting when he's asleep. And although it has lessened ever since he has you to hold him at night, even the strings of your dreamcatcher aren't strong enough to catch the nightmares tainted by guilt, blood, the voices of the fallen and the lives taken by his hands even when justified.

It's difficult to notice because, unlike most when they have a nightmare, Leon lays perfectly still, his face rarely changes from its neutral expression. But luckily for him, you figured out the signals that he's having a nightmare he struggles to wake up from. The way his arm that's draped over your back, keeping you cuddled into his side, tightens into a borderline painful grip, and how you can hear and feel his heart racing against his ribcage from where your head rests on his chest

You have to be gentle when you try and wake him up, any yelling of his name or trying to shake him awake will only cruelly echo back into his nightmare as a cry for help from you.

It's all soft touches and even softer words whispered into his ear, sweet kisses to his forehead, and gentle traces of your fingers painting I love yous and hearts into his skin until his eyes shoot open and he's breathing as if he's just been pulled from underwater

His eyes dart across to room for a bit, a frown making its way on his face until his eyes lock onto yours and it's replaced by what you can only describe as utter relief

He allows himself to close his eyes again, still catching his breath he mumbles a slightly groggy "good morning"

"it's 3 am Leon"

"the perfect time to start the day, don't you think?" he is quick to answer back although his actions contradict his words as he pulls you back into his arms, returning to you to your original position on his chest

You both rest in a comfortable silence for a while until leon breaks it with a barely audible "Thank you, sweetheart"

Though you have told him repeatedly he does not have to thank you for this, he still does. It's a losing battle trying to fight that so you just go with it

"you're welcome, Leon.

#leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy #re4r!leon #re4r leon #leon kennedy fluff #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy x gender neutral reader #resident evil x reader #leon kennedy drabble

377 notes · View notes

chronically-ghosted · 7 months

Text

Third Base.

rating: 18+, explicit

pairing: max phillips x f!reader

word count: 9K

summary: after the last session went awry, you and max don't know how to be around each other. two months after a blow out fight, max catches you in the parking lot and decides it's time to talk.

warnings: angst, is that plot i smell? period sex (oral), impossible positions but he has super strength and doesn't breathe so shut up, semi-public sex, car sex, some briefly scary imagery (it's a dream), monsterfucking, mentions of a car accident and injuries related, arguing, max being a dick

a/n: MASSIVE shoutout to @jupiter-soups , @beardedjoel , @gasolinerainbowpuddles , @covetyou and @huffle-punk for giving me their blessing to do a vampire + period sex fic. The discord ladies really came in clutch here 👌i hope this makes you as horny as that thread made me

i wanted to get this out by halloween, but that didn't fucking happen so here's a fic that mentions halloween as a plot device. fun fact: orgasms can bring on your period early so no it’s not your 🐈 that’s sore it’s your uterus lining shuffling off

Prev | Next | Series Masterlist

🤍Masterlist

You’re warm. Everything is warm. You’ve sunk beneath a fresh layer of volcanic ash, heartbeat pulsing with the lazy roll of molten lava at the heart of the mountain. Hands outstretched, you can’t find the edge of the mattress because there isn’t one.

There is only warmth and rocking, gentle waves.

There is only this.

There is only him.

Shoulders hunched between your legs, his tongue is a hard muscle, leverage against which you grind and shift and when you find that spot together, you throb in sync with the rush of blood to your cunt and sink a little deeper into the endless sheets that flutter against your skin like paper in the wind.

Your lips form the shape of his name but in the sigh that leaves your mouth, you can’t be sure if you called out to him or if everything coherent had been swallowed up in a cry of listless pleasure. But he responds all the same. The vibrations in his chest between your thighs, his tongue wrapped around your clit, nearly tear you over the edge that very second – you cry out, not wanting this to end, not wanting to leave this hearth of him, folded over you as if you were made of fine ceramic and he was a fiery kiln. You arch, your release dangerously close, and his grip around your thighs tightens, tightens, pulling you deeper down into his face, his nose, that wicked, wicked tongue, and his grip tightens and it hurts. His fingers, his nails, pinch down into you, your flesh swells between his knuckles as if he’s going to tear straight through your skin, your muscles, your bones – and you yelp.

It’s not fun any more.

You struggle, but he’s on you too tight, a riptide sucking you under. You try and kick him off, push him off with your hands but it’s no use.

Everything is cold and metal and it hurts and you’re begging him to let you go, let you live, when those fangs, as sharp and jagged as steak knives, suddenly embed themselves in your thigh. Your hips jerk with the force of it, with the agony as he slices your femoral artery and drinks deep. And then he bites your other thigh, tearing through your flesh, turning the cradle of your thighs into dripping viscera.

Max, you think you beg, the fight all but drained out of you as your blood flows freely from between his fingers, from the gashes in your thighs, your throat, your wrists. He’s torn out chunks of you and swallowed them whole.

Max.

The creature lifts its head, its eyes blood-red, pupils black as the darkest night, mouth twisted and wrenched open screaming, four glistening bone-white fangs, dripping blood, your blood, your life, your flesh. Begging won’t save you now.

It snarls, the sound pinching off like a dying woman’s scream, inch-long talons tearing up your hips as it crawls forward, crawls into your throat and just before it delivers the killing bite, it whispers:

You asked for this.

The first thing you see when you jerk out of the nightmare is the crease of your pillow, looking up at it from the plush of your mattress. Your cheek smushed into your blue sheets, duvet tangled between your legs, the horror of the nightmare still pressed into the corners of your brain like a tacky, sticky film, you can’t quite understand what you’re looking at. The adrenaline is fast in your blood, heart pounding, your unconscious mind unable to determine what is real and what is not, safety or danger, and your fingers dig into your sleep shorts, arms tucked up underneath you. You blink twice, the headache from yesterday returning, your swollen, black eye almost immediately painful, and then you realize the pounding you hear is not your final heartbeats, but someone at your door.

That buzzing is not the last conscious thoughts in your head fizzling out, but your phone on silent, humming incessantly. Groaning from the pins and needles that shoot up your arm after having slept on it all night, you flop onto your back, your other wrist twinging painfully in its flesh-colored wrap, as you crawl to the edge of your bed – which is thankfully in sight. You can’t pick up your phone with your dead-fish arm and your twisted wrist so you answer the call without looking and put it on speaker.

“Hello?”

“Why aren’t you at work?” His voice is clipped, short, pissed. As if he was your actual boss and not the sales manager, while you worked in legal. After the dream, it immediately sets you on edge. Every major part of you is sore and hurts, either from the accident, or sleeping so hard you figured you briefly went into a coma.

“What’s it matter to you? I called my department and told them I’d be out.”

“Yeah, and I had to find out from Tim.” The pounding from down the hall gets louder and suddenly you connect the two. It should be illegal to be this furious minutes after waking up. “Open the door,” he snaps into the silence over the phone.

“Are you fucking serious right now? You’re at my apartment?”

“Yes, now open the fucking door.”

You chew your lip because you genuinely do not want to see him right now. There’s a reason you called Tim to pick you up after someone T-boned the back of your car yesterday evening and the plausible excuse is that he lives in the same apartment complex as you.

“Open the door right now or I swear –,”

“Alright, jesus. Gimme a fuckin’ –,”

You shrug on your cardigan, hissing as you bend your shoulder.

“What was that?” You swear his voice takes on an edge, catching on something and tearing just enough to let something vulnerable bleed through.

“It’s nothing – I –,” you twist your other shoulder into the arm of the cardigan, the phone pinched up against your ear. “Jesus – okay, fuck this, just stay there and don’t break down my door.”

You pound the red button with your thumb and launch your phone onto your bed before you limp lightly down the hall, the weight on your right ankle just a little less than on your left. It’s half a second difference in your regular gait, but something tells you he’ll know.

He’s across your threshold before you have the door fully open, glaring around your dark apartment as if it personally had a hand in keeping him outside in the hallway. There’s something frenetic in the way he moves, in the way he stands, even if he is completely still. It’s the same sort of wired energy that is usually reserved for end-of-quarter deadlines, isolated to sustained knee bouncing or wearing out the spring of a pen with one too many clicks. Max is . . . uneasy.

“Well?” He rounds on you, hands on his hips, as if you’d just been caught pilfering through the company supply cabinet for ink cartridges to sniff and get high. You’d never been on the receiving end of Max’s bad temper before – in fact, you’d been the solution to it for quite some time now. You’d seen him go off on a vendor that screwed up an order or chew out the competition, but not this. Not that tense jaw that can’t find a place to settle, eyes narrowed in warning. Don’t test me.

“Well, what?” Maybe you should have changed out of your pastel blue pajamas before coming to face your co-worker/occasional sex-fiend/boyfriend(?) but it’s too late now. You try to stand as tall as you can, arms crossed.

“You wanna tell me why you weren’t at work today and I had to hear from Tim – fucking sandwich-eating, wormy-mustache, sword-dildo Tim – that you’d been in a goddamn car accident.”

“It was minor and he lives in my building,” you respond, chin high.

His eyebrows arch as his mouth twists indignantly. “So minor your car wasn’t drivable?”

Point 1 for Max. You bristle, fighting the heat on your cheeks. “It was just easier to call him. He picked me up, dropped me off with some painkillers and some juice, and left. I didn’t fuck him if that’s what you’re worried about.”

He picks up on a thread you didn’t expect him to follow. “He gave you . . . juice?”

“Yes. His sister is a nurse and it was something about the adrenaline and sugar in orange juice – and I don’t know – it was comforting, at the time.”

“Comforting?” He asks like it’s a foreign concept. Something alien and unnatural. “What, like he gave you a hug or something?”

Your stomach turns on something sour. “Sure, Max, yeah. He could see I was upset and he did the terrible, horrible thing of giving me a hug when he saw I was in pain.”

“So was it a minor accident or not?” He takes a step forward and you remember how much bigger he is than you. How wide his hands are. “Fuck, can you turn on a light? I’m fucking straining to see anything.”

The migraine had set in moments after you closed the door behind Tim and like a creature retreating to lick their wounds, you shut off every single light in your apartment and close the blinds tight. You stick a comment about vampire sight up between your teeth and switch on the lamp by your couch.

You catch a glimpse of that pretty face cut with sharp, angry lines and flared nostrils, before it flickers, fades out when he spots the black eye, the wrist splint you forget to hide with your sleeve before it’s too late, the way you hold your weight off your sensitive ankle.

For some reason, you can’t look him in the eyes, so you watch as the taut line of his shoulders deflates, his wide hands with his thick fingers slide bonelessly off his hips, how he stands up right instead of that aggressive forward lean, reserved only for what you thought he saw as enemies.

He swallows whatever was sitting behind his teeth and stares.

Where he had been even temporarily vulnerable with you days ago, it’s your turn to shy away, hiding your tender spots.

Guilt washes up to your eyeballs the longer he stares silently, taking in every bruise and bump. You hate the fact you feel guilty, and you hate that you don’t know where the guilt comes from or why it sits so heavy in your chest.

The truth of the matter is you did think about calling him. In fact, he was the first name you pulled up on your now cracked phone, but sitting on a curb outside of a gas station as a tow truck came to take your car away, you scrolled down past him.

The truth of the matter is Max hasn’t been back in your apartment since the night you went to second base and he bit you on your tit. In fact, he’s been avoiding you in the office for days now. When he wouldn’t meet your eyes over the coffee machine, it became easier and easier to wonder if this was the same man who set out all those candles for you, who put down all of those insane precautions to keep himself from going too far, who couldn’t help but vibrate with pleasure as he drank from you. First base had gone over without a hitch, but something went wrong that night and he’d sooner let the relationship fizzle out than talk about it.

The following shower that night had been awkward and uncomfortable, too close and the steam too hot. He left shortly there after, only a handful of mumbled words exchanged, and he hadn’t come back.

So, maybe, sitting there, your head aching, your wrist pinching, you wanted him to feel as abandoned as you had.

“I’m a little . . . banged up, alright?” Your fingertips brush the edges of the Ace bandage around your palm when your fingers curl and uncurl, your head tilted just off center as if you could hide the swelling from him. “Nothing that a few days of rest can’t fix, so you really didn’t need to come over.”

“Rest and juice, right?” The look in his eyes is raw, rubbed down into nothingness, blackness, totality.

“Oh, fuck off,” you snap, “it wasn’t like that and you fucking know it.”

His head tilts as if considering your words, or considering something else, and by the time you open your eyes in a millisecond blink, he’s got your chin in his palm, his fingers curled up your cheek, thumb firmly pressed into your jaw. Dark eyes roving, he’s inspecting every cut, every bruise, every hair out of place.

Irate at the hot flush low in your stomach at the way he grips you, you push against his chest, yowling out some disgruntled noise, but that only makes him squeeze you tighter. He doesn’t even look you in the eye.

“I’ve healed much worse than this,” he murmurs, breath smelling deliciously of mint and not a hint of anything metallic. “Especially on you.”

His thumb brushes dangerously close to the rim of your purple and green eye and while even the slightest touch stings, it’s nothing compared to the bite of pain his words and soft tone inflict. You give him one more good shove and he backs off, thumb swiping briefly against your chin. His mouth is a straight line when he finally meets your glare.

“I didn’t call you because I didn’t think you gave a shit, Max.” You’ve been in tense business negotiations all your adult life so standing your ground and not crying is something that has become second nature to you. And yet, your eyes grow hot and tight all the same. You’re not crying, but your body is remembering how good it feels to do so. “Ever since that night, you’ve been acting like I’m diseased or something. You made it pretty clear we’re not actually dating, so I called Tim because it was the path of least resistance. I was tired and I hurt and I didn’t want anything complicated. And I didn’t tell you because quite frankly I didn’t think you’d notice I wasn’t there unless the breeze blew the wrong way and your dick got hard.” Every unanswered text and call straight to voicemail over the last two weeks flashes in your mind and your wrist twinges painfully as you gesture to your bedroom. “Because that’s what this is, right? Just a good fuck? A good time? For the record, you didn’t ruin that lingerie set. I put it on cold in the washer and the blood came right out, okay? Everything is totally fucking fine.”

You don’t realize how loud you’d gotten until your apartment rings with silence. It is the absence of noise, of only one set of lungs in use, that makes it so loud.

Max’s jaw still hasn’t found a place to settle, to calm himself. He purses his lips as his bottom teeth grind against the top. His eyes are unreadable, black coals in his head, instead of that gooey warmth you swear you’ve only seen in your direction. He swallows once before opening his mouth.

“So then, do you want me to fix you? Just so we can get back to fucking and I can get what I came here for.”

Soft. Quiet. A rattlesnake you don’t see coming until its fangs are in your foot, pumping you full of poison.

“Get the fuck out of my house. Right now. Leave.”

As if mocking you, he walks out the front door. He could be out and gone before you draw your next breath, but he chooses to click his fucking Armani leather shoes across your tile, open the door – the knob demonstrably small in his massive hand – and slam shut so hard the painting on the wall shudders.

If the shower had been a separation by omission, this had been the real thing.

The heat behind your eyes becomes unbearable, sharp, painful as you begin to choke on everything you didn’t say to him lodged in your throat. Vision blurry, you yank your curtains close and flip the light switch, plunging the apartment back into darkness.

It’s not until you’re curled up on your side in bed, duvet over your head, that the tears come. They’re silent, you’ve only ever known how to cry silently, but they fall fast, dripping off your nose. You squeeze your eyes shut and your black eye throbs, a thunderbolt in a storm. You cry out and touching it makes it worse and you cry because it hurts and you cry because you’re pathetic and you cry because, worst of all, you didn’t make Max realize what a fucking asshole he is.

It’s not until you wake up at two in the morning, suddenly and without a descent, that you realize Max walked into your apartment without a jacket on, his sleeves rolled up and his tie loose. As if he had heard the news and immediately left the office to come to you.

Days pass. And days turn into weeks. It’s two months later and you haven’t heard a word from him.

Everyone at the office has been very considerate about your injuries – holding doors for you as you hobbled through them, your team taking on more client-facing calls while your eye healed, typing up the last bits of the reports when your wrist started to ache. For a company that employed literal hell-spawn, you’d been rather touched by the kindness everyone showed you.

Even Tim. Who offered, after clarifying he definitely wasn’t hitting on you (if only because he feared the legal repercussions you could bring down on him like a smiting hammer) to drive you home while your car got fixed. Those nights when Evan sat in the back because they were headed to a DnD session afterwards were always a little awkward.

Everyone helped out, except one person. A significant person that made your chest twinge every time you saw his door close seconds after you came into the breakroom. You could hear your sister’s scolding voice now: never fuck where you eat.

For sleeping with a vampire, you supposed that statement was doubly true.

As the world turned towards winter, night came early and stayed longer, eager for mischief. The air grew thin, cold, trees sagging, turning brown, and molting. There’s a smell to the air that usually excites you, usually makes you smile and yearn for your couch and a long movie night. But not this time.

Halloween falls on a Monday this year and given the majority of its workforce still remember when it was called Samhain, it’s a company holiday. Ahead of a long weekend, this late, the office is empty. With nothing (and no one) to greet you at home, you stay until it could be officially counted as pathetic to keep working in an empty and dark building, before powering down your laptop, gathering your things for what you foresee as just a long working weekend, and locking your office for the night.

Paper bats hung from the ceiling, with orange and black table clothes thrown over tables in the break room. Cardboard witches and zombies grinned wickedly from the dark corners, woolen webs with freakishly large spiders hiding near the ceiling. The office manager, Carla, has really outdone herself this year, you think, as you unplug the rows of purple and orange lights looping around the ceiling tiles. With your leftover lasagna from Amanda (who insisted you still needed someone to make you dinner), you flick off any remaining lights, the red exit signs guiding you out in the dark.

His office door is open, not unheard of but not common.

The room is dark, so maybe he left early and just forgot to lock up. Your chest tightens at the thought that he ran out of there in a hurry because he was eager to meet up with someone, a pretty someone who looked great in a set of heels and had a fang fetish. You swallow; one of a dozen scenarios you’ve tortured yourself with over the past few weeks, particularly painful.

It’s strange, to go on and live your life when there has been a fundamental and irrevocable change, when there is nothing where there once was something – an outline almost visible as though the air itself was trying desperately to remember, to hold on.

Your eyes grow hot and you blame it on season allergies when you wipe your eyes with your palm. You blame it on the steady headache you’ve had all day. You blame it on the irritability that’s been rubbing you the wrong way for days now. You blame it on the lack of sleep you can never seem to get enough of. Fuck, is it possible to drink yourself into a wine coma? You’d really love to find out.

Without the sun, the wind is particularly chilling, curling over the collar of your jacket and pinching the back of your neck. Your feet ache, the plastic holding the lasagna is starting to sweat, and you’re pretty sure you’ve got a run in your nylons. Fighting back a shiver, you unlock your car and toss everything into the passenger’s seat when you hear your name.

For a fraction of a second, you think it’s the wind. That your mind has been circling its own loneliness for so long, it’s taking pity on your pathetic ass and imagining comfort out of thin air. But you hear it again, stilling with one foot in your car, hand on the door. Your name – quiet, reserved, purposeful.

So unlike him.

“Can we talk?”

Just get in the car. Just get in, turn it on, and drive. Your fingers bite into the cold metal.

“Max, it’s late and I’m exhausted –,”

“Then I’ll make it quick.”

His long coat flutters around his knees in the uneasy breeze, his hands in his pockets. You can’t really see his face in the shadows between the streetlights.

You haven’t moved. One foot on the floor of your car, hand on the door. He sighs and tugs at the tie around his neck. You wait.

“You said you’d be quick –,”

His jaw ticks, finds your gaze for the first time. “It’s fucking freezing out – can I at least sit in the car?”

“There’s lasagna.” Max had the unique capacity to trigger your most basic instincts seemingly out of nowhere. Where did he get off demanding anything? You want to stomp your foot and stick your tongue out. “I mean, you have to move the lasagna . . . and some other stuff.”

Briefly thankful for the dark shadows to hide your childish blush, you plop into the car seat without looking back at him. His figure moves around the car and you make the express decision to make him deal with all your shit in the passenger's seat. But to your enormous surprise (and swelling embarrassment), he gathers your briefcase, the plastic container, and your empty coffee mug without comment and puts them gently in the backseat – without flinging them or sighing like he just moved mountains.

Your fingers curl over the stiff steering wheel as he folds his long legs into the car, fighting with his jacket, and grunting a bit when his knees press up against the dashboard. The click as his seat slides backwards to make room is painfully audible.

The overhead light in your car fades long before either of you say anything.

“Max, it’s cold and I wanna go home–,”

“Okay, okay, sorry – fuck –,” he twists the coat tighter around his chest, sliding low in his seat like a toddler throwing a tantrum. “Okay. It’s just . . . this isn’t easy and I don’t –,”

“You don’t what?” You snap, rounding on him, patience finally running out. “You don’t know how to apologize for being a fucking asshole?”

“No – I mean, yeah, but –,”

“So you admit it! You were being a shit and you know it!”

“It’s not like it’s that fucking simple–,”

“Yeah, it is. It really is, Max. You got scared the last time we were together and you took it out on me the first chance you got.”

He shoves his palms into his eyes. “Okay, yes, I was scared, but not then. I mean, it freaked me out a little bit, but . . . it wasn’t the bite that got to me.”

“Yeah? Then what was?”

He huffs, lowering his hands slowly, his shoulders curving in as his hands drop into his lap. “You told Tim and not me. And,” he adds quickly at your rapidly reddening face, “and for about fifteen minutes, I didn’t know if you were alive or not. I just heard ‘not at work’ and ‘car accident’ and I assumed the worst . . . and because of the way I’ve treated this relationship, you didn’t think about calling me just to let me know you were okay. And . . . I fucked up.”

You blink. Slowly, then several times rapidly. “You were scared that you lost me.”

That pained grimace deepens and he scowls at you like you called his Tonka Toy Truck stupid.

“Don’t say it like that. It makes me sound pathetic.”

You scowl back. “Would it kill you to be genuine for two seconds? It’s okay to have feelings. Even ones about me.”

“Of course I have feelings for you,” he rolls his eyes and you want to bite him on his finger. “Why would I put us both through the fucking ringer just so I can bite you if I didn’t care about you?”

“So then if you can easily admit that you have feelings for me, why were you so fucking awkward that last time? Why didn’t you answer your phone? Why were you so fucking mean to me at my apartment?”

“Because I don’t wanna keep this a secret anymore!”

Your car feels abnormally cramped as all the air is sucked out with a vacuum. But, as a vampire, maybe that’s not a problem for him.

Or maybe if he stops, he’ll never be able to get it all out.

His eyes are wide, his broad shoulders pressed up against the door, as if he is trying to escape the confines of the car, or look at you straight on.

“I want to be the one you call when there’s a problem, not fucking Tim. I want you to know I’d never, ever hurt you, no matter how blood drunk I was. I want . . . I want to stay overnight at your apartment and I want . . .” he trails off, swallowing over the words that are seemingly choking him. “I want to be your . . .”

He murmurs something and you assume you didn’t hear him because you are simply too shocked.

“What?”

Max groans and puts his hands over his face as if he is being physically tortured.

“I wanna be your boyfriend. In public. At work. All the time. I wanna . . . I wanna tell people I’m your boyfriend and you’re my girlfriend.” He makes a face and sticks his tongue out, grimacing. “And I wanna fucking graduate kindergarten apparently. Get married on the blacktop. Blegh.”

As he wrestles with the apparently juvenile terms, you fall into speechlessness. There’s a dozen emotions flashing through you like fire embers: relief, anger, embarrassment, curiosity, joy, sadness –

Desire.

Watching his tongue roll around in his mouth, even comically, reminds you exactly why you entered into this relationship/not relationship with him in the first place.

Mouth finally closing, he lifts his gaze to you, chin tilted down, and you can almost imagine the ears turned back and low on his head.

“And I know that’s not what you want. I didn’t want to say anything but then it all just fucking snowballed, and it’s been killing me not being around you, so when I saw you leave tonight, I thought–,”

“Why do you think that’s not what I want?” Your heart rises, just a bit, in your chest, and you feel it tap against your breastbone. “Why wouldn’t I want to go public?”

Max watches you cautiously, eyebrows drawn down. “HR nightmare for one. But in the beginning, since we didn’t, you know, go public then, I just figured . . . Figured you’d want to end it before calling me your boyfriend.”

“But you didn’t want that either, in the beginning, right?”

He nods, suspicious.

“But things changed for you. And . . . you know . . . things might have changed for me too.”

God, maybe your mom can take pictures of you two together at the kindergarten graduation ceremony. Why is this so fucking hard to talk about?

Max blinks at you, his turn to be struck silent.

“So, theoretically, if I stop being an asshole and you call me for all your rides home, I can call you my girlfriend to Tim’s stupid face?”

“If you’re ready to deal with the HR nightmare,” you say, meaning that and a handful of other things. If you really want to deal with all of that for me.

You swear Max’s eyes twinkle gold for a second.

“Um, yeah. I mean, I am if you are.”

“I am if you are.”

“I asked you first.”

“I asked you second.”

A grin sparks across his face, the tension leaving his jaw. Joy crinkles in the corners of his eyes.

“Then I wanna kiss you first.”

Your heart is now knocking between your breastbone and your throat. You nod, swallowing nerves.

“Finally, something we agree on.”

For the first time in your memory, Max moves slow, hesitantly, but encouraged by the smirk on your lips. The car still feels small, but now in the best way possible. He leans forward, the console in the middle squeaking as you press your forearm against it, his hand sinking into your hair, nails against your scalp.

You smell mint, coffee, and finally, something coppery.

You lick your lip a second before his slot against yours.

It’s chaste, as chaste as kissing Max Phillips can be. A thoughtful moment of rediscovery, of possibility, of relieved familiarity. He knows just how to turn his head, to press into you, to make you sigh into his mouth.

“Am I forgiven?” He teases, his voice soft and quiet, eyes half open as they take in every pore and feature of your face.

Desire, buttery and warm, melts into sticky arousal between your thighs. The fingers on his chest dig in as you grasp at the material to drag him closer.

“I think you owe me a base, slugger.”

Max’s eyes widen. “Here? Now?”

“I’m pretty sure the office building is locked up, so unless you have another suggestion–,”

He groans, hands immediately tugging around your knees to pull you literally out of your seat and into his lap. He grinds your hips down against him, as if he couldn’t help it, and you gasp, embarrassingly turned on from his hands on your hips and his sudden show of strength. That goddamn vampire strength.

“I missed you so much, you fucking freak,” he mouths against your cheek, his hand squeezing your thigh once before curling around your neck and yanking you into his hot mouth. Your muffled noise comes across as protest and surprise, but he keeps you pinned, his lips and teeth and tongue fighting over themselves to get to your skin first. “I’ll give you any base you fucking want, but I wanna neck in this car for a bit.”

You nod, quelling the flush of heat between your thighs and the subsequent whimper by burying your hands under his jacket, under his blazer, and tugging his shirt out from his waistband. His skin is cold, despite three layers of clothing and a heated seat.

Max grunts as you palm his stomach, muscles tightening, and he dips his mouth to your ear, your cheek, your neck. The brush of teeth against your hammering pulse point carries only the threat of pain. His tongue circles your vein like a bullseye.

His fingers knotted in your hair, Max rolls his hips once, breaking off the kiss to watch the shiver go through you and end in a subtle moan that has you knocking your forehead into his shoulder.

He mouths your ear, that soft skin just below it, hands rubbing up your hips and inching your skirt up your thighs.

“Are you sure you want it here?” His words are as gentle as his lips — which is to say not at all. He roughly captures your mouth again before you can answer and sucks your bottom lip between his teeth as if he can bleed the answer from you.

He’s kissing you so hard, your back nudges the dashboard. You respond in retaliation; swirl his tongue with yours like a goddamn preview, hands low on his groin as you push him back.

“Yes,” you murmur against his mouth. “Yes, Max, please. Here.”

“Then we’re moving the fucking lasagna again.”

He twists you as he opens the car door, and immediately the wet patch between your thighs is slapped by the cold air. You stumble, shuddering, your nipples tightening in the chilly air. But he’s already knocking everything on the back seat to the floor. Grabbing you and guiding you by your hips to lay back against the pleather and spreading your knees with the brush of his thumbs, his eyes darken as if he can see through your skirt and nylons. Like he can hear your cunt throb for him.

He hovers over you, his Armani fucking shoes hanging off the seat as he kneels on the seat, seemingly struck silent by the sight of you, even with all your clothes on.

“Max,” you say against the swelling in your chest, “you can bite my calf if biting near my pussy is too much.”

Just the mention of that wet, warm place he is so ridiculously fond of has drawn his attention back from his distant thoughts.

“So I can’t eat your pussy after I eat your pussy?”

“If you think you can handle it,” you nudge at his elbow with your toes, “go for it.”

Over his shoulder, you can see the wind tug on his jacket, hear it ghost over the treetops, but with his thick, broad body over you, you feel nothing but warm. Max unbuttons his collar and slides his already loose tie from around his neck. He tickles your nose with it before dropping it onto the floor.

“Leaving this within reach in case you need to scream into something, okay?”

You roll your eyes, flushed hot at the idea that you’re about to have semi-public sex. “You’ve been gone for a while. Maybe you’ve lost your touch.”

Something in his eyes grows dark, sharp, and his chin tilts just slightly.

“I guess you’ll have to judge that for yourself.” He pushes up your shirt to your throat, exposing your white linen bra (that’s what you get for assuming your sex life was over) and your twitching stomach to his hot, wandering gaze. Before you can pretend to protest being cold, he drops his mouth to the swell of your breast and teases your nipple with his teeth. “You tell me if I’ve lost my touch.”

Immediately, a full body shiver radiates from where his lips suck and you stretch out against the leather, eyes fluttering open and shut. He hasn’t earned a moan yet, a fact he seems acutely aware of when his eyes flick up to watch your face as he palms your other breast. He digs one finger over the cup, curling over the material and grazing your nipple with his nail, when you shake your head.

“Too public,” you breathe, as you wrap your legs around his waist, tugging him against you because you want to feel how much this affects him too. “Someone could see.”

“But you want me to eat you out? That’s not too public?” He grins as he tucks his face into your neck, lazily rolling his hips because he knows that’s exactly what you want.

“Just stick your head up my skirt.”

He stills, teeth ghosting your skin. “Yeah?”

You feel him twitch against your thigh and you have to remind yourself not to ask him to full out fuck you in the backseat of your car. You nod, your chin ruffling his hair. His grip on your ribcage tightens, an errant thumb swiping the underside of your breast, as he lets out a noise somewhere between a grunt and a moan.

“Have I told you you’re a fucking freak and how much I love it?”

Your toes curl in your shoes, heart in your ears, and blood hot under your skin. Just as he moves to shuffle back, you cup the back of his neck, turning your teeth and lips to his ear, the hairs there as soft as peach fuzz.

“No. I’m a monsterfucker.”

The sound that escapes him is no longer human, deep, jagged, a warning cry to hunted prey, and you feel just a prick of fangs against your neck. Immediately that rush of endorphins bows your back, a Pavlovian response to be fucked so good over and over again, and you keen into his chest.

“Max, baby, please–,”

Your cunt actually aches.

Max shoves himself away from you, yanking off his coat and suit jacket in one motion, and he actually lets them fall to the concrete parking lot. Before his sleeve is all the way out, he curls over you, one hand shoving up your skirt, and the other snagging the front of your nylons. His grip pinches the coarse hairs and your cunt involuntarily clenches as he peels the nylons over your hips and your knees with one hand. To get them completely off, you’d have to stretch out your legs, so he shoves your nylons to your ankles, before grabbing the backs of your thighs and thrusting you up the seat. Your head knocks against the car door, but he doesn’t seem to care – and neither do you.

The back seat of your ford is not meant for two people, much less two people hellbent on oral sex. And yet . . .

He shoves one knee under your low spine, lifting your hips up and you acquiesce – tightening your muscles to keep the position that nearly folds you in half, but he shakes his head.

“I don’t need to breathe, honey,” he purrs into your thigh and takes your knee around the back of his head, and then does the same to the other. The height gives you enough leverage to balance against the roof of the car, giving your weight onto his shoulders, and your cunt exactly where he wants it.

“That’s it, pretty girl. Now, let me eat.” He sticks out his tongue, flat against his chin.

He clutches your hips and tugs you closer, right into his waiting muscle.

Your spine arches even further off the seat when he takes advantage of the position and licks you from the curve of your ass to your clit. He catches the dripping wetness in his mouth, using it to massage that bundle of nerves with the tip of his tongue, his fingers firm against your hip. Any more pressure and he’ll bruise you. Any more after that and he’ll crush your hipbones.

Your hips thrust weakly, thighs squeezing his head, as he forcibly reminds you that he hadn’t lost his touch, with an additional reminder that no one else touches you like he does. No one. Not a living soul or otherwise.

A side lick to your clit and you bite your lip, eyes shut, your hands above your head to find leverage. You push back against him and he groans into your pussy, aquiline nose breathing harshly into your damp curls.

“Fuck, Max – yes, right there – oh god –,”

That soft teasing feeling that makes your hips cant forward with a sudden desperate need expands with every swipe of your tongue.

He’s never going to let you live it down if you come this fast.

“M-Max,”

He opens his jaw more, dropping his mouth to your exposed hole and licking so deep inside with a curled tongue, your thighs start to shake. You gasp, head lifting forward before dropping back, as he fucks you with his tongue. You want to ride his face.

And then Max lets out a grunt, shifting underneath you, his gaze flicking up to yours. With a hand on your knee as he practically hangs you upside down, he pulls back.

“You taste different.”

It takes you a second to realize he’s said something coherent. “W-what?”

He licks his lips, smeared with a wetness that makes the lower half of his face shine in the murky street lights. He licks you again as if to make sure.

“Your taste . . . your cunt, it’s . . .”

Max’s eyes widen slightly like a wolf catching the scent of a deer.

“Hold on, baby, I gotta try something.”

Without warning, he plunges two fingers inside of you and sucks on your clit. He times his sucks with the rapid pump of his fingers and you’re at your peak in seconds. Your thighs shake, your cunt tightens, the sudden ascent overwhelming and intense, and with a tap against that spot inside you he’s forever marked as his own, you flatten against the seat, as everything inside you bursts, wet and bright, into his waiting mouth. His eyes flutter at the taste as it drips out of you, corners of his mouth smeared with your release.

Max slowly slides his fingers out of you, watching you with apparent curiosity, pride evident in his eyes, and immediately your cunt aches, as if he had just given you three orgasms instead of one. There’s a low throb at the crux of your thighs and you groan, the pain only dull.

But he doesn’t seem to notice. He nudges your thighs back from his ears, opening up you just a bit before he tucks his tongue into you again. The throb, alongside the still settling waves of your orgasm, wants you to push him away, but it’s not overstimulation. After being with Max for so long, you knew what overstimulation felt like and this is not it.

“Max, c’mon, give me a second — fuck,”

Your eyes widen as you feel something wet trickle out of you and into his mouth, his eyes fixated on you. His grip around your waist pulls you closer to his chest.

You watch each other the second you realize what’s just happened.

He leans back and there’s blood on his bottom lip.

Embarrassment scorches through your body and all the shitty feelings you had all week suddenly identify themselves as symptoms of PMS. Fuck.

You immediately push on him, trying to de-tangle yourself from his shoulders, but he shakes his head.

“You wanted me to drink your blood, right? Third base? Well, now we don’t have to worry about where to bite you.”

“But Max,” you struggle, working to sit up right but he won’t let your legs go. In fact, his grip turns rougher and you feel his fingers crush into your hip bones, his other hand pinning your knee to the back of his neck. “Max, c’mon, you don’t have to do that. This is silly and –,”

His wide palm smooths over your knee, like he’s trying to settle a frightened cat.

“Who’s scared of genuine feelings now?” He murmurs.

Only Max Phillips can go soft and sweet with your cunt inches from his face. Your apparently bleeding cunt.

His hand moves from your knee, down your thigh and over your hip, before making the reverse trail, just as slow, just as comforting, while his gaze never leaves yours. You swallow something harsh in your throat, as your lower pelvis starts to ache.

“The last thing I want is to hurt you, but I’ve heard that orgasms can actually help with cramps.” Max says softly. This isn’t a ploy to get (further) into your pants. He’s being genuinely – really, seriously, genuine. Your heart beats just as hard as the cramps as they settle.

“What woman told you that?”

Max huffs out a laugh, turning his head to nuzzle your thigh. “I was lonely without you and had to make do . . . so I befriended Carla and her gang.”

“The office manager?” You gape at him.

“They all tried to set me up with their daughters,” he chuckles, his hands still roaming over your body. He adjusts his knee so you have something to lean into. “So, pretty harmless. But they are also some of the most incorrigible gossip hounds I’ve ever known.”

“They didn’t mind setting their daughters up with a vampire?”

“Not all of them are human, honey.” His eyes roll up your chest to your face. “And the ones that are were practically begging me to turn them.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No, baby, I didn’t.” He shifts again, tugging you further over his shoulders, thumbs pressing gently into the backs of your knees. “We don’t have to do this if you really don’t want to.”

“I know. It’s just . . .” You touch his thigh behind your back, needing to feel him to gather up the strength to say what you wanted to. “No one’s ever done this before.”

Max’s solid eyebrow jumps, lips pulling back into that wicked smirk. You swear you catch a glimpse of fang as he focuses back onto your cunt.

“Well, you’re a monsterfucker and I’m your monster to fuck.”

His mouth lowers, eyes on you, waiting and begging. You nod and he prods your clit with his tongue again, before licking anything and everything out of your hole.

Max doesn’t eat. He feeds.

He grunts through his nose, trying to kneel as high as he is allowed in the cramped space. Finally, his gaze falls from you, eyes flickering shut, as the cramp in your pelvis digs deeper – you cry out – but then, it melts. The dull ache is spread across your hip bones until it is just warm, hot with your rushing blood. You moan, throwing your head back, and finally you dig your hands into his hair.

As that warm bright coil begins to sink into your pelvis, Max groans between your legs. He pulls back just an inch, his lips a gooey red, to say:

“Pull on it if you need to hold yourself up.”

Why you thought you could ever go back to a human lover after Max is a fuzzy, hazy notion at the edges of your mind when you dig your fingers into his hair, slightly longer than it’s been in the past, and pull yourself even closer to his mouth.

In a truly impractical position, you feel his iron-hard cock poke your back, his hips stuttering, fucking empty air. His arm bands around your hips, your knees knocking against the ceiling, as he adjusts his grip.

The inverse of blood has you going dizzy; blood rushing to your head as Max coaxes blood out of your cunt.

And then you feel it.

Behind your thighs, his chest vibrates and the air is filled with a delicious, primal sound. The sound of a beast being satiated, of a hunt gone well, a feeding that will sustain for a long, long while. Before you found it rather adorable, funny that a grown man like Max Phillips would purr when deeply satisfied, but now, it’s a hair-pin trigger to your demise.

You cry out, loud and wet and wanting, as everything from your hips down starts to tighten up again. You lock your ankles together against his back, toes exposed to the night air, and you use the last of your waning strength in your thighs to lift yourself even further to him. Your hips thrust weakly and that grip around your hip bones seals you to his chest.

Don’t fucking move.

But it’s enough. Your inner thighs a gooey, hot mess, he prods his tongue deep, licking up every liquid that drips out of you, before coating your clit in your own mess.

He sucks and you come. Long and loud.

Your vision slowly begins to unblur, black spots fading, as he lowers you down, careful not to go too quick like he’s trying to not to wake someone from a light sleep. You can feel that sleep, that endless relaxation swelling over you as you go boneless while Max untangles you.

Your eyes stay open long enough to see the smear of red across his lips before he wipes it away. The cramping in your pelvis has been reduced to a gentle throb.

Gingerly, Max pulls your skirt down, hand arching your back so you don’t have to lift your hips as he adjusts you back into some modicum of decorum. He reaches back and snags his coat and jacket from the ground before tossing them into the passenger’s seat. With your feet in his lap, arm stretched out across the back of the seat you just debauched, he shuts the door and instantly the smell of his cologne permeates the air.

You grin, wriggling down in the seat as far you can go like a housecat warmed by the sun.

You sit in silence for a bit, content to just be, a welcome retreat for your breathing to go steady and his cock to soften. His hands brush against the heels of your bare feet.

“You made me purr again,” he says with a grin.

“There’s no way that’s the technical term for it, whatever it is,” you say teasingly as you watch him trace your ankles with his finger. “You should ask another vamp what you’re supposed to call it.”

He chuckles, squeezing your foot once before glancing up at you. Whatever he sees in you, it makes his eyes go soft.

“You mean ask about the thing that only happens during the most intimate moments a vampire can experience? Yeah, sure, I’ll bring it up at the water cooler.”

Satiated and warm and a little loopy from a truly record breaking orgasm, you stick your tongue out at him.

“Fine. I’m going to tell people that you purr like a cute, innocent little kitten until you find a better term.”

He bends your knee so he can press his lips to the curve.

“Just because you’re my girlfriend, don’t think I won’t turn you over and swat your bottom.” He nips at the hollow of the joint with flat teeth, opening up your legs to him again. You can feel that heavy wetness trickle down again, and you sit up, not embarrassed by your bleeding, but suddenly tired beyond belief.

Max lets you move out of his lap as you curl a hand around his cheek. It’s a shame you only see that touch of vulnerability, the man without the quips and the teasing and the bravado, after a good fuck. But you think you might finally have it your way, sooner than you ever hoped.

“Well if my boyfriend would drive us back to his place, maybe I could show how sorry I am for teasing you.”

He studies you for a minute, a full minute that has you surprised he’s not roughly kissing you again.

“Sometimes, around the office, you’d smell different and I never knew what it was. I didn’t put enough thought into it to realize the pattern, but it makes sense now. And it makes sense why you were suddenly very busy during that week when I’d bootycall you.”

You shrug, your neck suddenly very warm. “I dunno. I figured you wouldn’t want to be around me when I’m like that. Not to mention I dress in baggy clothes and wander around my apartment with a heating pad taped to my hips.

“Really? They’re that bad?”

You nod. “Women around the world rejoiced when working from home became an option. Video calls only show from the waist up.”

“Now that’s all I’m gonna be thinking about at the next all-hands meeting,” he grins and squeezes your knees.

“I guess I set myself up for that one, didn’t I?” You shake your head. He nods, humming his affirmation, and kisses you.

“Let’s go to your place,” he mutters against your lips. “There might be no place on earth less equipped to handle Shark Week than a male vampire’s bachelor pad.”

“Shark Week?” You giggle.

“Carla’s words, not mine. The Rising Red Tide. Code Red. Aunt Flo. And my personal favorite, communists in the fun house.”

Your giggle turns to a snort as you lean forward into him, laughing. His lips press affectionately into your hairline as you settle down.

He moves to take your feet out of his lap when you gently take his elbow.

“So we’re good, right? This wasn’t too much?” You are a little concerned by the total and complete lack of fang he showed, but entirely grateful.

As if reading your mind, he says, “the fangs only come out when I need to get through pesky flesh to feed. Your blood came out like a broken ice cream machine at McDonalds.”

You wrinkle your nose as he laughs and you push him out of the car.

“That’s disgusting, Max.”

You snag the keys from your briefcase and toss them to him as he rounds the car and you crawl into the passenger’s seat.

He drops in and immediately turns on your seat warmers. The gesture is subtle and thoughtful, things you thought Max Phillips never could be.

“Speaking of which,” he holds onto the head of the seat as he backs out of the spot. “Carla also told me that ice cream is the cure to most cramps. So, with the lovely picture I just painted in your mind, do you want to go to McDonalds?”

As you look at him, shadows flitting across his face as he drives under streetlight after streetlight, his fingers that had been inside you minutes ago loosely holding the steering wheel, your heart twinges as you come to a certain realization.

This can’t last, right?

He’s only acting like this because he feels bad, feels guilty, right?

Max Phillips isn’t boyfriend material, despite his claims.

As proven before, feelings can change. So you wonder how long until his feelings about you change again and he grows tired of you. Max Phillips is not a housecat.

You swallow, glancing away before he has a chance to catch your eyes.

“Yeah, Max, let’s do it.”

Prev | Next | Series Masterlist

#max phillips #max phillips x you #max phillips smut #max phillips fanfiction #max phillips x reader #max phillips x f!reader #blood sucking bastards #max phillips x female reader #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfiction

128 notes · View notes

johannestevans · 7 months

Note

hi, unless i’m imaging things i think you’ve mentioned having written an article about different treatments for vaginal atrophy. do you have a link?

Hey there, Anon!

I have a big, exhaustive guide to vaginal and vulvar stimulation, and I do discuss the impact of vaginal atrophy and a few options toward treating it, but it doesn't go into specific detail.

Vaginal atrophy is caused by decreased estrogen production, and effectively what happens is that the soft, wet tissue on the inside of your vagina - the parts that are formed of mucous membranes - become thinner and dryer. This can lead to pain during sex, difficulty getting sufficiently loose or lubricated for penetration, and it can make the skin there tear a lot more easily, because when it's thinner it's less flexible and has less support from the surrounding tissues, not to mention the increased friction from lack of lubrication.

It's important to remember that while we're at our wettest during sexual arousal, the inside of the vagina - much like the head of the penis inside the foreskin - should always be a little bit wet. That wetness is really important to the vagina performing its regular activities, keeping itself clean and healthy, and not receiving too much friction just from things like walking around.

Even your rectum has important mucous inside it to keep things running a bit more smoothly and to ensure it's never too dry, and this is why too many enemas in a short period can be bad for your anal and rectal health, and your anus is a lot more closed naturally than your vagina, you know?

While more lube during sex is often the first thing people bring up in response to vaginal dryness, that's actually only one facet of potential issues - for people who are on T, for people going through menopause, for people who for whatever reason have an E deficiency or insufficient E in this area, it can cause other problems too - your vaginal canal might get a bit shorter, muscle weakness in the area (especially of the pelvic floor) can make you need to pee more often and more urgently, you might have some spotting, abdominal pain, uncomfortable or burning sensations when urinating.

In combination with the fact that vaginal atrophy can make you more prone to injury, your bacterial flora can be thrown out of whack by this process too, and these are really really important to maintaining a healthy vagina, producing appropriate amounts of discharge, but also to fighting off infection - vaginal atrophy is also associated with recurrent UTIs and other infections.

So, what can we do?

Firstly, pelvic floor exercises are unbelievably helpful, and everyone should be doing them regularly, regardless of gender or genital make-up.

Here's an NHS guide """for women""" but it mostly doesn't use any gendered language for your actual body parts:

These exercises will help strengthen your pelvic floor, and strengthening these muscles will not only help with stuff like potential urinary incontinence or give you a tighter grip that you can better control during penetration (more control in this area can also help you if you're prone to reflexive tightness under stress, e.g. with vaginismus), but when those muscles are stronger and have more density to them, they provide more support to the surrounding area, which can help blood flow and give more structure to the tissues we're trying to support.

Secondly, as well as good lubricants, there also exist vaginal moisturizers - depending on the extent of your atrophy and how much it's a problem (it might be worse, for example, at some points of the month than others), these might help - you apply them every few days and they help your vagina maintain its lubrication.

If pelvic floor exercises and lube and moisturizer isn't helping, your next step is different forms of estrogen - your medical provider will need to tell you what's available in your area and to you particularly, but there's honestly all sorts.

You can get topical estrogen gels and creams that you smear inside the vagina, you can get suppositories that you insert and are then absorbed, you can get rings that you insert and then stay in place for a few months, slowly releasing E over time.

If you're using testosterone, it's more likely that your medical provider would suggest these latter than taking E orally - the great thing about these topical applications is that the E stays very localised to your pelvic region where you need it, much like when you get an IUS and the progesterone stays relatively localised. Taking E orally, you're introducing estrogen to your whole system, and depending on your current hormone cocktail, it might be harder to figure out dosage and effect, especially over time.

If your medical provider hears you're experiencing vaginal atrophy and, if you say that lube and moisturizer aren't sufficient, they immediately suggest moving to vaginal dilators or pain killers, or if they talk about easing your "discomfort" during sex (especially with a presumed male partner) without talking about pleasure or satisfaction, or especially if you've brought up vaginal atrophy for reasons other than sex and their priority immediately jumps to the imaginary partner they want you to be satisfying, I would recommend getting a new medical provider as soon as possible, and probably telling that one to shut the fuck up.

Many doctors, as we know, are scumbags, but some particularly cunty ones' automatic focus for someone with a vagina is that you're providing sex to your (cishet male) partner - they automatically focus less on your pleasure or satisfaction, let alone your health, and more on the idea of reducing pain you're experiencing enough that you'll let that partner fuck you as much as they desire to.

This is not a medical provider that has your best interests at heart, and if they don't afford you humanity in this area, I would have doubts as to others.

If you're having difficulty with a medical provider, I would always, always advise:

Bringing a chaperone with you. You're entitled to a chaperone, you can always bring one, a lot of the time they'll want to say a chaperone can stay out of the room "for your comfort/privacy" but for your comfort and safety, you can also bring them in with you. A chaperone might be a friend or family member or partner, and they don't even need to say anything a lot of the time - just having a witness there can make a medical provider think twice about bullying a patient. I've served as a medical chaperone for quite a few friends, especially because I'm a thin white man, and even as a faggot, doctors humanise me slightly more than they do friends of mine who are perceived as women, who are POC, who are fat, etc.

Ask your doctor the reasoning behind denying a course of treatment, and ask them to document that they are refusing treatment at this time. Once they write it down, it becomes something that's documented and that they can't deny in court, which tends to make them a bit more flexible.

Don't be afraid to go into the doctor having done a bit of your own research. Doctors will tell you not to google things as many doctors have fragile egos and become nervous at empowered patients - with particularly egotistic doctors, you can always phrase your research in the form of questions to make them feel like you're appropriately aggrandising them. "Are there suppositories for this, or creams? Could my UTIs be related to my vaginal dryness? My mother mentioned vaginal atrophy during her menopause, but I didn't really understand what it was. Could you explain? Could that be me?"

Cisgender women are generally better doctors than cisgender men (statistically, despite being underpaid and underrepresented), but obviously cisgender people are often... very cisgender, and cisgender women can be even more painfully cisgender than cisgender men. Most providers won't bat an eyelid at you requesting a female doctor over a male one for a gynecological concern, but you can't go around asking for the most clocky doctor they've got in the back.

What you can do if you're having trouble at your GP is look for your local GUM (Genito-Urinary Medicine) clinic, and see if they'd see you and talk to you about vaginal atrophy - I know several trans people who work as nurses and practitioners in the GUM field, and in general, GUM practitioners will be way more chill about this field.

Unlike your GP, there's no chance of them getting flustered, nervous, or religiously conservative about sex or genitalia, and GUM practitioners are often more chill about queer, trans, and intersex patients because they already see us a lot more, whether because queer people are more on-the-ball about STI testing, or just because many of us enter sex work, and they're more likely to see sex workers. The benefit of this, though, is that you're almost certainly not going to be their first or only patient with x or y element of your body or identity, which can mean they humanise you a bit better and are generally less shit.

I hope that helps, Anon!

#musings #anonymous

110 notes · View notes

mellowwillowy · 2 years

Text

- Specimen Girl -

Yan!Dottore×Fem Reader

Dead Dove : Do Not Eat

Yes, it's all based off the lyrics to Specimen Girl's song lol. Also I aint a medical student so let's just pretend what Dottore does is scientifically true lol

Gore description (maybe), delusional Dottore, reader got kidnapped and 'operated' by Dottore (eyes gouged, arms and legs numbed down), necrophilia but you can almost ignore it if you stick with Dottore's delusions, cannibalism (eating your heart), suicide (you and Dottore)

some comfort: Sandrone tried to avenge you but Dottore said bye-bye first lol (don't worry she'll dishonor Dottore's death with Columbina for you instead). I've also toned down lots of things and scenes so yeah, I've warned you so don't come at me

Will mention reader's past a bit near the end of the story.

Word Counts 4.1k

01・Let’s gouge out your eyes

00・that way, you won’t look at anyone else

Dottore's finger dances on your face, his thumb slowly caressing the skin around your left eye. You try to break free from your restraint but fail nonetheless. Bruises formed on both your wrist and ankle, burning from the friction of the restraints whenever you struggle. Your eyes dilate in fear and pain as Dottore presses his scalpel on your lower eyelid.

"Say, Senior, why did you stare at that bastard so lovingly?"

He presses the blade even deeper now, drawing out blood from the cut. You scream from the burning sensation, writhing under his restraint which earns a chiding from Dottore.

"Ah ah ah. If you won't stop wriggling, the operation will not be neat anymore" he chides you as he brings his palm to your tear-stained cheek, blowing wind to your eyes as though he's mocking your pitiful state.

"W-why, wh-why me? Lo-lord Ha-Ha-Harb-Harbinger, I-I have ne-never even o-once shown a-any-"

Dottore shushes you down. He knows what you were trying to say. That you have been nothing but a good citizen. That you have never even once disregarded Tsaritsa nor opposed her rule.

"Like I said earlier, this," Dottore presses the scalpel inside your eye socket, cutting down the nerves of your eyes as you scream in pain "is only your punishment because you've been giving your attention to someone that's not me"

Each second feels like you are being skinned alive, flapping like how a fish would be on the ground. Dottore slowly circles the scalpel around your eyeball, cutting every nerves it can find. Your left eye has already lost its sight the moment the blade cuts one of the nerves, blood flowing out like a waterfall.

"Aw! Don't leave me just yet! What's the point of this punishment if you are not here with me?" Dottore bites your lip, drawing out blood from it. You can feel the steel taste of it and it makes you feel sick. Your stomach can't even tie any knots anymore at this rate.

Dottore humms down a tune as though he is trying to calm you down. It's the tune you used to hum during your study in ʏɿoƚimɿob and almost everyone knows that it's your little song that you'll use to ease people down.

And not for a maniac humming it.

Dottore pulls out your left eyeball easily, observing it closely before he kisses it and shoves it for you to see. Better remember how it looks like before you can no longer see anymore right?

"Go on, observe how beautiful your eye is Senior. Oh? Maybe you should also..." Dottore places your eyeball right next to his beautiful ruby eyes "remember how your Junior's eyes look like" Dottore grins maniacally.

Without being said, you've long memorized your captor's appearance. Ruby eyes, teal hair, and visible sharp pointed teeth whenever he talks or grins.

And how red his tongue is as he licks your eyeball.

Time's up and all you see next is how Dottore places your eyeball into a container with fluids in it. Probably to preserve your eyeball. And what about the other jars? Oh god no. Why did you think about the other jar when you were trying to-

"I won't allow you to avert your thoughts away, Senior" Dottore kisses your right eye, slightly licking it as though your eyes are nothing but sweet candies for him. Again, the scalpel comes into sight and

"So please bear with it, Senior ♡"

The last thing you tried to focus on was his pointed teeth that were revealed as he grinned.

You scream atop of your lungs and drowned into oblivion after that.

04・Let’s cut off your hands and feet

00・that way, you won’t touch anyone else

You might not be able to see anymore but even you can make out where you are right now. A bed. You can feel something tight wrapping around your eyes. Bringing your shaky hands toward your eyes, you can feel just how empty your eye sockets are now.

It hurts.

You cry out but what comes out was not crystal clear tears but instead, blood.

Why must you feel this pain again even in this world?

What had you done wrong to him? You knew he was a harbinger and you had never even once insulted him, right? You cry to yourself before realizing that you are no longer restrained. Run.

And so you run, bumping toward everything but still manage to reach the door. You frantically turn the door knob and swing the door open, running toward the empty hall despite bumping into lots of things.

And you bump into a man. It's not him right? Judging from their groans, it's probably someone else.

"H-help! Help me! P-pl-please! I- I, so-someone" your hands frantically try to find their way toward the man's, looking for support.

Oh if only you were still able to see, you could have seen how the pale the man was as he shook in fear. Even so, the man stayed silent and

Splat

You feel something... gushes toward your face. Some kind of fluid. It doesn't take long for you to identify what it was after the fluids find their way toward your tongue.

The man's body slumped down and you threw yourself backward. What just happened? You don't know, you can't see anything!

Losing your own balance, you fell down on your butt. Still in shock, you frantically feel the blood on your face. Realization hits you and you realize, the man has been killed in front of you. You scream in horror as you wipe your face frantically, smearing the blood even more. It's getting harder to distinguish which is yours and which is his.

"Senior"

Dottore's voice cut your mind in half immediately. You twitch in fear, this man is still here with you. You can feel him walking toward you, his footsteps are not heavy but sharp nonetheless. He stops in front of you, crouching down, he yanks you by your ankle toward him.

"Come to think of it..." his fingers slowly caressing your ankle "I haven't punished your feet too hm?" Horrors shot inside your body. No no no. You have enough of being blind, now to become an immobile porcelain doll altogether? You shook your head vigorously, a bunch of incoherent babbles of begging won't stop him.

"And this hand..." you cry even louder as he yanks you up to your feet "I shouldn't allow it to touch anybody else anymore right?" He gives the back of your palm a kiss "Mmh, let's proceed with it now"

He drags you toward somewhere you don't even wish to know. Smells of antiseptics and blood invade your nose. It's your biggest nightmare now. You thrash under his grip but it barely does anything, especially with how weak your pitiful state is now.

He lays you down on a chair this time, your hands and legs taped onto something plushy. Dottore hums the tune again. Instead of making you feel better, it only makes your stomach churn in fear again. Clinking noises, pokings, and pricking your skin, you feel how the foreign fluids enter your body.

It's not anesthesia to your demise.

Left wrist, right wrist, left ankle, right ankle.

You feel your whole body boiling in pain. Your scream never bothers him as it's much more regarded as music for his ear instead. Your eyes wound reopen as you cry, blood flowing out like a waterfall.

It didn't take long for you to finally choke on your own sobs, how you can no longer feel your arms and legs.

How you no longer wriggle in pain and fear.

Dottore kisses your sweating forehead as he wipes all the blood off your face.

"You did great, Senior ♡"

01・Why did you, although I am here,

00・sleep with other men?

Dottore's eyes did not leave your side even once. Watching every movement like how a predator would. His gaze lingered on your half-exposed chest. Dottore didn't like you showing your skin but he had to admit that your dress did a great job with it.

Your face remained beautiful in his eyes even with the mask covering half of it. You did notice how he was gazing over you despite having his eyes covered by his mask but you brushed it off. Besides, you had a better thing to care for, which was the company in front of you. Oh, how his arm found its way to your waist, pulling you closer to him as you two whispered to each other seductively.

The alcohol definitely helps you two loosen up to each other, sharing kisses before making your way to any chamber available.

What you thought to be a private moment with the man was shattered down. Dottore was in fact, there, inside the room. His eyes were redder than usual, watching you two in fuming rage. Where he was is none of your concern, what matters is that he was there.

A few days after that, the man was announced missing. His mutilated remnants were soon found floating by the river.

03・That’s the punishment for the crime you committed

00・I’m not letting you go anywhere anymore

But he can't do that to you. Instead, he'll break down anything of yours instead of blowing a death to you directly. Yes, your punishment would be way easier than theirs. He wants you to be with him after all.

― ᶠʳᵒᵐ ᵗᵒᵈᵃʸ, ʸᵒᵘ ᵃʳᵉ ᵐʸ ˢᵖᵉᶜⁱᵐᵉⁿ ―

00・I'll drive a picket into your chest

00・and put you inside a case with a glass door

But, even so, the temptation to learn your heart remains there. No matter how many years it has been, he still wishes to learn how your heart works. What makes you skip? What makes it beat so fast? How does it pump your blood? You wouldn't mind him poking it every now and then right? He'll just pull your heart out and learn it for a moment before returning it back to its respective place.

00・I’ll place that in my room

00・and observe you every day

There has never been a moment where no one sees him without you next to him. Either on a wheelchair or carried by him or his clones. Isn't that nice? This way, you two will never be separated anymore!

He will never be bored observing you who was sitting motionless. Oh, you are the most beautiful doll he has ever seen! Even Sandrone furrowed her eyebrows as though envying his precious creation while Columbina spins out curses toward him because of how she would never be able to match your beauty.

03・Each time I look at you, I feel shivers

00・and the blood in this body boils

Even today too, you can feel Dottore's gazes linger all over you. How he loves to move your hands or legs, how he loves to kiss your cheek while lightly biting it with his sharp teeth. To draw out noises from you, that's all he's asking for. For someone who can't move or see, you surely survived longer than he expected to.

Not like you can do anything after all

04・You are already only mine

06・Yes, you are my Specimen Girl

On some occasions, Dottore will cover your face with a veil, only allowing him to lift it and observe your eternal beauty. Your bandages used to be drenched in red wine but it seems like you have finally accepted everything.

The bandage is pristine white, meaning you are no longer dwelling on your past traumas, reopening the wounds with your tears.

00・That’s right, I’ll preserve you in that liquid

11・That way, you won’t rot away

But this is weird, you've been awfully quiet recently. It's not weird for you to stay silent for almost a whole day but even so, he would never fail in earning a groan from you. He also notices how your skin started to crack up like how an old porcelain doll would.

He places his head on your chest, listening to any kind of heartbeats or it pumping blood. Not a single beat was heard. And you, on the other hand, start to crack even more. Are you a human, or a doll?

Have you ever been a human in the first place?

No human would have their skin cracking like this, and yet your flesh and heart are real. What and who are you? Dottore ponders to himself before deciding to craft some kind of potion for you. One that a living one should never be exposed to.

"Don't worry Senior, this will help you"

00・Silent as the grave, that unique scent

00・arouses me once more

You are as silent as a porcelain doll would be. Some kind of sick, familiar scent is now all over you. And yet, he does not make any complaints at all, instead, he... loves it. The mixture of something rotten and the foreign fluids inside your guts and on your skin, he never has enough of it. It's sickening as much as it is addicting. Sandrone and Columbina's distaste grows more and more even though they can't do anything about it.

As much as they hate his treatment toward you, they have to agree that your beauty was in fact, preserved as how it used to be. Flawless if they discount the small cracks on your skin.

They hate him but what can they do? They have promised you and one should never break their promise. Never.

00・Your now unmoving body

00・I defile without paying any price

You didn't move but he could hear you coming to life again. Has he succeeded in bringing you back to life? Have you finally found your will to live again? Countless nights of learning your heart and brain are finally paid off.

The blood doesn't taste like it used to anymore but who is he to judge? As long as it's you...

Dottore hugs you tightly, his hands traveling to somewhere he shouldn't be. His kisses are greedy and rough, teeth ripping your lip as he tastes your blood in his mouth.

He intertwines his fingers with yours as he pushes his kisses deeper into you. His tongue explores your mouth, clashing with something familiar. Has your tongue always been like this?

―ₐₐₕ, ₙₒw ᵢ fₑₑₗ ₗᵢₖₑ ₑₐₜᵢₙg yₒᵤ ᵤₚ―

The frilly dress is ripped open as his eyes won't stop devouring every inch of your body. Your heart is beating, for him, for him, for him!

Angelic moans can be heard as his finger traces your delicate skin before resting inside your lacy panties. Just because you have found your will to live again doesn't mean you have also gotten yourself a new body. In fact, you still couldn't move at all. Even so, Dottore still tries his best to earn any kind of reaction from you, how your head twitches in pleasure as he teases that one spongy spot inside you.

Oh if only you still have control of your arms and legs, you would probably trap him with your leg and choke him to death.

He has to feel what you felt and yet to your own dismay, all he's doing right now is pleasuring you. Hell knows you wouldn't want him to feel the same pleasure.

His lips found their way again, to your cold lips, neck, shoulder, chest, tummy, and...

"The night is still long Senior, so please bear with it okay?"

00・Your body gone cold

00・when I touch it with my hands I feel shivers

You lay there next to him with the moonlight illuminating all the bruises he made. He can't help it, to pull you closer and closer to him as he pumps himself in and out inside of you. He will always love the sensation of adjusting your limbs to him, giving him a sense of control toward you as he brings your hand to his neck. He knew you wanted to choke him. Judging by you would occasionally clench your jaw and brought your head close to his neck, trying your best to bite the spot where his vein is connected. You wanted to kill him.

And that is your new resolve to live again.

10・I cut open your chest with a knife

00・I take out your heart and eat it

But this is getting into nerves more than he thought it would.

You've been sitting quietly with an unhinged smile plastered on your face. You who didn't really care for your appearance ask him to dress you up beautifully every day now. How you want to wear frilly puffy dresses, how you want a beautiful lacy blindfold instead of plain white bandages, how you want to wear a long white stocking with frills and bows, how you want him to ornate your head with accessories.

And how you ask him to eat your heart out so that he can just kill you right then and there.

"Cut my chest open and eat my heart out" you lean toward Dottore's ears, whispering of what he had long wanted to do to you.

This is in fact, nothing but just a green light for him to pluck your heart out and eat it on a silver platter now.

Eating it all up as though it's his last meal, drinking up all the blood like it's the world's finest wine to ever exist. Oh how Sandrone and Columbina wished they could just behead Dottore's head and offer it to you.

In the end, not a single bits of your heart remained on the plate. It's all in his guts now.

00・With this, your heart is now mine

06・you won’t be able to love anyone but me

He has done it. He has taken your most important thing which is your heart. Your heart is all his now. Without your heart, you can no longer love anyone nor see the truth. Without your heart, you can no longer feel what it's like to be alive.

Your heart is inside his guts now. The feeling of your heart being one with him is addicting. It's proof that you now are only able to love him and him alone. No one will be able to take your heart away anymore, be it literally or figuratively.

00・I return the rest to the case

00・I place it again by my side

Your heartless body remains beautiful. While you start to crack more and more, he'll always know a way to put a stop to it. But even so, he starts to feel paranoid about you.

Every now and then, he can see you strolling with those flimsy long white gowns around the palace all by yourself, humming the old tune from the Akademiya days.

No matter how many times he breaks your leg, you'll always be seen strolling around the palace.

No matter how many times he cut your vocal chord, you won't stop humming the same tune for others to hear.

He hates it. Your voice is only for him to hear. It's reserved for him and him only. Even so, whenever you lay on the operation table while having your vocal chord destroyed by him, you could still chuckle at him creepily. Sometimes, strings of curses can be heard as well.

Dottore will always receive complaints from the other fellow harbingers, about how the maniacal laughter and curses never end. How footsteps can be heard ringing in the middle of the night, how the tune will be hummed in an eerie way, and how the trickle of blood won't stop dirtying the floor.

And so, he sealed your body inside a crystal glass box. This way, you can no longer roam freely and will forever be sealed next to him, for him to be the only one to see you.

00・I won’t let you go for as long as I live

00・after all, you are my

"Senior," Dottore's fingers dances on your glass box, "You will always be my Senior no matter what"

→・―It’s unforgivable―・→

00・From inside the case

06・Look only at me

00・until I die

No matter how tight he ties your blindfold, he will always feel as though it's loosening up. What will happen if the blindfold is taken off? Will you be looking at someone else with that empty eye socket of yours? He can't allow you to look at anyone else other than him! You are only entitled to look at him until he dies.

No, even after he dies, he will never allow you to look at anyone else. Dottore who feels the knot in his stomach tied even tighter than ever decides to untie it. To untie your blindfold and

00・Aah, but you

00・no longer have eyes

02・After all, that is

―because I gouged them out...―

Therefore, he is greeted by your empty eye sockets. Is it delusion? Dottore slowly inserts his finger inside your eye socket as much as he wishes he doesn't want to. Empty. Ah, he really did gouge it out. The proofs are still in his chamber, placed on his nightstand. That way, he can just take the jar and observe it as he tries to drift himself to sleep. Your beautiful eyes never fail to mesmerize him.

B̶̨̨̳̭͎̝́̒̅̂̄͐͠͝u̷̢͉̼̭̗̎̐͒́̓̍̈̎̽͝ț̶̫̬͓̌̽̀̏̍̓͑̿̉͝ ̴̗̯͇̗̜̟̙͇̗̄́̃ȟ̶̯͐̀̎o̵̻̺̬̦͙̘͑͆͌̅̑̒̔́͘͘w̷̱̗͂̉́͊̎͝ ̶̳̹͕͖͎͖͉̩̱̎̽̈́͛ả̴̝͇͇͍͍̙͇̩͙̯́̋̔̽́̔̚͝b̴̨̛̦̲̩̰̣̲̦̻̆̉̀̀͊̊̎͐̽ọ̸̢̨̡͔͔̮̜͖̀̄́̈́̕ͅu̵̡͖̥̬̤͕̺̓̓͋̈̌͆͋͑̐̚ͅẗ̴͉͚́͐̄ ̶̡̢͉̪͕̥̝͐̄͐͜a̴̛̳̭͔̰̠̎̄̑͛̏͑͝͠ ̵̭͆͑̍ṕ̴̧̥̥̜͖̭̞͇͉̾̀̿̉͐͗͂̒ą̷̨̲̱͈̹̣̘͈͗̔̎͋̀͠i̴͚̜̎͆ŗ̴͙͈͖̝͉͔͙̭̲̀͐̉́ ̶̢͓͍��̩̺͍͊̈͛̅o̴͈͕̞̩͓͑͒̈́̊͋̓͐͌̏̕͜f̶͔̜̫͔͍̥̓̑̋͘ ̴̧̧͕̞̮̭̠͐͌͆̽̇̍̒̈́͊ȅ̵̤͔̘̥̳̤͓̘̇̋͠y̵̨̱͒̇̍̾è̷̠͉͋́̏̆́̽s̶̹͚̟͕̣̓̑̐́̀̓̏͋͝ ̵̢͕̜͓̩̠̠͙̆͗̈́́͑͂̀̀̒̕ṫ̸̙̣̫̪̜̫͊̌̓h̵̩͊͂a̴̟̯̤̣̼̪͎̠͆̋́̇t̶̨̞͓̤̮̀̽̾̊ ̵̗̜̹̱͔̲͖̙̼̗̆́̅̒͠͠ĺ̴͉͙̀͘o̶̥̟̦͖̯̱͖͌̍̑͐̅ǒ̸̢̞͎̹̜̗̥̱̰͌͌k̸̡̹̮̀s̷̡̪͕͖̭͉͉͈̞̀̀̔̈́̎̾́͋̉̋ ̴̨͍͙̥̰̮̂̃͋̆̕͝ͅļ̶̛͌͌͗̉̄͌̒͜ị̷͚̫̈̕ķ̶̛̳̠̹̳̯̣͙̤̰́̑̓̒͆́̓͝͠ê̷͉̺̘͓̻̜͖͜ͅ ̴̺̳̭̳̫̱̌̓̌̌̃͜ͅh̷̛͚̜̞̬̲̥̪̅̄i̷͎̿̀̆̔̚͜͝͝s̸̜̩̞̣̝̓͆̑̌̄̚͜͠͝?̸̹̲̝͙̞̝̟̌͜

00・I’ll put glass beads in your eyes

02・Let’s make you new eyes

09・What eye color should I choose?

02・That’s right, a red like blood would be fine

But to use some kind of fake eyes would be boring no? And so, a clone of his was burnt down in the incinerator with empty eye sockets.

01・With those beautiful eyes

00・look only at me always

This way, he can feel you staring at him again. No, he will never recreate your eyes even though he can. It'll never be able to match the real one after all. He won't even bother looking for someone to take their eyes because he doesn't want someone else's eyes staring at him and even worse, inside your eye sockets.

04・Only you from now on and always

01・I won’t let you go from my side

He won't repeat the same mistake anymore. To be weak and hopeless as he watched you leave the Akademiya in humiliation, all to the way of being exiled out of Sumeru without anyone protecting you.

You didn't do it. He knew you didn't do it. And yet, no one would believe in you two as though they had been blinded by something. To make things even worse, your little friend was absent during your exile. If only she was there, perhaps she could shield you from the crazy citizens throwing you pebbles and rocks. Maybe that way, you wouldn't trip down from the cliff and be pronounced dead from concussion.

Maybe people wouldn't gawk at your dead body and broken limbs as though you were nothing but an animal. For them to step on your off-positioned limbs, your splattered brains, and your body altogether.

How did you come back to life? He'll never know it. Maybe Sandrone truly had something to do with it after all.

But for now, what matters is that you are here with him.

07・After all, you are mine

09・From now on and always mine

02・Until this body rots away

00・Yes, you are my

『Specimen Girl』

Sandrone's voice rings.

―Only mine―

Sandrone places the gun on the back of Dottore's head. She had had enough of this farce already. She no longer cares about the promise she made to you. She wouldn't mind being selfish for this is her only wish. She will avenge your death by shooting his brains out.

『Only mine』

What she didn't expect is that Dottore would be the one shooting his own jaw, splattering his brains all over Sandrone's pristine dress. His body slumped forward with a thud. He ends his own farce in the end. Is it out of guilt or realization? Did his madness and delusions finally swallow him whole? Even so, Sandrone wastes no time in spitting Dottore's body before stomping and dragging his body to be experimented on in the most inhumane way possible. Columbina too will be there to lend Sandrone her hand.

𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬

There is another fic (and possibly more in the future) about Dottore x Senior but it might be different than what's mentioned in reader's past

Zandik's Memories, Dormitory (TBA, WIP)

Zandik's Diaries (TBA)

Senior (different but similar nonetheless)

As if for Sandrone's and Columbina's, I don't think I'll be writing for them until there's a request coming in for them lol

Inhumane (TBA)

Dormitory's Lullaby (TBA)

All these fics will be extreme OOC in both lore-wise and characters so proceed with caution.

#yandere fatui #yandere dottore #yandere sandrone #yandere columbina #sandrone #sandrone x reader #columbina #dottore x reader #dottore #genshin x reader #il dottore #dottore x reader smut #il dottore x reader #fatui x reader #fatui harbingers

416 notes · View notes

eryanlainfa · 6 months

Note

talk about one of your OCs!!!

I genuinely tried to think of anyone other than Aiden but failed real hard (which scares me a bit at this point ggkfkfk)

Anyway

* throws RANDOM AIDEN LORE at you*

I want to talk about their shit constitution which happens because of their powers, or the absence of it to be more exact.

Back to some worldbuilding. I did say they are a witch, it means in their lineage they share blood with a magical being, and each families have a special ability linked to that being. Witches is like its own subspecies of halfbloods- they appear almost entirely human with the only exception being their 'odd colored' eyes.

Aiden's family are mind witches, their special ability is hypnosis. Its a powerful ability and Aiden was REALLY good at it without even realising, to a point it caused reoccuring incidents and weird rumors. So their parents, who wanted to lay low (witches arent very welcomed in the Light Kingdom), decided to leave and find a way to lock Aiden's power, better safe than sorry. Since then Aiden has a tattoo on their back, close to where the heart would be. (Its also how their eyes turned orange instead of purple.)

The thing is that it made Aiden's past hypnosis null. And they used to hypnotize themself A LOT. So lots of physical problems started to appear, all the times they pushed their body past its limits, all the sicknesses they seemed to not catch, plus their body losing a flow of energy it used to be swimming in. Their health got TERRIBLE. It took them a while to get better enough to come back to Old Corona.

It also made them grow a bit distant from their parents (who are genuinely very good people) because they were too over protective. Lil Aiden simply saw that their pain caused pain to their parents and that when they werent feeling well they couldnt do much except resting in bed so they decided to ALWAYS be fine no matter what. It results in them putting aside any 'wrong feeling' and the start of them focusing on others well being rather than their own. Which globally makes their own health even worse, eventually resulting in them losing some limbs and being in pain 24/7 because they cannot ask for help ever-

Cue the want to become a physician rising. It makes them able to take care of themself on their own if needs be, but more importantly they get to be busy worrying about others rather than themself.

#which might be why I am so fascinated by their dynamic with Hugo #its the guy who appears always fine for others' sake vs the guy who appears always fine for his own mental health #and they catch on it and lowkey use it to their advantage and AURGH THEY MAKE ME INSANE #I HAVE SO MUCH TO SAY ABOUT AIDEN AND MY WORLDBUILDING AROUND VAT 7K I MIGHT EXPLODE #nuru and yong are also witches because they have weird eye colors but their kingdom is a bit more open about it #I try to explain the existance of magic in the tang led universe AND the lack of it at certain points #i developed this whole other dimension lowkey linked to where zhan ti ri was locked in #and their quest becomes more than just finding the eternal library but when they realise it there is no going back anyway #ITS A MESS. MY BRAIN IS A MESS. THIS IS SUPPOSED TO BE STUPID FAN STUFF BUT HERE I AM #meanwhile my original stories are saddly dying in a corner #sorry I went crazy there-#eryanswers #eryanwrites #zachdanielswhisky #Vat7k aiden

8 notes · View notes

talentforlying · 8 months

Text

NINE NIFTY THINGS YOUR MUSE CAN DO.

01. write & read music. not that punk band mucous membrane was churning out grammy-winning material, mind you, but knowing where all the notes go on a sheet of staff paper, which ones sound good together, and a handful of things about tempo and rhythm aren't half-bad skills to have. of course, constantine's process for writing music would make professional composers cry, but these days he most often puts this skill towards creating new spells, since he finds the principles remarkably similar, so the music world is spared his endeavors for now. ( underground single venus of the hardsell excepting. )

02. miniature-scale arts & crafts. he's really gifted with his hands, and with any activity that requires fine motor skills: intricate ritual-carving, cutting his own hair, braiding other people's hair, restringing an instrument, rolling insanely long joints, fixing jewelry, sewing, threading a corset, building a detail-accurate small scale model of a chair out of matchboxes for an ex-girlfriend's miniature house.

03. electrical work. another useful application of his excellent fine motor skills. he's lived in enough shithole apartments and had to hot-wire enough cars for friends to know his way around a wiring issue or two, not to mention the fact that electricity can be a handy supplemental power source in certain spells and it's helpful knowing how to get to it wherever you are. it stands out because he's pretty terrible with most other forms of household maintenance; there's just something uniquely mind-boggling about a guy who can't unclog his sink but can install a circuit breaker like a pro.

04. tie a cherry stem with his tongue. natch.

05. get anywhere in london, and cite almost anything in its history, from memory. a big bloody city with a big, bloody history attracts a lot of unearthly creatures with a lot of different emotional, spiritual, psychic, and physical fancies; it's been useful for him to know where significant events have happened, and when, and why, in case something starts up and the symptoms strike a chord. it's also useful to know where to go when he needs to gather specific kinds of information: the seedier pawn shops, gang territories, high-end clubs where celebrities and politicians go to hide from the press. on top of the strategic reasons, he's also spent a significant amount of time being homeless under a few different circumstances, and keeps his accumulated knowledge of last-ditch shelters, times that the police patrol the sewer tunnels, and safe places for a meal close at heart.

06. gamble with a 100% win rate. two of his best tricks are synchronicity wave traveling and probability manipulation, where he basically feels out the flow of luck in the space around him and shifts the current to go his way. it's incredibly dangerous on a larger scale, since it can cause a butterfly effect — too risky to use on avoiding a hit that would have killed him or sabotaging a villain's scheme, for example — but as long as he sticks to small-scale, short-term events like horse races and poker games, he cleans up easy. it's his primary source of income, since he doesn't have an actual job.

07. melt the face off a vampire. specifically the former king of the vampires, but supposedly any. demon blood is a nasty thing to have in your veins, and incredibly corrosive upon ingestion/absorption, for unknown reasons. if anyone wanted a snack they'd have a bad, bad time.

08. semi-fluently sign in & understand BSL. he credits his reason for learning to a deaf ex-boyfriend he dated in the 90s and has continued to brush up on his skills over time, although his preference to learn languages from the people who use them, lack of consistent lessons, and geographically-wide variety of friends has resulted in a . . . frankly nightmarish hodgepodge of dialects that can make him harder to understand.

09. play electric guitar, bass guitar & harmonica. he was lead vocalist and bassist for mucous membrane, and although they were only together a year before the newcastle incident, he'd been learning both electric and bass for a year or two before. it took him a long, long time to pick it up again, given the circumstances, but he managed to get his hands on a fender 1962 jazz bass a few years back and has been slowly but steadily working on getting the old feel back. the harmonica started as a joke gift from gary after constantine and chas got arrested for a pub fight in '77, so they could play it to pass the time when they inevitably got shafted by the system ( they didn't, constantine talked their way out ) but he became quite genuinely good at it, and now it's his shameful secret.

#man's not ashamed of anything in his life except that goddamn harmonica i s2g (i say. having made it up like that)#fun fact the fender 62 was sting's main bass (who constantine's appearance is based on) and he acquired it in......Newcastle :)#also 'uniquely mind-boggling' i say as someone who is better at electrical work than i am most basic life skills #( headcanons. ) I'M JUST LIKE THE BASTARDS I'VE HATED ALL MY LIFE.

12 notes · View notes

artichokefunction · 1 year

Text

there is a mermaid in these waters, you're pretty sure. or- you keep picking up evidence of something that doesn't match any documented species, but the few snapshots you've managed to get of it have indicated a weirdly humanoid upper half to its body. like a mermaid.

it seems to have some strong electrical manipulation capabilities too, you can tell when it's stalking your boat because your readings get messed up in these very consistent patterns. that might be why it's following you tbh. your boat also generates and manipulates weird electrical signals. you're proud of your boat. it's a good boat, absolutely full of very under-the-table technologies. anything in here that you didn't build yourself, you've traded for with someone else who engages in not-quite-legal research. you're currently thinking in a very rambly and bored way because you've spent the past several hours putting in new braids, in a fun wine-purple-red color that you really like. you're finally at the stage where you can seal off the ends, you're dipping them in hot water to set them and it ALMOST fucking spills on you and burns you because something slams up against the side of your boat. what the fuck. you're going to investigate. but first you dry your hair quickly and put the water somewhere it won't spill and THEN you go out to the deck to see what the fuck that was. it's, uhh... for a moment you can't see it through all the blood in the water- there's a lot. there's so much. this seems like too much- but then it bobs up to the surface and you can see that it's a weird fish. a big weird fish. with humanoid arms and a head. and gray-black and orange-red scales. and a large facial injury, which is where all this blood is coming from. you are going to get this fish into your observation tank. it looks like it might be dead already, but that just means the worst case scenario is that you have a previously undocumented specimen to study, and the best case scenario is this weird fish won't die tonight.

it takes you longer then you'd like to accomplish this goal, because this fish is fucking big. thick and solid, an amount of blubber that indicates they're probably meant for deeper waters then this? and its roughly twice as long as you are tall, and whenever you're on land trying to talk to people they always point out how very tall you are. this fish is too big for you to comfortably manoeuvre. but you can uncomfortably manoeuvre it, you just have to make use of your net and pulley setup to get it out of the water as gently as possible- god, you really don't wanna aggravate its injuries unnecessarily but a certain amount is unavoidable, but- fuck. you really don't like the look of the way the ropes dig into the rough rips in its skin. but after some struggling, you get it inside and into your tank, and here you can check its pulse. heart still beating, fish still alive, just about, and you've turned on the oxygen circulator in the tank so it can continue to respirate while unconscious. you think the reason it's still alive at all is because it happened to get caught in a strong current that kept water moving through the long gills set into both sides of its torso. it's injuries are numerous, but the most pressing one is its jaw, which has been fully torn off, not a clean cut but a jagged rip, exposing rough muscle and meat and bone underneath. the flow of blood is slow enough that you know the wound isn't too terribly fresh, but you'd still like to take care of this somehow. you consider cauterizing the wound but the face and neck is too vulnerable for that, so you opt to just go with extensive bandaging until the bleeding stops. you aren't confident that the integrity of these bandages would hold up if soaked in water for several days, so you decide to sit its head above the surface of the water, with the rest of it still submerged. this close, you can see a lot more details, and the funk of blood is beginning to wash away so you can appreciate the dense, muted sheen of its scales, as well as the many, many places along its tail where those scales have been ripped away to reveal brown-red skin and deep red-brown flesh. you administer a dose of pain reliever that you've had in storage for a while, and you're glad you didn't throw it away because it's finally become useful. it's basically horse tranquillizer but for the sea, but it'll help with managing pain and reducing inflammation.

there are bits of something stuck to its head, and after some investigating you come to the conclusion that it was a sea anemone who used to live there, some sort of symbiotic relationship, and has since been ripped off. there is nothing you can do for this poor little anemone by this point. your priority is to take care of this merperson for now. you really want to ask what happened. you wonder what language mermaids speak. oh- well- this one probably won't be speaking the same way from now, but- uh- agh. no one is here to listen to your thoughts but you do still feel bad for being rude to this unconscious fish. actually, wait, you have time, and more or less all the resources you need, you could build it a replacement jaw. a prosthetic. going off the shape of its skull and the teeth that are still there, you could build a simple prototype to just help it catch and eat prey easier. and then maybe after that you can iterate on the design for any other functionality it might look for. yeah. alright. you start moving benches and machines around to work on your new goal. hell yeah.

you wake up, slowly, and the first thing you notice is that you are alive. that's nice. you weren't really expecting that. the next thing you notice is that you feel weird. and bad. you hurt all over. and this water tastes weird in your lungs. and the pressure of it is too small, like the weight of all the water in the whole ocean dried up and disappeared, like there's nothing to keep you down deep where things make sense, and like you're exploding, but, like, slowly. and also something is ON your face it feels like it might be a net or trap and that's bad. you try to grab at it to get it off but your arms aren't really working properly. sore and weird. and slow. you feel really weak. and tired. and freaked out. you're agitating the shallow water here because you are agitated, and you try to push past the weirdness in your arms and your everything to get this thing off your face and this time you manage it but the thing isn't coming off and it's really tight and weird and there's something here. someone. a person. with no scales and weird dry head tendrils. a land walking two-legs. and they're saying words that you've never heard before and have no idea what they mean but they sound nice. and calm. and they're moving slowly and carefully like they don't want to scare you. and they have no claws and blunt teeth and no spines. and you're tired. and sore. so you put your arms back down and close your eyes and try to relax. and then you open your eyes again when you feel weird soft two-leg hands on your face. they're taking the tight thing off. and underneath there is a BIG HOLE you are missing a LOT of face you are VERY hurt you are- you were going to die. you expected to, after that fight, which you kind of won but mostly didn't. fucking shallow water meanfish. with the shiny too-bright scales and the territorial nature. but you expected to be dead. and you're not. there was a lot of blood and there isn't anymore. maybe that's what the tight thing was for. to hold it closed. that would make sense. they're putting something on the wound now, it's nice and cool. makes it hurt less. you end up drifting off to sleep again, which probably isn't all that smart, you still don't really know how dangerous this person is but. you're tired. and their hands are soft.

for this being your first time ever doing complex fish surgery, it went really well. it wasn't a perfect job by you, but in spite of that its skin has already started to grow over the edges of the prosthetic, making it almost look like it was always there. if you had more time and resources to study this, you could probably come up with a proper scientific explanation for that fast-healing phenomenon, but for now you are just going to chalk it up to mermaid magic and accept it as that. it also seems to have amplified it's electrical manipulation capabilities, like a radio antenna. you did mostly expect this to happen, but already you're getting a small shock off the water in its tank and it's not even awake yet. or wait- it's waking up now. twisting gently in the water, flexing and stretching groggily in a way that is basically a yawn, now that you think of it. moves a high quantity of oxygen into the bloodstream after being asleep for an extended period. the way it moves through the water is breathtakingly beautiful, all scales and muscle and smooth, fluidlike power. it's much more powerful now then when you first found it, it's managed to recover significantly by this point. you removed the IV before it woke up, and the bandages are long gone, so it's free to swim as much as it wants to in the somewhat cramped tank. it's trying out it's new jaw, chomping at the empty water and feeling the new metal with its scaled fingers. it's moving in a way that seems distinctly excited, diving up and down and swimming in tight little circles around the tank. joy of movement. then it breaks the surface of the water and stares intently at you. for a second. then it looks past you and to the open door behind you, leading to the deck and the open sea. ahhh okay okay. you need to think about that for a second. you'd really rather if it stayed for like a little bit longer, so that you can make sure it's fully healed and that it takes well to the prosthetic. however, it is probably ready to leave and fend for itself again. treating the new scars has let you see the large number of old scars it has, it's been around for a while, it'll probably be fine out there. it then makes this decision for you by LAUNCHING itself out of the open tank and onto the floor, landing in a clumsy heap with its back fin slapping the floor after it, shaking the ENTIRE boat and getting water all over you and also most of this room. alright, fuck, yeah okay. you uhh- you take the fish's arm over your shoulder and lug it outside. it is not easy, this guy is fucking heavy, it has so much tailmeat. how the hell does it swim so fast. well- you know how. weight and propulsion work different underwater. fluid dynamics and whatnot. as soon as you're close enough, it grabs onto the boat's railing and heaves itself over and into the gentle waves, disappearing underneath with a small splash. it's a still and sunny day, you can see it's silhouette flipping and dancing and looping through the open water, celebrating freedom and health and life. then it goes very still all of a sudden, before darting away in one laser specific direction like a heat seeking missile. it's going fishing. you scramble down to your observation corner, with the trackers and the underwater window. it's not too big but you can see all you want to with it, and you don't have to sit long before you see your fish friend again, coming back with fresh meat in its hands and a fresh catch in its jaws and a look of fierce pride and delight on its face. you are fucking ecstatic to see it's joy, you are flapping your hands and stamping your feet, and it is ecstatic to see your joy, it is twisting and flipping and carving loops through the water, and the two of you are dancing for joy together. and this is utterly delightful.

#PUTTING my ocs INTO a situation and the situation is what if the agent was a fish #[fiction]#[category: the agent & the handler]#blood tw #cw injury #mermaids #mermay #AND I GOT THIS DONE BEFORE THE END OF MAY ALSO

7 notes · View notes

the-bi-space-ace · 1 year

Note

Some writing asks for funsies. :)

🚀 Do you like to outline your fic first or create as you go?

🎁 Have a piece of a WIP you want to share?

🦈 Which character is the toughest to write?

🧪 Do you research for your fics?

💘 Is it easier to write angst or fluff?

🚦What sort of endings do you prefer to write: ambiguous, bad, happily ever after, etc.?

🤖 Are non-fandom friends aware that you write fanfic?

(Lots of questions, feel free to pick and choose if you don't want to answer all of them!) <3

🚀 Do you like to outline your fic first or create as you go? When I first started writing I just created as I went along but now I plot everything out beforehand and they get to writing. Currently all 10 chapters of my next fic are all outlined just waiting to be written! 🎁 Have a piece of a WIP you want to share? YOU BET I DO!

The both of them had emerged, covered in blood and smelling of blaster fire, but alive. Cody couldn’t even describe how it had felt to push through the crowd and seek out that familiar blond hair and blue and white armor, frantically trying to confirm that at least one person he cared about wasn’t gone. He was still covered in grime and he was positive his wrist was sprained, covered in bruises and cuts and praying to whatever was out there that he could get his hands on one of his brothers and confirm the presence of a heartbeat. By the time he saw Rex his chest was cracked wide open, something angry and raw rearing its head. His lungs ached while his anxiety mounted. He saw Rex, bent over one of the 212th troopers and trying to calm him while the medics reset a broken bone. There was a rough cut over one of Rex’s cheekbones that had scabbed over and while anger surged in Cody over seeing it he couldn’t help the strangled noise he made at the site. The captain turned to it immediately and before Cody even realized he moved he was crushing Rex to his chest and holding him so close it was almost like they were one person. For the first time in a long time Rex buried his face in the crook of Cody’s neck and just breathed him in like he had been just as destroyed. And now, looking at how dead tired his brother was, Cody realized just how badly they both needed to rest. How badly they both needed to break.

🦈 Which character is the toughest to write? Honestly? Sometimes it's Tech. I'm not nearly as familiar with his personality and voice as I am with the others. I've definitely gotten better since I first started writing but it still needs WORK.

🧪 Do you research for your fics? Yes. Yes I do! I spent probably too much time researching but I like when things are as accurate as they can be! Although. Sometimes I straight up can't find answers to my very specific questions and use the 'Star Wars Science' excuse when I can't figure something out lol.

💘 Is it easier to write angst or fluff? I find my writing flows better when it is angsty. When it's the emotional bits I can get lost in long paragraphs of wordy nonsense because the emotional bits are what really drive me to write. I can get that way with fluff too but usually with the more introspective parts. But fluff and comfort really have my heart. It is rare to find a fic of mine without it.

🚦What sort of endings do you prefer to write: ambiguous, bad, happily ever after, etc.? I'm a happy ending person. I love happy endings. I always want to try and tie things up with... maybe not always happiness but hopefulness. I can't see myself writing something ambiguous or bad unless there will be a continuation in another fic. I have absolutely read and enjoyed things with endings that are ambiguous or bad! It just has to feel satisfying.

🤖 Are non-fandom friends aware that you write fanfic? My partner reads and edits my stuff and other than that not a single non-fandom friend knows that I write at all! I just get so nervous thinking of anyone reading my stuff! And that sounds so silly as someone who posts fanfic but I physically can not be in the same room as someone who is reading something I wrote. I get weirdly nervous about it and just have to walk away.

#ace answers #I am having such a good time with these

2 notes · View notes

nohookstobefoundhere · 1 year

Note

ALL of the cocktail asks, for Olivia Minuit and Maple Stagleaf

This is gonna get long so I hope you're ready

Olivia Minuit

Ameratto sour ~ if your oc can drive what kind of vehicle do they drive? Do they have a dream vehicle?

Olivia has driven an uncountable amount of vehicles, from animals to machines throughout history so she is comfortable driving whatever is given to her but she doesn't own a vehicle herself. Living the quiet life in Ruby Ridge she likes to take her time and walk everywhere though she does have a rather old bike for when she needs it. As for dream vehicles, well when you've seen everything from the creation of the wheel onward it's kinda hard to wonder what's next eh? So for her, simply seeing what humanity comes up next is a dream of its own.

Blue Lagoon ~ what does your oc wear to sleep? Do they have a dedicated set of pyjamas or wear whatever?

Because of her past, Olivia wears the baggiest and flowiest of clothing, which to her means sun dresses. But when it comes to sleep wear? It truly depends on where she is and with who? If she's in strange place with strangers, she just outright sleeps in her clothes in case she needs to escape. But at home by herself? It can be anywhere from cute loose pyjamas or just her undergarments. Anything less is when she's just shared her heart with someone. Something she almost never does.

:readmore:

Piña Colada ~ if your oc has a bag or purse, what are five things inside?

Books, notepad and pencil for those who don't know sign language, a switchblade, pads and tampons just in case someone around her needs it and a water bottle.

Singapore Sling ~ what was one of your OCS favourite tv show/movie as a child? Do they still enjoy it now?

Given that Olivia was never a child, at least not like humans do, this is rather a hard question to answer so I'll it as what shows or movies comfort her/makes her feel better. Studio Ghibli simply put, for when she feels like she's losing touch with humanity and is lonely, kids cartoons and movies when she needs to laugh and horror when she's angry or just want to relax.

Woo woo ~ what's their relationship like with their parent/guardian?

Complicated. She isn't human, her creation was, well, not unwanted. She is serving her purpose but it's not like she wants to be around them nor do they care to interact with her. She's just happy to be. When they do interact though it's stiff and business like. And given they only appear in her dreams, lest they kill thousands by their sheer presence, she always wakes up exhausted and grumpy.

Margarita ~ does your oc have any disorders or disability?

Given that a stream of blood constantly flow into her mouth, she is unable to speak lest she closes her eyes rendering her vulnerable. So instead she signs to communicate. Few have heard her voice but it is said to be enchanting. She also has heavy trauma that she masks... Maybe too well. She also doesn't have eyes, just black empty voids for eye sockets though that doesn't seem to affect her vision but it definitely scares those who aren't used to her.

Long Island iced tea ~ who are your oc's best friends?

She doesn't have any friends. Just acquaintances. And her Soul.

Grasshopper ~ describe your oc's personality

She is calm, quiet and solitary. She enjoys books, tea, cooking and laughing. A kind and understanding mother she tries to be her best in order to bring out the best in those she loves. She will kill those who threaten her loved ones.

Jungle bird ~ Has your oc ever made choices they regret?

Too many... Too many... When you live as long as she has, it's inevitable. Best not dwell on the past, especially when some of the people you love reminds you of it.

Harvey Wallbanger ~ post images or moodboards that fit your oc's aesthetic

Uh, can I DM you that? This is getting pretty long as is. Just remind me ok?

Dirty banana ~ post a song or lyric that fits your oc

Uh, there's a lot of songs that do... Hmm... Maybe happy loner by marina? Or wrecked by imagine dragons? What about go tell aunt Rhody from resident evil 7? Anyways hope those are satisfactory!

Chocolate martini ~ does your oc's name or design reference anything?

Ok first of chocolate martini? That sounds disgusting! Ahem, anyways, her design originates from a mental painting I thought up once... Just made from darkness and pain from the inside... Anyways I built her from that portrait and named her Olivia Minuit. Olivia because the olive branch is a symbol of peace, something she seeks in herself and the world. Minuit is french for midnight, fitting given her origins.

Mojito ~ does your oc have any tattoos and/or piercings? If so what are they? If not, do they want some?

She doesn't, and although she can see the beauty of it she's gone through too much pain in her life to willingly let herself feel pain just for art or fashion.

Daiquiri ~ is your oc a smoker?

No, and she despise smoking to boot. Too many bad memories linked to it.

Mimosa ~ has your oc ever committed a crime? If so what did they do? If not, what would they most likely be to commit?

She's lived through all of humanity's history. She hasn't commited every crime, she isn't evil or malicious, but sometimes you gotta do what needs to be done in order to survive, protect and cause change.

Tequila Sunrise ~ does your oc have any hobbies? Is there something they've always wanted to do but never had the chance?

She has had many hobbies, some she dropped, some she just can't do in our present day for various reasons others she simply lost interest. These days her hobbies consist of reading, cooking, gardening, sewing and playing video games. She also enjoys studying whatever catches her eyes.

Of course there's plenty she wants to learn and do but she's not worried, either she'll get to it or it just wasn't meant to be.

Mai Tai ~ how was your oc's life growing up? Did they do well in school if they attended? Do they have any awkward teenage memories?

Her life can be summarized in three words: pain, solitude and longing. She had to learn many things the hard way, her unique attributes made people alienate her and she spent her life just wanting to find a place where she belonged. Of course these weren't constants but they were a major part of her life throughout the millennias.

Whenever she sought out education she always gave it her all, sometimes she succeeded, sometimes she failed miserably. Nobody can be good at everything, not even her kind.

Awkward teenage memories? No, but lots of awkward memories of her trying to navigate the human world.

Blue Hawaii ~ does your oc speak any other languages? If they didn't learn to speak the language when growing up, when and why did they learn it?

Olivia has lived through eons, she has learned and forgotten languages like the sun rises and falls. She learns either out of necessity or curiosity. Currently she knows french, English, Greek, Japanese, Korean and German. And she is trying to relearn arabian and Spanish but mostly to pass the time.

Cuba libre ~ if your oc wears any cologne/perfume, what's their favourite?

She naturally smells of blood, so she tries to hide the scent with perfumes and colognes. Only one has worked and it's because it marries well with the smell of blood. A simple perfume that makes her smell like she's just finished tending to her flower beds.

Caipirinha ~ what does your oc's voice sound like?

Soft, low and enchanting. It's melodic and pleasant. But when she talks to those she trusts it also becomes full of life and passion, less low and soft, less subdued. It is a beautiful calming voice.

Gin Rickey ~ what does your oc consider to be their best feature? Alternatively, what's something they're most self-conscious about.

Her laugh and her smile, because those things always make others smile and laugh in turn.

Her eyes... They attract trouble, they attract darkness, and yet she cannot hide them...

Manhattan ~ what kind of people does your oc hate the most?

The greedy, the selfish and the uncaring. They have hurt her the most. They are the ones she has killed the most.

Maple Stagleaf

Ameratto sour ~ if your oc can drive what kind of vehicle do they drive? Do they have a dream vehicle?

Maple just rides around with his bicycle. He doesn’t really leave the school campus so he doesn’t need more than that otherwise buses exists. Dream vehicle? No, not really. Whatever works for his current needs would be enough for him.

Blue Lagoon ~ what does your oc wear to sleep? Do they have a dedicated set of pyjamas or wear whatever?

He just wears boxers in the warmer months and pj bottoms when it’s cold. he has specific boxers for sleeping and pj set for when he’s sleeping away from home.

Piña Colada ~ if your oc has a bag or purse, what are five things inside?

Laptop, school books, sketchbook, school supplies and a water bottle.

Singapore Sling ~ what was one of your OCS favourite tv show/movie as a child? Do they still enjoy it now?

Brother bear because of all the autumn colours and the story. It always made him wish he was that close to his overworked or carefree siblings.

Woo woo ~ what's their relationship like with their parent/guardian?

He loves his parents but he never sees them. His mom is the moon goddess and his dad being the white stag. He just never has any reasons nor opportunities to see them.

Margarita ~ does your oc have any disorders or disability?

Not explicitly, but his focus on schoolwork makes him feel lonely and isolated despite his small circle of friends. They know this and try to drag him out from time to time. He also longs for love but doesn’t seem to really understand what that entails.

Long Island iced tea ~ who are your oc's best friends?

Hugo Honeysuckle, a grizzly bear, he’s currently studying zoology and entomology. he’s a soft and kind friend and roommate to Maple. He enjoys going to the local pub for a beer and fish and chips with their other friends. He always asks Maple to tag along but it only works on Fridays. He has a daughter from a one night stand he had as a teen from which he’s raising with the help of his retired parents.

Grasshopper ~ describe your oc's personality

Calm and reserved like his older brother. Maple mostly focuses on his studies to forget his loneliness and troubles weighing him down with his brothers. Although kind, he knows martial arts and uses it in self-defence... he unfortunately tends to misjudge when it is appropriate to do so. he loves art and is actually studying art and art, which is how he met Hugo. He has trouble breaking his routine if plans come up too quickly and needs a least three days in advance to be comfortable to have his routine changed. Hugo is the only one with whom he has an easier time stepping out of his routine for on a whim.

Jungle bird ~ Has your oc ever made choices they regret?

Too many. But a big one is how he left his brothers before going to school. He has yet to build the courage to face them.

Harvey Wallbanger ~ post images or moodboards that fit your oc's aesthetic

just picture autumn, books, sweaters, antlers and wood and you got the vibe.

Dirty banana ~ post a song or lyric that fits your oc

One day, I'll change my ways 'Til then I'm stuck in this space Shut down and hiding my face Tuned out and losing my faith

I don’t like myself - Imagine Dragons

Chocolate martini ~ does your oc's name or design reference anything?

Autumn is mostly the idea here. Things winding down, things ending, getting ready for a rough time until it gets better again.

Mojito ~ does your oc have any tattoos and/or piercings? If so what are they? If not, do they want some?

He does not and he’s fine like that.

Daiquiri ~ is your oc a smoker?

Absolutely not.

Mimosa ~ has your oc ever committed a crime? If so what did they do? If not, what would they most likely be to commit?

What god hasn’t? Currently though no, he has no want to attract attention to himself. He just wants to be.

Tequila Sunrise ~ does your oc have any hobbies? Is there something they've always wanted to do but never had the chance?

he enjoys reading and building craft kits. knitting and sketching.

Mai Tai ~ how was your oc's life growing up? Did they do well in school if they attended? Do they have any awkward teenage memories?

It... was not a good life. hard and unforgiving and unfortunately, all of his own making. He simply tried to be like his brother’s but somehow things always ended up broken, ruined or finished because of him despite doing everything right one way or another. His only friends we’re his brothers but despite being the second oldest, he couldn’t help but feel like the youngest.

Blue Hawaii ~ does your oc speak any other languages? If they didn't learn to speak the language when growing up, when and why did they learn it?

He knows french and English and dapples in any language the nearest book is when he, just, needs to not be for a while.

Cuba libre ~ if your oc wears any cologne/perfume, what's their favourite?

A nice pine or woodsy perfume, people often mistake him for a hiker or camper by how much of nature he smells like.

Caipirinha ~ what does your oc's voice sound like?

an average male voice that’s calm, collected and tired but still pleasant to listen to.

Gin Rickey ~ what does your oc consider to be their best feature? Alternatively, what's something they're most self-conscious about.

His antlers are his pride, no other stag or creature which grows antlers has ever compared to his and it helps to unlike everyone else, his does not shed in autumn. Most likely thanks to his father. most think they’re fake given they stay year round but those who know their antlers know that you just can’t fake antlers like his. he also enjoys his subtle musculature.

he’s self conscious about his second guessing and sometimes about his clothing choices caused by his magnificent antlers.

Manhattan ~ what kind of people does your oc hate the most?

liars, hypocrites, slobs and the purposefully ignorant. Those who enjoy controlling and those who are stuck in their own little world.

#maple stagleaf #Olivia Minuit #my ocs #me #writing

1 note · View note

bestarticlesubmissionsau · 1 year

Text

Men's Varicose Vein Treatment

It's a common misperception that only women require vein treatments. This concept may have occurred to you since some women encounter vein health difficulties after pregnancy or wish to remove varicose or spider veins for cosmetic reasons. Contrary to popular opinion, vein disorders can affect both men and women. Everyone, especially males, should understand the significance of keeping veins healthy because all bodies rely on them to transfer blood, oxygen, and nutrition.

So, what exactly causes male varicose veins?

Aside from heredity, there are various other causes of varicose veins in men, including:

Varicose veins can affect men and women of all ages, but the risk increases with age. Men between the ages of 40 and 80 are more likely to develop varicose veins.

Obesity – Being overweight increases blood pressure. As a result, it raises your chances of developing varicose veins.

Lengthy durations of sitting or standing – If your employment needs you to stand for long amounts of time, such as teachers, manufacturing employees, or medical professionals, you are more prone to develop varicose veins. Standing or sitting for long periods of time puts a lot of strain on your legs and restricts blood flow.

Tobacco smoke contains substances that can affect the makeup and operation of the veins, limiting blood flow and raising your risk.

Varicose veins can be caused by liver or heart disease, leg injuries, or past venous surgery.

Recognizing Varicose Vein Symptoms

Aside from obvious bulging veins, varicose veins can sometimes be associated with the following symptoms:

Feet and lower legs ache and feel heavy.

Lower leg cramping, burning, throbbing, and edema.

Itching in the vein.

Leg pain that intensifies with extended standing or sitting.

Discoloration of the skin.

Men's Varicose Vein Prevention Tips

Varicose veins can be reduced and prevented by doing the following:

Exercise on a regular basis to enhance circulation.

Keeping up a healthy diet and nutrition.

Quitting smoking or using tobacco.

If you are overweight, you must lose weight.

Avoiding sitting or standing in one posture for long periods of time.

What are the available therapy options?

Varicose vein removal has never been easier thanks to technological advances. The following are the basic varicose vein therapy options:

Laser Endovenous Ablation (EVLA)

EVLA is a minimally invasive procedure that involves using a laser or radiofrequency energy to shut off the problematic vein. The doctor initially makes a small cut in the vein to insert a catheter (tiny tube). He then heats the vein and destroys its walls with a thin fiber laser probe. Your body reroutes blood to a nearby healthy vein once the afflicted vein is blocked.

When contrasted to vein-stripping surgery, the method is safe and nearly painless. You may notice mild bruising and temporary skin discoloration following the operation. The recuperation time is short, and you can resume your normal daily activities within a day.

Sclerotherapy

During this operation, the specialist inserts a tiny needle into the injured vein under the aid of light or ultrasound. The vein collapses and closes as a result of the injection. The occluded vein is reabsorbed into the body over time. This is a simple surgery with a short recovery period.

Phlebectomy

This process is also referred to as "stripping." The doctor makes a small incision near the injured vein, hooks it with a surgical tool or a large needle, and pulls it out one tiny bit at a time.

Conclusion

Men, like women, are equally prone to varicose veins, especially if they are overweight or inactive. Although most varicose veins in men are not dangerous, they can cause severe symptoms. There are several methods for sealing off or removing varicose veins that are often efficient, safe, and risk-free.

Home of leading Gold Coast vascular surgeon, Dr. Venu Bhamidi. Arrange for an appointment at his vein clinic today.

#Gold Coast vascular surgeon #Varicose Vein #varicose veins #Varicose Vein Treatment

0 notes

st-voisins · 2 years

Text

𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐂𝐀 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐔𝐗

𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐂𝐀 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐔𝐗 Twenty-three. Senior. Horticulture + Herbology. Member of Student Government. House of Enki.

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘:

whispers and rumors circle around seneca no matter where he goes, a dirty little rat scurrying around in the dark. a waking nightmare, suffocating everything and anything within his path— he’ll crush you in your own game and leave you with nothing and yet you’d never quite catch on that it’s him. a master who pulls the strings of others, a con artist with nothing to lose. seneca is cautious and sneaky, playing his cards just right and keeping them as close to his chest as possible— untrusting and hostile towards outsiders, seneca makes sure those near him are taken cared off while others are left in the cold. in all honestly, those silly little rumors that trail behind him are simply that… sad little rumors with no merit— who are you to believe? jealous and hateful and more importantly lack of any proof. a little rat that he is, seneca has a way of caring so deeply for those he keeps near— whether you call it an obsession or not, seneca is fiercely loyal to the end of his days, willing to die for his companions. he may lack a number of them, the few he does know only of his loyalty and the lack of his viper tendencies.

𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐊𝐒:

PLAYED BY HAYDEN CHRISTENSEN.

𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐈𝐂:

𝙎𝙋𝙀𝘾𝙄𝘼𝙇𝙄𝙏𝙔: Blood Magic — seneca is able to use his blood as a way to protect himself, aiding him in being able to create weapons, objects and shields with just his blood alone. through the ability of manipulating his own blood, he can create a range of things that can be useful to him, big or small— pens, swords, spears, shields, glasses… it goes on. LIMITATIONS: Higher blood volume which makes it thicker then a typical person, allowing him to use his abilities without dying ever type he casts a spell. Overuse of his magic results in throwing up, crying blood, fainting/passing out, his body not being able to keep up and rethicken so he can and will result in bleeding out which ends up in death. Can’t re-heal himself/regenerate blood that he already used. Still hemorrhages in massive quantities, much like an average human.

𝙄𝙉𝘾𝙇𝙄𝙉𝘼𝙏𝙄𝙊𝙉𝙎: “PRETTY LITTLE THING”; Herbal Remedies — a cute little spell, seneca has always had a thing for plants and anything related so he enjoys creating flowers and other things of that nature. a knack for nature and herbal remedies, he likes to create plants that he knows can remedy things like sour tummies and headaches— learning to enhance the properties of these plants and helping sooth your aches and pains. Detection — a skill in which he can detect anyone because he can sense their blood flow, hear their beating heart from a mile away.

𝙄𝙉𝙏𝙀𝙍𝙈𝙀𝘿𝙄𝘼𝙏𝙀𝙎: Teeth Manipulation — seneca is able to manipulate and alter the structure of his own and others teeth, be it causing them to rot out or even fusing them together. he’s been known to make his own teeth sharp and look like a sharks, resulting in awkward stares— but they stop staring real quick when a tooth falls out. Blood-based Photocopying — an ability in which he is able to use people’s blood and create a photocopy of themselves, basically like a doppelgänger. however this ability is on the lower end of the rest of his abilities, as he is still learning how to use it to its full potential. at this very moment, he is only able to make smaller versions of other people or animals and they don’t really speak actual words— just little murmurs and such. the doppelgänger is only present for about 1-2 minutes and can only create about three different people at a time (if he wanted he could do three of the same person, but would need a higher blood quantity to do so.) if he were to do more then three, then he mentally would be drained as this ability takes a lot of mental concentration to do so. LIMITATIONS + MISC: he can use any amount of blood in order to create a person, whether it be blood from a tissue, a paper cut or a prick of a finger— as long as he has it, he can use it. however if he wanted to make more then one person, he needs a higher amount of blood (via a vial.. but he can reuse that vial for a max of 4 times before needing to refresh)it’s difficult to use as he needs a blood source and it needs to be caused by the person he wants to make a clone off, so he can’t do it himself even if he wanted too (hasn’t gotten to that point yet)

𝙋𝙍𝙊𝙁𝙄𝘾𝙄𝙀𝙉𝘾𝙔: Detection, Herbal Remedies.

𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐒 𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐄𝐓:

SENECA IS PLAYED BY ARTHUR MORGAN.

character card template by lubsofrph

#student: seneca #champions #st-voisins

0 notes

duemunro8 · 2 years

Text

Amazingfiction Legend Of The Paladin - Chapter 1721 - There“s always someone more reckless! page holiday quote-p1

Wonderfulfiction Cultivation Chat Group novel - Chapter 1721 - There“s always someone more reckless! pets dirt propose-p1

Novel-Cultivation Chat Group-Cultivation Chat Group Chapter 1721 - There“s always someone more reckless! fumbling opposite Good Learn Unique Principle: “[Facepalm Emote]” “Beep~” “Hahahaha, this Immortal Learn has finally discovered why ‘Fairy Lychee’ managed to check out tiny good friend Shuhang’s QR computer code and put him as being a good friend!” Immortal Grasp Copper Trigram claimed from the team. What had dissolved was just its sh.e.l.l. The outside metallic sh.e.l.l as well as continuously stretching out energy queues converted into the Heart Lake. On the other hand, there seemed to be still the metal center into the sh.e.l.l that had not melted. It sank heavy into the foot of the lake, and acknowledged the nourishment on the ‘Spirit Lake’ just like a ‘magical treasure’. He attained out and clicked on in the ‘Yes’ method. So, Thrice Reckless Mad Saber attained out, and clicked on over the ‘Yes’ solution. By using these a regulation in position, he sensed much more confident. Thrice Reckless was preparing to say h.e.l.lo to Immortal Learn Copper Trigram when… Indeed, you may be definitely detailed associates, specially on the subject of stifling my coronary heart. “What is definitely the Dragon Community?” Fairy Lychee requested curiously. When she added in Track Shuhang for a close friend last time, she hadn’t obtained a quick with regards to any Dragon System. Chapter 1721 There“s always anyone additional reckless! Huh, it isn’t often that Copper Trigram will come online today. Older Thrice Reckless, is not your timing slightly too excellent? Small Master Phoenix arizona Slayer: “Oh, the sketchy fortune teller might actually target studying points? I am a little bit serious now.” F*ck, Copper Trigram, do you find yourself lurking inside my cave and seeing me? And today you’ve emerge to shamelessly swipe my exploration success? Immortal Expert Copper Trigram reported, “I’ve guessed effectively. Our next motivate is [Do you desire to create Music Shuhang as an ‘intimate friend’? Certainly/No.] Eh, this can be a bit peculiar. Minimal good friend Shuhang so i haven’t talked a lot, why is he dealt with as being an ‘intimate friend’?” Cultivation Chat Group Fairy Lychee obtained added in a chest muscles pad. Immortal Learn Copper Trigram said, “I’ve guessed the right way. The subsequent motivate is [Do you need to include Track Shuhang as being an ‘intimate friend’? Certainly/No.] Eh, this is usually a little weird. Small buddy Shuhang and so i haven’t talked a great deal, how come he cared for just as one ‘intimate friend’?” Thrice Reckless was preparing to say h.e.l.lo to Immortal Excel at Copper Trigram when… Melody Shuhang was preparing to transmit the latest QR rule for the aging adults in the Nine Provinces Number 1 Team after he was completed transcending the tribulation. Yellowish Mountain / hill is extremely exhausted and wishes to relocate: “…” Elderly Thrice Reckless, is not your timing a tad too fantastic? Yellow-colored Mountain is extremely tired and wants to retire: “…” F*ck, Copper Trigram, will you be hiding inside my cave and watching me? And now you’ve end up to shamelessly steal my researching benefits? “Hahahaha, this Immortal Learn has finally discovered why ‘Fairy Lychee’ could check small good friend Shuhang’s QR program code and add him to be a companion!” Immortal Learn Copper Trigram reported in the group. Cultivation Chat Group Immediately after he moved on the internet, he found that Immortal Become an expert in Copper Trigram was on the net. They simply took place to be found on the web all at once. Fairy Dongfang Half a dozen: “…” Numerous days have pa.s.sed since Smooth Feather directed the QR program code on the crew, why do you suddenly possess the desire to read it? Fairy Dongfang Half a dozen: “[Spewing Blood flow Emote]” “Hahahaha, it is really because i thinking.” The corner of Thrice Reckless Angry Saber’s mouth area curled up. I truly am humorous. Melody Shuhang was planning to transmit the modern QR program code to your seniors with the Nine Provinces Best Group right after he was completed transcending the tribulation. Fairy Lychee: “Can you stop talking to my tone of voice?” Immortal Master Copper Trigram explained, “I’ve suspected effectively. The subsequent punctual is [Do you wish to add more Track Shuhang as a possible ‘intimate friend’? Sure/No.] Eh, this really is a touch weird. Minimal buddy Shuhang and that i haven’t talked much, the reason why he taken care of for an ‘intimate friend’?”

#ull #the cathedrals of southern france basil cottle #Marital Powe

0 notes

grade-a-masochist · 2 years

Text

Kit and Ash headcanons pt. 2

Even more Kit and Ash (and co, at this point) headcanons! Ft. trauma, grief, terrible visions coming true and found family. And TMI gang feels. And some Blackthorn feels—well, TDA gang feels. Kierarktina, Haline, Blackstairs. Hell, we even have some Kitty. There’s just a lot of feels.

Remember how in the last post, I unintentionally got emotional over Tessa and Jem and Alastair and so many more bitches? Yeah, it happened again. Now we have everything here. This is basically a fit outline at this point. I'm sorry. Please give it a chance still.

Huge shoutout to @bookeater34 for reading so many of these to ensure they made sense.

Here is the first batch of Kit and Ash headcanons.

This was alluded to in the prior post, but: Ash's body temperature and pulse aren't exactly...normal.

Now, it is my personal headcanon that different types of Downwolders have different quirks to their physiologies. Same with nephilim.

Example: Warlocks tend to have slow pulses. The beats drag, heavy and languid, full of ease and without a care, like the drizzle of old, thick honey. Their tempo is largo, as though the heart knows it has all the time in the world to soften into its next beat. It's almost indolent, really, the way it doesn't ebb and flow so much as it drawls.

Their body temperature isn't quite warm, but it isn't quite cold, either. Just like warlocks themselves, it's caught somewhere in the middle, not indecisive, but rather content in its middle-ground. It's tepid, almost gently so. It isn't discomforting, isn't strange to the senses in the way the abrasive cold of vampire's is. Rather, it's welcoming and perhaps even soothing, in its own way.

(Tessa, being the sole example of her kind, only mostly falls under these categories.)

(Her temperature is higher than that of a common warlock. Enough that you could almost call it warm, if you were so inclined, if you really stretched the definition to its very limits to serve your purposes. Her pulse is a few beats faster than what is the norm for warlocks, enough that it's noticeable. The tempo isn't largo, but rather lento. Not only is it faster—it's also stronger. Harsher.)

(It's the nephilim blood in her. Which leads me to the next point.)

Nephilim run hotter than mundanes. Enough that it's conspicuous upon contact. It's like they've been out for a run and haven't quite cooled down; all soft, blazing, engulfing heat, though not uncomfortably so. Toasty warm, instead, like coming home. When they're in battle, it's like coming too close to a fire.

Similarly, their heartbeats are on the faster side. Their pulses are fierce, harsh things, like their hearts would like to run out of their chests sooner rather than later. Swift and steady, firm, utterly unyielding. Beating drums, war drums, pounding to an allegretto pace.

(Clary's case is a tad like Tessa's. Her pulse is faster, her body warmer, but not too much. Just barely enough for it to be noticeable. Like being under one too many blankets, moments away from being smothered by the packed heat of the weight, on the knife's edge between comforting and overwhelming.)

(Jace, on the other hand, feels downright feverish. It's sharp heat pressing down on you, like the veil of sunburn warming your flesh, sinking straight to your bones the minute his skin brushes yours. Clary likes it, because not many people are warmer than her, and she finds it cozy. His pulse is a rather passionate allegro, roaring stubbornly and ferociously, just like him.)

And then you have those that are both and neither.

(People like James, Lucie and Mina—they’re different. Their temperatures are gentle and lovely, like sun-warmed cheeks and blushing palms, warm like sitting beside a fire after a night out in the Londonian winter, because Shadowhunter blood will always prevail, even in them, but not enough to forget the cool reach of eternity. Their heartbeats are soft, looping things, slower than any Shadowhunter heartbeat; a cheery adagio, fierce against their ribcages but easy nonetheless, like gliding swans.)

(These differences, of course, are felt on some level by parabatais. Alec, Matthew, Cordelia, Simon—they can all tell that which is different in their parabatai, even if they occasionally lack a name for it.)

There’s werewolves and their click-fire metabolisms, always a step ahead of everything, with hearts like machine guns and bodies that are absolutely ruthless in their heat. They take running hot to a whole new level, their skin as hot as the sun’s beams on any given day, so that warlocks and vampires shy away from their touch with the same wariness that werewolves avoid theirs. There’s an incompatibility there, the hot-and-cold metaphor taken to an ironic degree by the angels and the demons, damn them both.

(Nonetheless, it doesn’t quite stop them.)

There’s vampires, too, and the utter silence in their chest, the sepulchral stillness. The graveyard that they crawled out of is in them, too, and it only has whispers of life, because it no longer beats. Their nails are sharp and sturdy, harsh like claws if they come down with intent, and their bones feel harsh to the touch, like coming into contact with steel, with concrete. They are cold as ice, smooth like marble and just as foreign to the touch, a discomfort that says something is wrong found in the skin that will not warm.

(Not entirely true. If they spend enough time around a werewolf, if they are touched enough, their skin retains a hint for a while. For enough time that they feel ever so slightly human.)

(There are comforts in rivalries, too.)

There are the demons, who are most similar to vampires in their disposition and most similar to werewolves in nature. Their metabolisms are quick like that of werewolves, with heartbeats that either run fast as the sun or stay still for entire minutes at a time, a wonder that no scientist in the Shadow World has figured out as of yet. The majority of them run hot, fiery hot, unbearably and unspeakably hot; none burns hotter than Lucifer himself, or so the legends say.

The Princes and Lilith, though, are sharp and unnatural in their grace, in their chill. There’s no flush to their skin and no warmth to it, either, even when they are injured. They are void, dark things, swirling with powers unknown, as though their entire frames were composed of ichor and illusions alone. They are ice cold and damning in it, with their talons and their claws and their sharp, sharp teeth.

(Sebastian was somewhere in the middle, burning alive for as long as he drew breath, with a heartbeat that ricocheted between the speed of a freight train going off the rails and a turtle’s pace. He always felt hot, like he was burning up, and yet his skin still was always cold, like he carried a fever with him everywhere he went, same as he carried shadows.)

(Maybe if he’d been born any other way, he would have come out more like Tessa. But no matter.)

And then there’s the fae. Oh, the fae. With their bone structure like the most exquisite, delicate porcelain and their intense, glimmering gazes. Their eyes were perhaps meant to startle, to absorb all the attention that they possibly could; fae themselves seemed designed to take over the mind of all who beheld them, all graceful lines and sharp angles and unforgettable voices. With their sharp canines, glinting like blades and just as wicked.

Their heartbeats were neither fast nor slow, somewhere between andante and moderato, like a joyful song, beautiful and enchanting in their rhythm. Their bodies, too, were neither here nor there in their temperature, leaning more toward each edge depending on the fae, depending on who and what and where. More often than not, though, they were cool to the touch, tantalizingly so, like the crisp night’s air in Faeri.

(The Queen and the King were opposites, in this. King Arawn burnt hot and bright, blazing paths left by his body when it met another, as hot as any Shadowhunter. The Queen was glacial, though, biting and numbing to the touch, and yet still so enticing, because she would welcome and soothe those that came into her arms.)

(Kieran is on the latter spectrum; polar cold, though not uncomfortably so. Rather, refreshingly so.)

(Ironies.)

Half faes depend wholly, as such.

(Mark and Helen are warm like mundanes are, a novelty for all nephilim, and their heartbeats were pleasant albeit swift things, the song of the fae becoming staccato in its haste.)

(Ash is an absolute travesty. He’s got the sharp canines of the fae, which are sharper still due to his demon heritage. He’s cold to the touch, too, sometimes shockingly so, and much like Lilith, there’s no warmth to his cheek and no color to his skin. His pulse is pleasant like all fae hearts are, but it’s far faster than that of Mark and Helen, far faster than that of common nephilim. It’s closest to the marching band of Jace’s heart, though still faster, sitting on the furthest edge of the allegro ladder. It’s always steady, though, and rarely does it stutter.)

(Kit is just as fascinating. His canines are sharper than they ought to be, noticeably and undeniably so, and they make his smile into something even more crooked. Kit is always warm to the touch, a steady, cozy pulse, entirely unyielding, much gentler than the nephilim heat and softer still than the cold he’s grown to associate with fae. His heartbeat is slow and syrupy, like Mina’s, and yet much more graceful, doing the same lovely song and dance of the fae. It’s utterly hypnotizing, much like Kit himself becomes as he settles into the secrets of his blood, without even realizing it is so.)

(All of him is inviting, not because of how alien he is, but because he feels unfathomably familiar, incomprehensibly welcoming.)

(Just as all of Ash is enticing, precisely because every sense is bewildered by him and every instinct fails to recognize him.)

(Like this, they are a complete juxtaposition.)

(But the who to the what makes them make sense.)

Ash gets control of his loyalty spell.

Now, I know you're shaking your heads, but hear me out.

Ash's loyalty spell is completely separate from his will. He has no control over it and, as such, is as much its victim as everyone affected by it. He's perpetually isolated by it, because he will never have genuine affection that has not been manufactured by the magic applied to him. That's a sad fucking reality to live in.

(And Ash is, as we know, bitterly and acutely aware of this. He's no fool; he has a perfect understanding of the fact that everyone who has ever cared for him, who has ever dedicated themselves to him, has done so because their will has been literally bent into that shape without either of their consent.)

(And there's no better way to convince someone of their utter incapability of being loved than giving them irrefutable proof of it. Ash has only been shown love as a result of the magic inlaid in his bones, which is no more in his control than it is in the control of those it preys on.)

(Hence, with the notable and frankly appalling exception of Janus, Ash has never been loved for who he is. Never genuinely.)

It's a reality Ash very obviously doesn't want to live with. He's not shy about how much he abhors the position the spell puts him in, and how much it's isolated and destroyed him.

Which is to say, if he could get rid of it, I believe he'd jump at the fucking chance.

But the thing is—can he get rid of it?

Call me crazy, but I find it very hard to believe. Perhaps it's because I am a fan of characters having to adjust to undesirable parts of their lives instead of said parts being removed, because mental illness and trauma, but I actually do have plot reasons, too.

Ash has had these spells inlaid upon him for the majority of his life. At this point, he is as much the magic he has been forced to carry as he is the blood running through his veins and the calcium making up his bones. These spells that make him so lethal, that make him so untouchable, that have made him so lonely, are a part of who he has been made to be.

You can't rip out an organ because it is ill and that is undesirable. Instead, you treat it. You adjust.

Ash cannot destroy the spell. That much I believe to be true. I think that it's too integral to what he is, if not who he is, to be torn from him.

But why should he be unable to learn to control it?

It's stated that Ash had been inlaid with the same spells that Auraline was, once upon a time, and that they both commanded perfect loyalty and affection. But the King felt confident enough to send an assassin after her nonetheless, as though the spell wasn't a constant in regards to her.

In her case, it wasn't a constant outpour that demanded everyone drop to their knees for her. Instead, it is stated that she commanded the assassin's loyalty in order to survive. Hence...it's fair to work under the assumption that she actually had control over this aspect of her gifts, unlike Ash.

It could be argued this was because of the blood of the two courts running through her, the one that gave her the unimaginable problems Kit will now be wielding. (Scary stuff.)

A case could be made that it was her blood that granted her control, and nothing else. Hence, because Ash and her are different breeds, he can only ever hope to survive the magic, not to actually hone it.

But.

But a better argument can be made that the reason Ash has no control over it is because the King learned from his mistakes, and clipped his wings early. No control, no autonomy, no running away. No precious weapons being stolen. No losses.

The King made Ash in the image of the heir he had wanted, but he carved him into the shape of a weapon very, very purposefully. A weapon only he could wield, one he could control entirely.

(Ash really has jumped from one abuser to another, huh.)

But Ash does have autonomy and he did run away and now the King has absolutely no control over him. Pity. (Not.)

Even with all this, though, the loyalty spell is very much what it was before. Nothing about it has changed. Hell, for all Ash knows, nothing about it can change.

Enter Christopher Herondale, stage left.

Among the pond of differences and ocean of similarities between the two of them, one reigns supreme—they are, fundamentally, as people, creatures that they cannot understand. There's nobody else like them. They lack the means and the information to make sense of themselves, their abilities and limitations, and the implications of all of it.

And there's very little anybody in their lives can or is willing to do to help them parse it out. Even when they want to.

But Kit and Ash themselves can figure out a way to parse their abilities, somehow.

In Kit's case, it's a matter of discovery, acceptance, practice and control. Rinse and repeat for every different facet of what he can do, which grows every day without him being able to stop it.

But the matter of the fact is that, however microscopic it might be—Kit actually does have control. Somewhat. Kind of.

Ash is floored.

It doesn't take Kit too long to realize how much Ash hates his loyalty spell, largely because he can't control it at all. Every morsel of love or affection he receives is second-guessed and facsimile. It's a horrible existence.

It also doesn't take either of them too long to realize that the answers to Ash's qualms lay in the book Kit hates most in the world—the Black Volume of the Dead.

In its pages lies the means to Ash's freedom, whatever it may be, and they're both sure of it.

But finding the book is, for obvious reasons, a little out of the question.

(Or is it.)

(Is it...)

After King Arawn is dead, the spell remains in place and unchanged. It's the same ball and chain Ash has gotten used to hauling around. It's the exact same burden that he just can't seem to get rid of.

Kit and him try a long list of things during the years.

(It takes them about a year to build enough trust and rapport to actually discuss the matter and try to approach it in a somewhat constructive manner, but that still leaves him with one or two years to tackle it, give or take.)

Kit goes through all the ancient tomes in Cirenworth's library that might hold something worthy of note. The ones at the London Institute, too, in due time. He tries asking Jem and Tessa about it, and gets little out of them because, for all their years, some things are still beyond them. He tries asking Magnus, too, which is a...very interesting conversation, but a mostly fruitless one, since it just confirms what Kit already knows.

(Extraordinary magic, deeply unusual, hard to cast and hard to find, theoretically eternal, only found in the most unique and powerful of tomes, not something to be trifled with.)

(Here's the real kicker: it's permanent.)

By God, he even tries remembering all the spell books he'd grown up around and hunt some down, with a success rate of exactly zero.

Ash, on the other hand, tries to get information out of the fae. Difficult to do, considering he's wholly isolated from them, but he gets some things. Mostly, that it's the magic that made Auraline so beloved, and that she wore it like a crown. When he asks his mother, she has less to say before she cleverly shuts him down. All she does give him is that he seems far more compelling than Auraline was.

(Kit and Ash grimace at each other that night. Being right was, for once, far from a pleasant thing.)

He tries listening for rumors. Talking to those that go unnoticed and thus unpunished, those that always know more than they let on. They're charmed by his existence and he lets it run wild, as wild as he possibly can, but even so, there's little they have to tell him

The fae hold no real written records and, even if they did, it'd be impossible for Ash to get them.

After months and months of research of all kinds—Kit even resorted to talking to ghosts, for Pete's sake—they have to address the kelpie in the room. They have to admit it to themselves.

There's no answer outside of the Black Volume.

Their hands are tied.

And then, as per usual—the dreams begin.

The Dreams. Capital D. These fall under the category of things that he knows that he shouldn't know. Future and past memories. Things he doesn't want to see that he's always forced to behold. The usual.

Except that these aren't visions about Idris or Lake Lyn or the Blackthorns. There's no Ash and no Faeriland and no screams. No fire. No nothing.

There's pages, instead. Pages of a book. Pages upon pages of old, yellowed pages, positively ancient and positively evil, too. He could feel it, the power they held thick against the walls of his mind like the whispers of London's catacombs. Sinister, enticing whispers, the kind that came with things he wanted nothing to do with.

Naturally, Kit recognizes said pages.

Small, frantic handwriting cramped between the margins of the weathered pages, like there was too much to say and too little time, too little space. Little sketches of screaming faces and corpses and skeletons. Dried, aged ink.

("It's the bloody Volume of the Dead," Kit mutters as he wakes up, flopping back into bed to scream into his pillow until he runs out of breath.)

(Damn whoever wrote the cursed book and damn his heritage for the dreams and damn them all, actually.)

(Kit is officially and entirely done. He's moving to Estonia. He can send Jem, Tessa and Mina postcards. Ash won't even mind—)

(Ah.)

(Ash.)

(Damn it all to hell and back.)

Despite Kit's most fervent hatred for every accursed thing that book has to say, the dreams persist. It features in every moment of sleep he has that isn't spent in Faeri with Ash, a wealth of terrible knowledge and horrible power falling into his hands with all the ease of autumn leaves. They pool there, no matter how hard he tries to shake them. The knowledge stays, no matter how vehemently he tries to forget it.

And eventually, after days turn to weeks and weeks start turning into months, it gets hard to ignore.

So. In the most ironic twist of fate ever. Kit stops ignoring it.

(He gets himself a small, nondescript notebook. Pocket-sized. The kind he learned through his father that nobody really asks about. He gets himself a pack of cheap ball-point pens, because nobody asks about those, either.)

(He puts his years with his father to good use. When Jem and Tessa are out with Mina and he's in with an essay, he empties his bookshelf, filled with all the books he's been gifted these last two years. It's an antique bookcase, with glass and lovely wooden drawers at the bottom; they're mostly decorative, given their age, but he and Jem have fixed them up enough for his school supplies.)

(Where nobody would think twice to look too hard.)

(He makes a false bottom out of them, careful to make it good and hard to find. He fills it up with enough embarrassing things that it wouldn't matter. He puts the notebook at the very back, hidden in plain sight, because a glamour would actually be more suspicious.)

(And then he starts writing the pages in his dreams down as well as he can from memory. With his runes, it isn't particularly hard. A little Mnemosyne here, a little Stamina there, one or two Energy runes to keep himself awake through an entire night to get as much as he can down, and bam.)

(A pocket-sized, annotated section of the Black Volume of the Dead, the most powerful and fearsome tome in the Shadow World.)

(Hidden in a teenager's bookshelf.)

(Because of his psychic, prophetic dreams. Which were in this case, theoretically, triggered into summoning sinister spells into his dreams, to help his winged companion who he sees in his dreams.)

(Jesus.)

While writing it all down, Kit realizes his suspicions were correct; the section he's been dreaming about is all about the extraordinary, unique, ancient loyalty spell that has plagued Ash for years. The one he wants gone more than anything.

The one that is, like almost everything in the goddamn book, fucking permanent. Apparently, such is the price for the most wicked magic in the world. Nothing like finality to drive the point across.

Once out of the fugue state that had possessed him as he wrote and wrote and wrote, Kit goes back through every nitty-gritty detail, through every single word, and promptly realizes that there really is no way to reverse the spell. It really is a burden to carry for a lifetime.

But—and here's an even better kicker—there is a way to change who controls the spell.

(Arawn is dead. The person who originally controlled the spell is gone. Thus, the change is possible. It is very, very possible.)

Kit sees the first glimmer of hope in fucking months, and goes the fuck to sleep.

(Ash is...somewhat unsurprised to hear Kit has been dreaming about the Volume of the Dead. He is somehow more taken aback by the fact that Kit actually preserved what he saw in the hopes of helping Ash. Kit doesn't get it.)

("Of course I did it," he says, cocking a brow. "I told you we'd figure it out somehow, didn't I?")

("I guess you did," Ash murmurs in return, and then listens to Kit ramble about what they could do.)

A plan—the worst Kit has ever seen or been a part of, the most horrendous piece of tactical brilliance maybe ever, even worse than Ty's plan to bring back Livvy, and isn't that just adding insult to injury—is formed.

A warlock is contacted.

A house-visit is planned.

("Hello, Miss Vex," Kit says breezily, a smile like caramel on his mouth and gold in his hoodie pocket, where he holds his hands. "Long time no see.")

(Hypatia pulls him into the apartment and into her study with the most unimpressed of sighs, looking at Kit like he's quite a droll thing. "Not long enough," she says pleasantly, sitting behind her desk and folding her hands in a way Kit recognizes.)

(Down to business it is.)

("Ah, but see, I needed someone with a broad mind and a very careful mouth, and then I thought, who knows how to keep a secret well, for the right price?" It's both bravado and honesty, and Kit stands behind the chair he's supposed to be occupying, perching his hands on its slope primly. Shadowhunter calm. Shadowhunter grace.)

(Hypatia narrows her eyes, some shadow crossing the molten gold of them, like a flare of her star-shaped pupils. It's an uncomfortable look to be under. It feels like being dissected. But Kit has been dissected his entire life and so he keeps his pulse steady and his breathing calm and his smile in place. He keeps himself still.)

(And then Hypatia dips her head just a bit. "For the right price," she concedes.)

(Kit reaches into his hoodie and retrieves a heavy pouch, placing it on the desk with the glorious sound of money, of artifacts, of things a boy with sticky fingers and knowing eyes can get oh so easily.)

("How would you like to keep a couple secrets for me, Hypatia?" Kit says, a dark note to his pleasant tone, leaning more weight on the chair. He is still. Lethally so. He does not blink.)

(Hypatia's starry eyes gleam. "I'm all ears, Herondale.")

(Kit smiles and sits.)

A deal is made.

The use of a spell is learned. The process of its ritual is, too.

And so, one day, Kit walks into the clearing at Faeri in his dreams, and when Ash smiles in greeting, Kit can smile back and say, "I've got it."

(It's not easy. In fact, it's absurdly difficult. It's hard enough to keep it a secret from everyone. Harder still for Hypatia and him to figure it out on their own under secrecy. Even more so without the person Kit's trying to help actually physically present in their realm.)

(Even once they've figured out the theoretical how, it still seems brutally difficult and brutally cruel to put anyone through, nevermind Ash.)

(It's Ash's choice, though. Not Kit's. And so he thanks Hypatia for weeks of business, leaves her with secrets interesting enough that the gold will keep her mouth shut, and gives Ash what he wants.)

The next day, Ash positively throws himself at him in an embrace. The clash of them is more vibrant than usual, the pressure harsher, more unstable. For a minute, it's like a blow, until it eases and Kit can actually breathe and hug Ash back with little hesitation.

"It worked," Ash says, voice full of wonder and breathless with delight. "It's actually mine now. It really is."

Kit squeezes him harder. "Who else's?"

("My control leaves much to be desired," Ash admits later, as he excitedly tells Kit of the fact that people are actually able to not give a damn about him now. "But now, I can actually do something about it.")

("And you will," Kit says, before mischief takes over his grin. "Come on, try me.")

In the end, it takes even more months before Ash can actually control it. Before he can pull it around him like a veil or tuck it into his bones to sleep. Before he can hone it into a weapon he has control over, and reclaim one tiny piece of himself.

Now, when someone stays, he won't have to wonder.

And maybe that makes it worth it.

(Although, a year later, Kit reconsiders this greatly optimistic perspective, as someone shouts—"YOU USED THE BLACK VOLUME OF THE DEAD?")

Ash is possessive of Kit.

Mightily so.

Not even in the "only I can have you, I'll lock you up in a tower with a dragon" way. He's not that fucked in the head.

(Well, he is—half a lifetime of abuse and unresolved and largely unacknowledged trauma will do that to you—but it doesn't present itself that way, okay.)

It's more in the way that he defines his relationship to Kit in terms that really only make sense to him.

Which are possessive terms.

I mean, come on. This is the same guy who answered Janus's "You are mine," with a genuinely delighted, "Who else's?"

Tell me he wouldn't be this way. That's right, you can't.

The thing is, it's not ownership. Not precisely. It's less about him actually owning Kit and more about him feeling a sense of belonging in regards to him. A mutual one, at that, as far as he's concerned.

The way Ash sees it, they do not own each other. They belong to each other. And that is wholly and entirely different, as he will very passionately declare.

(Ash is used to being owned. The Queen owned him from the moment he was born, and then the King stole him before his father did, and his mother owned him again after that, and now Janus owns him, too, though this is one time he's okay with it. He doesn't mind being owned. He's familiar enough with it that he finds it easy to accept. He finds the certainty of it somewhat soothing.)

(He does not find the idea of owning Kit pleasant, though. Moreover, though he would not mind being owned by him, it feels wrong to say. Inaccurate. Ownership is not what he wants them to be.)

(Ash thinks of the quiet sense of belonging that had bloomed within him when Kit stayed, scathing remarks and venomous glares and vicious distrust and all, not because of the spell but because of him. On some level, at least.)

(And he thinks that yes, belonging, that's what it is. That's what they are.)

(They do not need to own each other when they already belong to each other, right?)

To Ash, the easiest way to define their relationship—which does not fit the label of "friendship," as it has been described to him, but also does not fit the label of an ally or an enemy—is in terms of belonging. To each other.

Which. Um.

Yeah.

It goes something like this:

Julian, ever the mother hen, has some serious questions about the boy Dru is a tad too familiar with, particularly because Julian does remember him and not in a very positive way. They're thick as thieves, though Julian somehow has a hard time imagining Ash getting up to any common mischief. Though he did bite Emma that one time. Mayhaps there are layers to the matter.

(One such very interesting layer being that, despite the ice cold spell on his emotions being gone, Julian feels nothing out of the ordinary for Ash. Nothing he hadn't already felt, like curiosity or wariness or the beginnings of ruthless, callous disregard, if necessary. No need to protect. No need to preserve.)

(Emma doesn't, either. He can see it in her eyes, clear and fierce as they always are, but different from the warmth and kindness she reserves for those she considers family. Right now, there is no glimmer of the honey-sweet blaze of protective rage Julian knows so well. Only wariness and a hesitant sort of calm.)

(The same calm in Tessa's eyes, which perch upon Ash with a familiarity that seems a tad haunted, looking oddly morose. It is different from the calm in Jem's eyes, which seems more calculating, on the knife's edge of strategy. The same calm Julian might see in his own eyes.)

(And still, the wariness in all their shoulders, hands a tad too still. Shadowhunter still, even though Tessa cannot bear runes and Jem has chosen to leave them behind, in another life.)

(In all shoulders except Dru's, because hers curve with a hopeful sort of awe, with a cheerful kind of delight, as she asks Ash questions or shoots him looks when she thinks he won't notice. Julian isn't sure if she's yet realized that Ash notices everything going on in the room, even if he does not give any indication of that fact.)

(He isn’t sure she’s realized he’s shooting her looks, too. Curious and perplexed, and wistful and longing in a way Julian doesn’t quite understand, even though he recognizes it at once.)

(He’s seen it on enough faces.)

(Kit hardly seems at all bothered by Ash’s presence, either, because his shoulders are tense with a wariness that isn't aimed at Ash, but rather on his behalf. It's not in his eyes, not in his face and not in his hands, but it is in the slight bump to his shoulders, the curve that should be a straight line. It's well hidden, so much so it takes Julian a long, long while to realize it. Kit has always been a good liar, a good actor, and he's gotten frighteningly better. Julian feels queasy just thinking about what he could get away with.)

(Dru and Kit are not worried for themselves, but rather for the fae boy, and Julian is inclined to believe it's wholly out of their own free will, because he's running entirely on his own.)

(Everybody seems to be, in fact, even though Ash had been like a siren back in Thule, the only beautiful thing in a world of ash and blood.)

(Now, the pull is so thin as to not be there at all.)

(Very curious indeed...)

They ask their questions, all three of them. Emma asks the kind of probing, narrow-eyed questions that make most people jump to the defensive. The kind that the fae are perfectly comfortable circumventing. Ash doesn't disappoint; he doesn't break a damn sweat, adding fuel to the fire with an ease that's rather infuriating, expression perfectly calm all the while. Occasionally, Kit will snort or glower at something he says, getting a pale arched brow in return, or mutter something that makes Ash's perfect composure flicker for a moment.

(Interesting. Julian files that away for future reference.)

Julian asks the kind of questions that are honey-dipped and gentle on the surface, and barbed with wire under that, like bear traps laid for Ash to fall into. They're the kind of words that made even the fae shift in their seats once upon a time, and it works now, though the gig is up practically at once. Ah. It's not kind, but then again, neither is Julian. He doesn't care about kind. He cares about his family's well-being, and if Ash will disturb that, then Julian will do what he has to. As he always has.

Dru, though. Dru asks the kind of questions that Julian would expect from Ty, bursting with curiosity and colorful with information. They're utterly unexpected and driven by a logic Julian can't quite follow, though the method to their madness is completely undeniable. Kit gets a look in his eye at that, pained and yearning, but fondness quirks his mouth. Ash looks completely taken off guard for the first time, increasingly wide eyes and raised brows, bewilderment heavy on his face.

(He answers every question to some extent, though, no matter how silly said question is.)

The bigger question comes from Jem, though, who notices easily that if Dru and Ash are thick as thieves, in a curious sort of way that seems wholly new to them, then Ash and Kit are conjoined. It doesn't seem to be entirely conscious, but rather instinctive; they fall into step together, a natural tandem that's startling in its ease, their mouths pressed together in silence, even though the manner in which they looked at each other said volumes.

A conversation occurs through wriggling brows and expressive curves of the mouth. It is not a pleasant conversation. Nonetheless, Ash looks more at ease than he has since he got dragged through the portal, some unseen coil unraveling in some unseen way.

They shadow each other without a thought both before and after that, murmuring softly when they do talk, a gentle sort of tension to their endeavors. A fragile sense of tranquility, buzzing with electricity, tremendously tremulous. It is not easy to ignore; there is something about Kit and Ash that attracts the attention of all in their vicinity. It is an allure that is as much in their blood as it is in how they interact with each other. Quiet tension and a deliberate quest to side-step all the wires that would decimate them, an intimacy beyond words and an intensity that was hard to behold, draining, even when it seeped into each and every one of their interactions.

Even so, there's no animosity. In fact, there's even a curdled, complicated brand of fondness that they seem to reserve solely for each other. Bittersweet and surprisingly earnest, even if it is violently sharp. Even if it’s almost threatening in its careful handling, as though they were aware that their coexistence was more volatile than them being at odds with each other.

(Jem and Tessa observe it with a palpable kind of concern and an even deeper kind of understanding. There is something knowing there, and whether it is good or not, Julian can't tell yet. He isn't sure they can, either.)

(He does know that Dru has something to say about it, though, watching Kit with a cocked head and furrowed brows. It's reminiscent of Livvy and her intense, furious picking apart of all that came into their lives. The thought makes Julian flinch away from his own mind.)

(The pain never gets any less softer. Merely the slightest bit easier to breathe around.)

(Julian thinks about Ty, and thinks that he probably can't even do that. There's no breathing around hollow lungs.)

It's hard to understand and even harder to explain, which is why they all sit down to discuss Ash's presence—however momentary, given he seems rather divided on what his course of action ought to be—on their side of the world and what it means for them all. Usually, they’d discuss the matter with, say, Alec, the actual freaking consul, but desperate times.

Ash and Kit sit on the same sofa, half a cushion of space between them, a calculated valley of distance that they can nonetheless bridge at whim. Ash posture is perfect, spine ramrod straight and shoulders pulled back into a steady, his feet planted firmly on the floor, whereas Kit slouches on his end of the sofa, legs spread out in front of him and feet pointing in opposite directions, so that his head rests on the back of the couch and his foot settles an inch from Ash's. His arms spread over the back of the couch, hand primed to reach for Ash's head, and the other picks at the loose strings of the armrest.

They are, despite themselves, the picture of nonchalance. They've changed out of their ruined clothes—Kit had laughed at Ash dressed in Kit's own distinctly modern clothes and rid of his circlet, given that my, Ash, I see you're Jon Snow no more; how's it feel to join the rest of the peasantry?—and Kit balances his mug of tea between his thighs, Ash's own cradled between their hips. Oscar's ghost has settled by Kit's feet, panting happily at his return.

Their relaxation is matched by none, except perhaps Tessa and Jem, who simply looked relieved to see their son live and well, even if he now seems to have a shadow. Or a friend. It's hard to parse out from their behavior alone, I'm afraid.

(Dru doesn't look too concerned, either. She settles on one of the armchairs, her clothes exchanged for a pair of Tessa's, looking at Ash and Kit curiously from over the rim of her mug. Her gaze is intense and unyielding, probing, and rather excited, too.)

(Julian doesn't have a good feeling about this.)

Cue dark looks being exchanged and a distinctly odd feeling spreading through the room as Ash continues to be both remarkably uncooperative and tepid in a way that is as mild as it is warning. Worse still—Kit isn’t all that different when it’s him they’re questioning. He looks apologetic about it, just a bit, but even so, there is something implacable about it.

They're not belligerent, not at all, but they're not exactly nice, either. In fact, on paper, they're perfectly polite and forthcoming. The kind of song and dance Julian knows best from being both dancer and spectator, both musician and audience. They’re good at it, good as Julian is, and it comes to them so naturally he can’t help but be begrudgingly frustrated, even if he’s annoyed just the same.

The answers to the most basic of their questions are both unexpected and not.

They've known each other for a few years, give or take, by virtue of the powers that be. No, it was not intentional. Yes, they did know exactly who the other was, though it mattered little to either—here, it appears to be an admittance, because Kit pauses for a moment, and Ash's eyebrow twitches with the knowledge. They’d never met in the physical world before today. Nor did they intend to meet today, mind you. They don't consider each other a threat, either, if that needs pointing out; at least not quite, Ash tacks on somewhat humorously, like an afterthought, because fae habits evidently die hard.

(Kit snorts around a mouthful of tea, not agreeing but hardly disagreeing, and Ash seems perfectly at ease with that.)

Once all the questions Julian and Emma had to ask have been answered, skirted around, riddled or flat-out ignored, and Dru’s grocery list of queries has been answered to the best of Ash’s ability, Jem asks what they've all been not-subtly wondering:

"What, exactly, are you to each other?"

(The question would be dramatic and out of place, had Kit not jumped in front of Cortana with daggers held up and eyes ablaze before Dru could so much as twitch, holding the weight of Emma's strike with vicious surety, when she had turned it on Ash. Had he not yelled, he's with me!)

(If Ash had not just about slit the throat of the fae who'd tried to do the same to Kit, right in front of them all, with an ease that was chilling. With a certain vindication that Julian found eerily familiar, tucked under his bones on the best of days; not vengeance, not quite, but a protective snarl. One that could be ultimately worse than any vengeful rage.)

(If Kit had not pulled him through the portal, all rules and all carefully toed lines and all the things they conspicuously did not mention during their meetings be damned; burning through the barriers between them to grab at his bloody wrist and pull, because I can't protect you here, so come with me.)

(If Ash had not, against all odds and the thoughts warring on his face, let him.)

(If Kit had not made absolutely certain to keep him by his side at all times, as though fearing he'd have to take him and bolt, nodding at Dru when he took Ash's other side.)

But as it is, they've earned the question with their familiarity. With their mutual and wholly subconscious prioritizing of each other. With the way they interact with what can only be described as care and protectiveness.

(Dru perks up at the question, shifting in her seat, regarding them with Cheshire eyes that clearly say yes, do go on. Julian is once again reminded of Ty, eyes always pricked up to catch everything that happened around him, drinking the world down with brilliant wonder. God, he misses Ty, like Julian's got a yawning void where he ought to be.)

To their surprise, Kit does not divert them or immediately jump into an answer, as he has thus far. In fact, he leans back in his seat and shoots Ash a dry, somewhat weary look, as his face takes on a pensive veneer. His fingers begin to drum a steady pattern on the backrest, right behind Ash's head.

"Say, Ash—what are we to each other? Any ideas?" He asks, cocking a brow and quirking a corner of his mouth in a way that suggests mischief and remembrance. He looks utterly innocent, and Julian can tell at once he's taking the piss out of Ash, likely not for the first time.

The way Ash looks back at him can only be defined as withering. Julian is most definitely. "Perhaps one or two."

"Marvelous. Dazzle me," Kit said brightly, leaning back fully and spreading his arms grandly, brows rising like en exclamation mark.

(Tessa and Jem exchange a look, exasperated and unbearably fond. Herondales.)

Ash sighed, looking for all the world like he'd much prefer doing anything else, carefully balancing Heosphoros on his lap, where he'd been cleaning the blade of its muck for the entirety of the conversation. Julian got the impression that Kit was a handful that Ash had learned to pick his battles with.

(He isn't surprised.)

And then, looking Jem straight in the eye with arrogant disregard and a cold, calculating look that very much verges on defiant—

"He is mine."

Pause. Utter silence. The crowd is shocked. Not a word can be found among these halls. Even the ghosts have nothing to say.

Ash raises a brow, seemingly unimpressed by the response to a statement he found innocuous, and cocked his head. Like this, his chin was raised with distinct superiority, the line his jaw defiant without a shadow of a doubt, something in the way his eyes narrowed spelling out trouble.

(At once, Julian is reminded of the Kieran he first met, mad like the ocean and sharp like a blade. There is that royal elegance to Ash, too, Julian realizes; the look of a man who knows he is something, and who has adjusted accordingly.)

(He wonders if there is more to Ash, just like there was more to Kieran. He hopes so.)

Dru releases a rather inhumane sound as Jem and Tessa sputter, choking on her tea and coughing as Emma pounded on her back furiously and Julian handed her napkins. The glare she pins on Kit is harsh and accusing, as though she were considering chucking her mug at his head. She certainly has both the aim and the arm for it.

(Kit raises his hands in surrender, motioning at Ash with them, the universal sign for don't look at me, look at him.)

(Which she did. Just as furiously. With the Scowl of Doom.)

(If Ash had looked bewildered before, he looks so far out of his element now that Julian feels a surge of pity for him.)

(Up until the exact moment he looks at Kit like a lost puppy, tilting his head and nudging it softly toward Dru. He looks strangely alarmed, all in all, and now all Julian feels is amusement.)

(Kit makes placating gestures at them both, which work more than they really ought to. The way he looks at Dru, it communicates something. Enough that she settles back down, looking suspicious but satisfied.)

(Enough that Ash settles, too, once more the picture of calm.)

As Jem and Tessa exchanged furtive, concerned looks, Julian and Emma and Dru looking at each other as though to ask how much of that was fae speech and how much was straight up fact, Kit speaks. His voice lands somewhere between amused, withering and perhaps genuinely curious.

"Really?" He asks, poking Ash between the ribs with his stele, a deceptively careful movement. "Come on, Ash."

Ash is unfazed. "It's the truth, is it not?"

And, well. Kit says nothing to that. No agreement, no, but no disagreement, either. He pauses instead, his face twisting into an expression Julian cannot for the life of him read, which is at once pensive and disgruntled. It suggests a yes and a no, both and yet neither, or perhaps that he's still deliberating the merit of either.

But inaction is as good as action.

(And Ash knows that face on Kit, when aimed at him, enough that he knows it's an allowance. It is, if nothing else, an acquisition.)

(With them, there is more said in the unsaid, more words in their silences.)

(And they've learned to read them well.)

So Ash nods, says, "Splendid. Now, if I may," and methodically returns to his polishing.

"Huh," Dru says after a while, surprised and yet not, and then sips from her tea.

Nothing gets said for a little while longer, and thus Kit spoils Oscar and drinks his tea.

Kit read ASOIAF.

Yes. Read.

He had to do something in his free time and why not read the books to the show everyone and their mother was slowly losing their shit for.

He did read them. It took him weeks but he did.

When he sees season 6-8 come out, he will promptly become homicidal.

(Yes, he agrees with the L + R = J theories. Hence him calling Ash, of all things, Jon Snow.)

(This is the epitome of an inside joke, given he's the only one aside from Dru who's actually either read or seen the damn thing.)

(She watches it as it comes out. Kit is appalled.)

(Finally, Tessa says, you know what it's like to be me.)

(Kit just stares at her in open, unabashed misery.)

The aftermath of the war in snippets.

As the dust settles and the body count begins, as nephilim mourn and downworlders weep, as Kieran frantically tries to round up the faeries safely, the world goes on turning. Blissfully, silently, blindly, as it always does. It stops for no one. It turns for no one. It simply moves on.

(Somewhere, Clary and Jace embrace, battered and bruised and bleeding entirely too much, but alive, so fucking alive. They hold hands and their rings clang, and somewhere in the distance, Simon releases a primal sound of relief and all but launches himself at them. They all land in a tangle of limbs, squawking indignantly and laughing and then crying, all holding on to each other because you're alive, I thought I'd lost you, I thought—)

(Simon hugs Clary like she'll go up in a cloud of smoke if he lets her go, and she hugs back like he'll forget who she is without her touch, and Jace embraces them both like they're his entire fucking world.)

(In the distance, Isabelle says they're here, come on! And then it's her, too, crying into Jace's neck and crushing her chest to Simon's back and leaving her hand imprinted on the back of Clary's neck. And they let her and they grab at her, too, and they're okay.)

(When Alec appears, his entire body is shaking and his bow clatters out of his hands as he crumples to his knees before them. There's an ugly gash at his cheek and his forehead is darkening with bruises and he looks like crap, but he's smiling even as tears run down his face, as his knees bracket around Simon's and his chest supports Clary and his arms wrap around all of them and his hand squeezes hard at Isabelle's shoulder. As his temple knocks into Jace's, both of them bloody and teary and disgusting, and all of them happy and miserable and breathing.)

(Magnus is sighing as he comes upon them, but all the sighs in the world couldn't hide the way his smile quivers with relief. None of the put-upon exhaustion in the planet could hope to make them not understand what it means that Magnus Bane drops to his knees in the muck and the debris and touches them all gently, messing with Simon's hair and wiping blood from Jace's cheek and gently squeezing Isabelle's wrist and booping Clary's nose, tucking his chin into Alec's hair. The fondness with which he says, What am I going to do with you?)

(Somewhere, they are alive and for now, that's all that matters.)

The Silent Brothers struggle to help all the injured, the entire battlefield an open wound, iratzes and prayers and blood stinging the air like heavenly fire. Wails cut through the air, grief and rage and pleading alike. The silence is sometimes like the wound has already become a tomb. It certainly has enough bodies for it.

In some corner of the battlefield, Cristina helps Kieran do what he promised Kit and Alec—he gets the fae together and the fuck away as safely and quickly as he can, hair flickering between a frazzled, electric blue and a thick, fearful black, white licking through its depths like sea foam, the Queen's crown tucked over it haphazardly, a permanent frown on his beautiful features.

Cristina tries to smile, tries to be reassuring and encouraging, she does, but every few moments, her eyes flicker to the spot where she last saw Emma—she thinks about the grim, fierce determination on her face, of the way she'd held Julian's hand with finality and said Cristina's name like a eulogy and feels her heart drop like a rock—and her face curdles like milk.

(Sometimes, her eyes will flutter instead to the spot where Mark last stood, panicked eyes and longing and vicious determination, planting a kiss on Kieran's mouth like smoldering embers as he cradled his face with the most tender of ferocity, staring into his eyes like a promise. Kieran had looked gutted.)

(She understood why when Mark kissed her, passionate and utterly desperate, so much yearning and adoration on his quivering lips and dry tongue that she'd trembled with it. He'd held her like precious china, like the warmth of childhood he knew would be stolen from him. He looked at her eyes like he was trying to memorize them, like they were the last thing he ever wanted to see.)

(When he pulls away, chasing after the trail Aline and Helen had carved for themselves, going right into the heart of the battle—where Dru and Ty are, where Julian and Emma were going, where the world would either end or survive—Cristina thinks, with a despair so strong it makes her ill, don't you dare leave me.)

(Sometimes, Kieran and her will meet eyes when they look at the same spot, gazes haunted with the same fear, terrified that their Mark will be another lost name in this war.)

(Terrified that they'll have to live on without him, that they'd have to bury him. That they'd have to go back to a home where he was but a phantom in their halls.)

(They both look away.)

And then she hears it. "Tina! Kier!"

Cristina might have twisted her ankle with how fast she turned, had she not been a shadowhunter. She's half-convinced that, from the sound Kieran's neck made, he might have dislocated it with how fast he turned his head.

There, booking it through the field and to them, is Mark. Bleeding sluggishly and so dirty she can hardly make out the lines of his runes upon his skin, but grinning widely and alive, running not for life but for his loves, running like not even Lucifer himself could stop him.

And Cristina isn't sure which of them does it first, but before she knows what's happening, both her and Kieran are running, too, shouting at the faeries to continue as they go in shaking voices; running toward him, running right over every obstacle, and into his open arms.

The clash is painful and ugly and she's going to have bruises for days to come without a series of iratzes. Kieran's teeth clack together when they all slam together. Mark accidentally crashes his chin against Cristina's forehead. They slide through the mud and only Kieran's ridiculous strength keeps them standing, a hand fisted in the back of Mark's shirt and an arm around Cristina's waist, and then he squeezes so hard Cristina feels her ribs creak.

But Mark's eyes boggle with it as Kieran connects their foreheads, looking for all the world like he might dissolve into tears, the black bleeding out of his hair and giving way to pale, sweet baby blues and white tangs, as he keeps whispering, "You've come back to me, you've come back to us."

Cristina only realizes she's crying when she realizes how hot her face is as she buries it in Mark's neck, an arm around his waist and his blood seeping into the scrapes of her skin, a hand digging into the back of Kieran's neck, and then she's laughing because by Raziel, they've done it. They've done it.

They're going home. They're all going home. They're all okay.

And Mark laughs in return and kisses Cristina's tears away, just as desperate as before but no longer afraid, no longer a goodbye; now, it's a hello, a here I am, a I'm never leaving you again. Kieran is fierce with how he kisses all over Mark's face, his fingers quivering bruises into Cristina's waist, his eyes squinted so his tears won't fall, and Mark stops him with a press of the mouth. It's hardly a kiss. It's a shared breath.

But it does the trick. Kieran settles. They all settle, melting into each other, ankle-deep in mud and bleeding and in the middle of the end of a war, but in each other's arms.

"Never leave us again," Kieran hisses and Mark smiles, beams, and says, "Never. Never."

(Cristina believes him.)

(And then she sees Helen.)

Elsewhere, Helen carries her wife in her arms and her brother on her back, whispering you can do this, we're almost there, stay with me, stay with me. Don't leave me, don't leave me, don't leave me.

Julian's head lolls against her shoulder, blood dripping steadily down his arms and over Helen's skin, onto Aline's cheeks. He's utterly limp, breath unsteady and hot against Helen's neck, mouthing words even like this—Livia, Ty, Dru, Tavvy, Helen, Mark, Emma, Emma, Emma—and even so, Helen can feel the tears spring to her eyes, as she says, "Jules, hey, Jules—please, please, please."

In her arms, Aline is pale and cold, breath coming out in small, soft puffs, hand loose where it'd been putting pressure against the red blooming across her abdomen. Helen can see the rune that bound them on her chest, where her shirt is torn, can see the place where their hearts became one forever.

(Forever cannot end today, it can't.)

She looks beautiful, even like this. Helen loves her like she's never loved anyone. She loves them both more than anything. She loves them all and she's terrified that this will be the end, that this will be the last time she can see their faces, can feel their warmth.

"Please," she whispers, running faster than she ever has, thinking of Ty and Dru and Emma left behind, thinking of Tavvy with Max and Rafael and Mina. Thinking of Livvy, of how she'd lost her, of how she cannot lose any of them, of how she'd die without them.

Thinking of Mark, Mark—

"MARK!" she screams, screams for all she's worth, glimpsing him in the distance. "MARK!"

He turns, at once, because he'd know her voice anywhere. His smile is blinding, happiness the most beautiful thing Helen's ever seen on him, and she will always remember the moment it slips away, replaced by the heart-stopping horror, the bone-breaking terror, that she feels in her own chest. She can see the panic in his eyes. She can see him run. She can see Cristina and Kieran follow, because they'd chosen them, they'd all chosen each other, family over blood.

And she says, "Please, Jules, please—stay with me, okay, we're almost there, Mark is here, you'll be okay, you'll be okay—"

A beat, a spike of fear, more blood pooling against Helen's chest. "Aline, love, my soul, my beating heart, come on, come on, we're only getting started. We've got forever ahead of us, okay? Stay with me. Stay with me."

She whispers those three little words over and over again, long after Mark and her have gotten their precious charges to the Silent Brothers, Kieran having carved a path for them with vicious determination. Long after they are healing. Long after Mark touches her hair and cradles her to his chest and says, they'll be okay.

(Helen holds him like she held them, panic and love and desperation, and says, stay with me.)

(Mark kisses her forehead and gently says, forever.)

In the middle of the battlefield, where fae and downworlders and nephilim clash, Ash blazes through it, thinking what are you doing, Ash, what are you doing.

You're making a mistake, you're making a mistake. You're betraying the only person who's ever loved you for you, you fool. How can you do this to him?

(Because maybe love isn't letting him set the world aflame.)

And he's brutal and ruthless, fierce as he fights back against Janus's troops, water as he treads through the ranks of those that used to follow him. As he turns his back on the only person not to abandon him.

(Kit's face flashes across his face, the fierce set of it when he jumped in front of Emma Carstairs and Cortana for Ash. The pain in his voice when he said don't die before they shot into separate parts of this battle.)

(Even though he hadn't known who Ash would choose in the end, what mistake he'd inevitably make, he'd wanted him alive. He'd pleaded for it.)

(And Ash had said stay alive.)

But still, his mind says, don't do this, don't do this, please don't do this.

And maybe that's why, when he soars up into the sky—a point of vantage, a way to see what's coming—he doesn't feel the threat, doesn't do the sole thing he's been trained to do for years, until he hears the familiar whizz edging his way. The ruthless, sizzling burn.

The pure, solid iron heading his way, with the cold dread of certain doom.

(Ash has always been remarkable, not because of who he is, but because of what he's been made to be. It's been his sole virtue in the eyes of each of his captors, the reason behind his gilded cages and his pretty titles and all the status that only ever amounted to loneliness and the name weapon.)

(Remarkable didn't always mean good. Sometimes, it just meant outside of the ordinary in the worst of ways.)

(Like the fact that, tragically, inconveniently, only half fae or not—iron was poison to him.)

Ash barely begins to dive and drop, a desperate attempt at eluding the inevitable, when the net lands. It's heavy and noisy and uncomfortable, clattering like plated armor; it tightens on impact, twisting its way into his body and pressing his thrashing wings into his back so harshly he idly wonders whether it'll snap his spine. It seems plausible.

Anything seems plausible, really, as the iron begins to sizzle audibly along his skin, burnt flesh and the acerbic, anemic scent of cold iron filling his nose. It's so strong he gags, fingers scrabbling around the holes of the net, looking frantically for a way out of it even as they begin to blister and peel.

And then the chain wraps around his ankle, squeezing like a vice with an awful crack that jolts all the way up to his hip and down his toes—

And with a sharp yank, Ash falls.

(He goes through the air so quickly, it seems honey-dipped in his head, sluggish and unbearably thick in its descent. He goes with hands clawing through the net, like they could cut through the air and find a cloud to grab onto.)

(Heosphoros falls with him, because irony is the one thing to never fail him.)

(The burns darken and deepen as he goes, the flames fanned by the chaos, and he knows it will consume him, because he can actually feel the pain begin to run its course. Ash doesn't feel pain like normal people do. Not at all.)

(But iron has always been a weakness of his, the best way to keep him subdued and cowed, and now, it may very well kill him.)

(The hilarity is not lost on him; a winged thing kept in a gilded cage bites its master, and winds up knocked out of the sky it'd finally soared into moments after. Winds up entangled in a net, a mobile cage, because if he cannot be their bird of prey, he will be hunted instead.)

(Ash sees the blood begin to well between his fingers, where the iron chains pull at his flesh, and wonders if this is what Kit saw back in Lake Lyn.)

(The thought is oddly comforting.)

The crash is a brutal tangle of limbs, as he barrels into people, both live and dead, and through heaps of mud. As he's dragged through them, the chain at his ankle pulls taut, intent on forcing his bones out of his body as his hands claw at the ground under him.

And then there's deafening, all-encompassing silence as he finally, finally jerks to a stop, whiplash threatening to overcome him. There's white nose, so that Ash can only hear his own breath, the unsteady beat of his heart.

Fuck, he thinks, patting at the ground for Heosphoros, getting his hands and knees under him even as they lock, trembling with exertion.

The world swims around him, turned red by the blood running hot down his face, turned blurry by everything else. His nose is washed out with blood and dirt, burnt out by iron.

But he hears their footsteps, wet and heavy in the mood. He feels their weight, their finality.

And because he can't fight, because he can hardly string a thought together with the net digging deeper and deeper into his skin, burning like hot coals against it, Ash does does the one thing he can do:

He digs his hands and knees into the ground, and crawls.

(Ash remembers, distantly, a pristine room in a world full of heat and sand and misery. A world filled with despair, with only one shining star, only one saving grace—Janus.)

(He remembers crawling in a training room, hands and knees and spitting blood. Not crawling from the pain, but instead toward his sword, toward survival.)

(He remembers what it got him.)

Laughter explodes behind him, lilting and fair like all fae voices are, and he scrunches his eyes shut.

(It is the same now as it was then.)

The chain around his ankle tugs again, a sharp pull, and his leg goes out from under him. He narrowly avoids face planting with an elbow in the mud, gritting his teeth against the clattering of the net and how it burns more steadily against his skin.

Another yank, then, this time flipping him in place, landing him on his back with a groan, trying to curl away from the iron at once.

The laughter fades into a giggle, he can register that through the rushing of his blood; he can register the sound of armor, heavy and clattering, ornate.

And then the presence of a foot upon his ankle, dainty and purposeful, and then cruel, dropping all its weight upon him until his bone goes snap.

Ash jerks, whimpers, but he doesn't scream. The pain is real, realer than anything, but it's familiar, too. Pain is easy. Pain is what he experiences every day, one way or the other, and if he cuts off its flow, if he dams its reach, it's more sensation than anything.

(Except iron.)

The toe nudges curiously at his ankle, at the net, jostling to see what it gets. To see the new lines burn through him.

Ash bares his teeth, a hiss building, primal and furious.

The fae, or rather the fae, his mother's fae, the Rider she took from the King, her little treasure—

They smile, wide and wicked and terrible, and Ash snarls and lands a kick against their knee.

It's harsh enough he feels something give, sees their face pale for a second and then thin with rage, their smile falling at once.

Ash tips his head back with a pant, fingers opening and closing, curling into fists and loosening into calm palms. All he needs is a moment. All he needs is—

Their voice is a slithering whisper, clouding like smoke, when they say, "It is time for your blood to run, boy king."

(My boy king, Ash's mother had crooned, the cool hands fitting round the sharpness of his face faint as the touch of a ghost. There was no glow to them, no buzz of power, no rise and no fall and no ebb and no flow. Nothing. Nothing at all.)

(Just the emptiness of a well growing dry and a field growing barren, with only a whisper of longing remaining from the screams of inclemency there had been once.)

(Ash knew that she was a blaze, that she was a fury, a force as fierce as any storm. It did not matter that she was fading right before his eyes. She could still turn the world to ash, just to make sure she took it with her when she went. Just to make sure she won one last time.)

(And yet he knew, standing in front of her, her hands gentle and soft and dead on his face, that it did not matter what she could do. It did not matter what she wanted to do.)

(Because the grass was greener where Ash stood, and she would realize one day. They all would. They always did. And that day, Ash would find out how much love was really worth.)

(But until then—until then, he stood in the damp, cold darkness of a drying well and let her cradle his face with motherly affection he wasn't entirely sure she was capable of.)

(He looked at her blue eyes and her red hair and the terrible beauty of her face, the delicate brass of the petals encircling her temples, and memorized. Wished that the Mnemosyne rune would let him pull this image up again and again and again, no matter what.)

(My boy king, the Seelie Queen said, smiling a smile that is not soft and is not kind, one that is loving nevertheless, even though there was no warmth to it. My king of ashes.)

(Born to rule the night and the blazing stars, to rule among the dead and the ash, to rule the sand of the rise and fall of time. To wrought destruction unlike any other.)

(Born to raze the world in the name of glory.)

(Ash thought of the grass, greener under his feet, and of the visage he saw when he shut his eyes every night. Blue eyes, the sky that had been taken from him, a watercolor depth Ash could not grasp; a mole like ink blotting over the freckles of his skin, so very like the stars he'd all but forgotten in Thule, the constellations Janus taught him dutifully; a crooked grin full of sharp teeth and brimming with something Ash wanted to unearth and tuck inside his ribs, a shape so alarmingly familiar he could carve it into the face of the world. A rune, one echoed at Ash's own pulse, a twin of the lines burning on his wrist, a ghost of the gift upon his veins.)

(Thought of the visage he saw every morning when he opened his eyes—golden eyes, the very sun burning in Ash's palms, as sharp and cold as the first knife he was taught to use, the first time he understood give instead of take; a smile, such a wide and strange thing for Ash to love, a gaping wound on a face like the fall of an empire. A scar across the peak of a collarbone, a ravine in holy aureate land, and a chipped incisor, crumbling marble soon to turn to powder; blood-stained cuffs, a lesson never learned, and raised veins, lines that burned with heavenly fire in the world Ash was born into.)

(Careful pianist's hands, glorious and indelicate and always crusty with blood, even though the piano sat around their house collecting dust and the knives went auburn with rust.)

(He thought beyond night and day. Thought of this land, greener where he stood, greener still in his dreams—greener, perhaps, because of him.)

(He thought long and hard.)

(And he smiled that same terrible smile, the devastating sharpness of his canines and the plush curve of his mouth and all the destinies woven into one tiny gesture. All the lives it carried.)

(King of ashes indeed, Mother.)

(He sees a flash over their shoulder, black hair and grey eyes and a terrible set of sharp brows before it all fades into glamour, and thinks, and thus he comes.)

"Is that so?" He drawls, beginning to feel the threads he ignores pull taut against his fingers, the pressure building, building, building—

"Mayhaps you've got me confused with yourself, child of Mannan."

Heosphoros comes hurtling through the air with terrible finality and wicked aim, cutting and bursting through everything in its path, the way Morgensterns and their blades always do.

(The way Ash is willing to, whether it makes him a monster or not, for the faces that flash before him.)

Gathering all his strength, all the charm simmering in his blood, all the magic he's learned to harness and keep tucked into his bones, he commands—"Unhand me and release me, Rider."

The effect is instantaneous, as the pleasant drawl of his voice rackets up to a hundred miracles, unfurling into something beautiful and sweet and irresistible. A tide that, when directed, surpasses all in the world but one.

(No amount of command has ever affected Kit worth squat.)

The Rider freezes, hand going slack around the chain as their eyes blow wide with panic, and Ash kicks out at their ankle, knocking it out from under them.

He feels a tug at the net, unfamiliar hands and a cool, reassuring presence he doesn't trust, and then it's lifted sharply and pulled away, leaving relief to begin to settle like a balm across his flesh.

Ash doesn't question it, doesn't question what it means, and simply opens his hand up to Heosphoros's hilt as it lands, settling at once, at home with its owner.

It's quick work; the tip of the sword pressed against the chink in the armor, between the third and fourth rib, and then deeper, deeper, deeper.

The gurgling is awful, but familiar. Ash pulls out his dripping sword, laying a foot against a throat and pressing down, and says, "Heosphoros has some soul yet."

And then, silence. The battle rages. His ears ring. There's sensation all over his body, raw and aching, and he turns away from it, trying to wash away his disorientation as he turns to where his net pools at his feet, bloody and horrid.

"Tiberius," he tells the presence, and the glamour falls. Ty looks like one of the tragic statues Janus told him about, terrible and beautiful and vengeful.

But he'd helped Ash, had worked with him, and Kit loved him. Loved him enough that there need be no words for it to be known.

So Ash says, because like this, today, he can see Livia Blackthorn’s outline in the smoke, because he does not like debts: "If you still wish to rouse her back, you should go. Time slips away, Tiberius. The wicked powers won't await you."

Grey eyes widen, fixed at Ash's chin instead of his eyes, dread and concern exploding behind them. It's almost charming, how much he cares, the way his hand slaps over the heron necklace peeking over his gear like it's a clock and he can feel it ticking.

"Don't you die," Ash says, runing a series of iratzes into his skin, before he thinks of what he saw in Lake Lyn, of the color of the sky in those dreams, and walks right past Tiberius.

He hears him leave, quick footsteps, following nightmares instead of dreams. Chasing after ghosts, unknown as to the creation of more.

Ash stumbles toward the clearing where he can see the flames of Kit's magic rage, so close to the angelic fury heavenly fire wages, and thinks I'll run, I'll walk, I'll crawl, but stay alive.

(And he sees two blonds in his head and wonders which of the two he's talking to.)

(Later, as he staggers like a drunk, vision blurred and red and awfully hazy, listening to the faint sense of direction in his mind that leads him to the blazing grounds, he hears, "Ash? Ash!")

(His heart freezes solid.)

(Tessa Gray runs into his field of vision in all her splendor, hair pulled back into a sharp, tight bun and the lines of her faces deep with concern and fear, deeper still with determination. Jem stands by her side, looking uncomfortable with the seraph blade in his hand, but majestic still. The nephilim grace in him won't disappear, no matter what he wants from it, and right now, it glimmers like marble along his angles. His eyes say why he's here—his family, his son. Both their eyes do.)

(And looking at them, both of them, who would kill and die for Kit, he feels an awful sense of fatality consume him.)

(And yet.)

("Christopher," he gasps, coughs, holding a hand to his ribs, feeling blood pool and wondering where it came from. His wings are heavy and crooked and twisted into odd, terrible angles, but all he can say is Kit's name.)

(All he can do is point at the clearing in the distance, bursting with flashes of light as its flames brighten.)

(They see it, too, and their eyes go haunted and fierce, at once, exchanging a look that says as much as any conversation would.)

(And then their resolve hardens into something solid, fierce titanium for all knives and swords and arrows to bounce off of. It's unwavering, not unafraid but brave, not unbreakable but rather unyielding.)

(They're ready.)

(Jem wraps an arm around Ash's waist, hauling him upright and dragging half his weight as they rush.)

(Ash can feel his heartbeat, his warmth. He's battle-hot and his pulse is battle-fast. Different from what he usually hears when he focuses enough.)

(He wonders if Kit will be like this when they get to him. Or if he'll be fever-hot or bloodloss-cold.)

(Cortana is a sword of mercy. Emma is a woman of justice—well, her version of it—for the most part.)

(But Janus is not a merciful man and Kit isn't, either.)

(As they walk through the smoking trees, Ash hears the whispers licking at his ears, the power seeping through his heels, tracing its way up his bones. It's slow and possessive, suggestive, promising warmth and comfort, so enticing in its familiarity.)

(It's a hissing voice, the wind of Faeri and yet harsher, hotter. The drip-drip-drip of adamas, like a seraph blade taking a life of its own.)

(The entire clearing has taken a life of its own, and it embraces him like a ghost, drawing him into his arms by slithering its way into his lungs. Every breath is heady with blood and roses abloom, sugar and summer rain. The slightest hint of a burnt-out match.)

(Something Kit and yet not, uncomfortably so.)

(It knocks the breath out of him, the strength of the power, the raw weight of it sitting on his lungs. It knocks his legs out from under him, too, sending him crashing against a tree before Jem stumbles them both upright, alarm dotting his scarred cheekbones.)

(Ash's head is spinning so hard, feeling light as paper and intoxicated, that he barely catches Jem saying, "Go, get our boy. I've got him. I've got him.")

(He doesn't catch Tessa's response. Just Jem trying to get his attention, trying to ask him what's wrong, applying healing runes over and over.)

(Just the way the clearing's whispers all converge into the same thing: I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I love you, I love you.)

(He doesn't catch anything beyond the way the world blurs.)

(He does catch Tessa's scream, though, horror and fear and pain. The most tortured scream he's heard in maybe all his life. A wail, really.)

(Ash struggles against the haze taking over him, struggles against Jem, straining toward the clearing, and Jem follows, because his better judgement is clouded by his desperation.)

(And when he sees the blood, hears Drusilla's screams and Tessa's frantic words, he feels Jem's arm fall away from him.)

(He feels the world fall down on him.)

(What have you done, he asks nobody and gets no answer.)

At the heart of the corpse of this battle, innocence wails.

Kit lays in the middle of a copse turned into an inferno by his power, pale flames shivering along the trees and scorching their way through the earth, fading gently along with his rage. Washed out by his relief, by the thought he's dead, he's dead, until only the ashes fluttering to the ground and the blackened remains could tell of what had happened there.

(What am I gonna tell Ash? Kit thinks, remembering the way Ash would have done anything for Janus, the way green eyes sparkled with affection around him.)

(The thought makes cold dread pool in his spine, a hurt so real that it almost capsizes his lungs.)

(Or maybe that's the sword.)

Emma's hands flutter around where Cortana sticks out of his body, crimson beginning to darken its inscription in wet, dark streaks. They're shaking, he notices, bloodstained hands that took Janus's life easily, not in revenge, but in protection.

(Bloodstained hands that had included him in that protection, brown eyes widening and bursting with primal horror as the illusion rippled, faded, and the truth was revealed.)

(As Kit held Janus in place with a hand around Phaesphoros at his neck, blood dripping down the black blade and Kit's neck, tendrils of white energy spreading like veins and locking them together, just as Cortana ran them both through.)

(He'd deceived her. Illusions were such tricky things, hardly instinctive the way destruction and fire were to him, but it was easy to fool the mind while in battle. It was so focused on surviving, so focused on eliminating its enemy, sometimes it failed to realize that something was amiss.)

(And so when Kit's blood sprays over her front and the grass, over their feet—Converse and combat boots, their lives themselves summarized through footwear—and his body fades back into existence right in front of her eyes, all he does is smile with bloody teeth and say, "I'm sorry.)

(A clean blow from Cortana is as good as a death sentence. Janus died with frightening ease, one of Kit's daggers in his lung and Cortana having crushed right through him. So much rage and so much fire and so much death, and he ended not with a scream, but with a whimper, crawling away to no avail.)

("Ash," he'd said with his last breath, blood slipping between his lips in awful, gurgling sounds. "Ash.")

(And Kit had thought, falling to his knees as Dru screamed at the edge of the clearing—pinned beneath a tree and bleeding as she was, her sword broken in half and her face streaked with blood, panic in her eyes—so you loved him.)

(Janus had loved Ash more than anyone had loved Ash of their own free will; that much, Kit had always known. He'd never doubted that.)

(But he'd also known it was the kind of love that spread like corrosion, withering its way through every nerve-end with pitiful desperation. Janus loved Ash, yes, and he loved him in the terrible ways father did, broken and ruined by their pasts, and inevitably ruining all else, too, like they had been.)

(Janus loved Ash more than anyone had ever loved him, and he would destroy Ash with it, and Ash would let him.)

(He'd destroy the whole world, use Ash to do it, and Ash would let him. Because he thought that was what love was. Because it was all he had.)

(Just like Kit had once thought his father loved him, somehow, because it was all he’d ever known.)

(And Kit thinks, flopping onto his back with a wet cough, lungs filling with fluid, blood gurgling through his mouth and down the sides of his face—I wish you could have loved him right.)

(And isn't that the crux of who Kit and Ash both are, at the end of the day?)

(Johnny, Sebastian, the King, the Queen, Janus. Who else would they add to the list?)

(Kit laughs as Emma's voice registers only as a panicked blur, Dru's screams beginning to melt into memories, the fires dimming.)

"It's okay," Kit tries to say through the globs of blood obstructing his throat, grabbing onto Emma's hands with raw, split-open palms, Phaesphoros having left him oozing black blood. "It's okay."

Emma shoves his shirt up and away as best she can, beginning to press her stele down onto his skin, forcing it to stillness, forcing the lines to be sharp and precise. She pushes it down harshly enough he wonders idly if it'll burn right through his skin, enough for it to be almost as painful as Cortana jostling. He knows better than to squirm away from it, though, and he stills the instinct and gurgles through a moan of pain—I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, she whispers, and he mutters back deliriously, okay, 's okay, 'm alright—as he feels the runes begin to sink in. He knows them, can recognize their tracings upon his skin.

(Mendelin and amissio, siblings meant to keep him alive for as long as possible, meant to keep his body producing a little bit of blood for every drop that sinks into the ground under him.)

(It's interesting. Even now, as he fades in and out of the world, as his body fights against the cumulus of injuries, he can feel the clearing whisper like the land in Faeri does. His power has coated it, has made it come alive, and his blood is feeding it. It is giving it a voice.)

(Kieran will have to clean up his mess. Kit feels a bit bad for him. He should have killed both him and Ash when he had the chance; lord knows his life would be easier if he had.)

(But the fact that he didn't is exactly why Kit gave him the crown that now sits upon his brow.)

"A Silent Brother, get a Silent Brother!" Dru screams from the edge of the clearing, drawing Strength runes and Endurance runes and so many more runes Kit's mind can't entirely piece together right now over her arms, trying to shove the tree off her leg, trying to unpin herself, to help.

Emma jolts, at that, already scrambling to get her feet under her, but there's conflict in her. Dru or Kit? Who does she help? Who does she save right this moment?

"Go!" Dru snarls, face blazing, determination and fury and fear. "I'll be fine, go!"

(Her eyes are wide with desperation. They're feverish with it. Abruptly, Kit thinks of her entire world almost ending so many times. Of her mother taken by disease, her home attacked by Endarkened, her father gone because of Sebastian, her brother and sister stolen from her by the law; of Julian and Emma turned into something not-themselves, of Kit so far away not even touch could ground him, of Ash caught in the web of Janus's love, of Livvy and the Mortal Sword.)

(And he thinks, I'm sorry.)

(It's all he can say to her for becoming another memory that will haunt her at night, another phantom only she can see.)

(For becoming somebody else that left her.)

(And ah, yeah. That's what he'll tell Ash. He'll tell him the truth.)

(I'm sorry.)

"It's okay," Kit says again, as Emma promises she'll come back with help, as she squeezes his fingers tightly enough to break them, saying stay with me, hold on, Kit, I'll be back, I'll be right back.

As her fingers slide through his slippery ones, as she turns away and runs, a blur of gold, Kit's hand begins to fall to the ground and he tells her back, "I'm sorry."

Looking at her back as she runs, torn black gear and bloody skin and swirling runes, he feels oddly reminded of a past not entirely his own. Emma's golden hair looks red for but a moment and she looks smaller, somehow, but just as bright. Kit blinks hazy eyes and it's just her, just Emma, and then it's just the mouth of the clearing, ash falling like memories.

Ash falling like slivers of silver, the moon itself peeling and pooling around them in piles of filth. It'd be pretty if it were snow. It'd be poetic if he weren't dying in front of one of his best friends, as she shouts and begs and breaks her own bones trying to get to him.

In the light, it's the same shade of grey as Ty's eyes.

"I'm sorry," Kit mutters again, tears beginning to bead his own.

(Ty, he thinks, with a regret as deep as the ocean itself. Ty, whom he's loved for so long he can't imagine stopping; Ty, whom he would have followed anywhere; Ty, whom he failed.)

(Ty, who resented him and hated him and forgave him; Ty, who calls him Watson without the easy familiarity of their time in the Institute, but still pronounces it like the title belongs only to Kit, reluctant though it may be.)

(Ty, who will still choose Livvy. Kit, who can't blame him, who has come to expect it, who's learning to understand that he can't save him.)

(Kit can pay the consequences for Ty's choices, the same way he would the ones of his own. But he can't stop him. He can love him, but the truth is that maybe he'll never have him.)

(He can love and be loved by him, and understand that Ty will burn the world down for a chance to see Livvy's smile even once.)

(Kit was right to stop him. He was wrong to help him. Even if he understood the why.)

(Now, though, he wonders what he'd do if it was Mina he lost. Tessa. Jem.)

(Ash.)

(He wonders what atrocities he'd commit, what rules he'd break.)

(He thinks he'd shatter through them all. He thinks nobody would be able to save him, then.)

(And Kit thinks, staring at the spot where the smoke meets the sky, bronze as though to summon wicked powers, as though to rouse one last chance for rebirth—please don't kill yourself trying to save what can't be saved, Sherlock.)

(They'd miss you.)

(I'd miss you.)

(...Will you miss me?)

In the clearing, it's the body that plunges a hand into Ash's chest and squeezes his heart to pieces.

It used to belong to his friend, once, he thinks. It's hard to tell. Not because of the blood, no, nor because of the way he seems empty, drained, like someone sucked the life out of him.

It's because of how fragile he looks, crumpled onto his side, weak and small and looking distinctly like a child. Golden eyes have gone wide with fear and dull, duller than he's ever seen them, dull like...like death.

Kneeling before Janus's body, empty of the life it never lacked, even when it lacked almost everything else, Ash feels spectacularly screwed.

Screwed out of today, out of tomorrow, out of every day he's lived and every day he's to live.

Screwed by life itself, actually, because Janus was the one thing he'd ever truly had. The one thing he had left. The one thing he'd cherished.

And now he's a dried up, crimson-dyed husk, like a withered flower on the Seelie Court. Empty, dead and gone.

His hand is reaching for Phaesphoros even like this. His fingertips were centimeters away, really, close enough to brush the cool, familiar metal. Close enough his breath might have fogged up against the hilt. There's a metaphor there somewhere, certainly. A really good one, even.

Ash can't grasp it, though. He can't grasp a damn thing. Feathers tremble their way free from his mangled wings and fall into the pool of coagulating blood. Fall over the hole pierced straight through Janus's solar plexus. Fall and fall like Ash's tears don't.

All he can do is stare, hands sunk deep into the grass, like maybe it'll make this right. Like it'll make sense of it.

But Janus is still gone.

Ash can't touch him. Won't. If he does, he might crumble to dust before him. He might fade. It might end. It might be over.

(It already is. It already is. It has been for a while.)

(It has been for a long time.)

Drusilla has stopped screaming. Or maybe Ash can't hear her over the white noise that led him, staggering and possessed, to his knees before Janus. Maybe Tessa is wailing still, but he can't tell.

Maybe—

The clearing is shifting. Changing. Just a bit. Like the ground under them—him, under him, is moving just a bit.

Enough to draw his eyes away from Janus—his body, from Janus's body, fuck—and the sight a little further away.

Ash had been breathing before. Curious. He'd thought he hadn't, but he was wrong.

He was wrong, because he stops breathing now, when his eyes meet Kit's.

They're the same startling blue they were the first time Ash saw him in Faeri, commanding all of his attention with ease, even if Ash could disregard it just as simply. Glimmering with the same power, swirling with the same recognition.

Except they're wide this time, wet with tears and hazy with pain. His face is pale, lacking in all color, quivering with strain. He looks almost unrecognizable. Almost.

(As it is, Ash would recognize him blind, deaf, dead. He'd recognize him anywhere. Anywhere.)

The scorched dirt and grass around him are blackened with blood, reflecting the blue flames of magic Tessa is helplessly pressing into his stomach, around where Cortana is sticking out, though it doesn't seem to be doing much. Though it seems to be a last ditch effort, the kind Ash knows for a fact she has to try.

He looks ethereal, already half-gone, and still Ash can feel his presence buzz. So much more softly than usual, a whisper to his usual scream.

Ash can't describe the feeling that strikes him, then, can't think of a thing other than no.

"Ash," Kit gurgles, the sound wet and barely coherent, blood slipping from behind his teeth. His hand lifts and reaches toward Ash, bloodstained and shaky.

It's his right hand. His right hand. The currents between them, the ones that always pull them together, they whisper, thicken like they always do.

(Ash sees his Enkeli rune, over the slow jump of his pulse, because it's his right hand.)

And Ash, who can't get his feet under him, who isn't sure he'll ever be able to rise from this, isn't sure he'll ever be able to recover—

He crawls. Hands and knees in the dirt, in the grass, dragging over every burn, smearing blood over every place where Janus and Emma and Drusilla and Kit bled.

Over every place where someone he loved died.

When he reaches him, Ash doesn't know what he'll do. Attack him? Yell at him? Kill him?

(Crumble?)

He isn't sure of a thing, really, except that Tessa is crying and pleading fiercely with Kit, and that he can hear Jem and Drusilla speaking urgently, panickedly.

And that Kit is bleeding out, and he can feel it soaking his breeches as he crawls to his side, as he grabs that trembling hand and—

And holds, gently, gently, because his own tremble just as bad. Because he's too spent for rage. Because he doesn't want to hurt. Not Kit. Not Kit.

(He's lost too much to lose Kit.)

Kit looks at him with wide eyes, tears beginning to spill, and tries, wheezing and trembling, to speak. To say what he's broadcasted to the roots of this place, in his desperation.

(I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.)

"Stay alive," Ash says, his voice barely a croak, heavy with tears that won't fall and hollow with loss, with a violent grief.

(Kit's hand twitches in his, bloody palm against bloody palm, cuts against burns. And then his fingers curl around Ash's and tighten.)

Ash digs his stele out with useless hands and burns healing runes on every inch of Kit he can reach, every single one he can remember, until his hands tremble too harshly, until the runes are sloppy and fading and useless, until his sight is too blurry to make out a damn thing.

Until his body finally gives out, shoulder to shoulder with Kit, hands still curled tightly.

He hears voices. Panic. Pleading.

But he focuses only on Kit's breathing, slow and shallow, and his blood dripping.

And he says, heads almost knocking together on the grass—

"This is what I saw."

(Kit's breath hitches, for a moment. A terrifying moment. Ash thinks, for a moment, let me die if he does.)

(And then it evens out into laughter, the worst kind, and Ash thinks, stay, stay.)

(I ran, I walked, I crawled. So stay alive.)

(He can see the back of Janus's golden head. It looks nothing like Kit's. It looks nothing like he remembers.)

(Maybe that's a good thing. But not today. Not today.)

The world swims, crimson and blue, the grass under him gray with ashes.

How fitting. How very fitting.

The last thing Ash sees is Tiberius skidding to a stop at the mouth of the clearing, looking for all the world like the world has crashed down upon his head. The heron necklace dangles from his hand, crushed and charred, the pain of a thousand deaths in his eyes, tears running ceaselessly down his cheeks.

There is no Livia over his shoulder. There is no Livia at all.

(The grass withers under them, the trees groaning and creaking, the whispers dying.)

(There's power in death, maybe.)

(And as the flowers die and the earth sacrifices, Ash hears Kit's breath strengthen.)

The Blackthorn family immediately after the war, a summary:

In the immediate aftermath of the war, the Silent City is unusually crowded. Granted, it's perhaps too big to ever be actually crowded, but it's close enough.

People heal, people live, people die. Whatever the outcome, nephilim grieve. There's always someone to grieve. Always.

Some are luckier than others.

Mark and Helen hold a silent and faithful vigil by Aline’s bedside, the witchlight’s faint glow casting shadows over her pale, drawn face. Helen tracks every change frantically, eyelashes ever-shifting and eyes wide. She holds Aline’s hand in both of her own, tracing her marriage rune, whispering pleas that sound more like prayers.

In return, Mark holds her and says, she will come back to you. Just you wait. We always do.

(Ultimately, it’s as good as prophecy.)

Aline recovers swiftly and steadily, color returning to her cheeks and strength gentling back into her limbs. Her wounds begin to close, her bandages less and less bloody with every change, her skin growing warmer. As they wait anxiously, Cristina appears every hour, frowning and wan with concern, carrying news from the rest of the family.

Ty is distraught but iratzes have carried away all physical hurts they can find, although his cries are ceaseless. Dru’s fractures were severe but they are healing well; nevertheless, she waits impatiently for Julian to wake, for Aline to recover, for news about Ash and Kit. Emma is mostly healed, although not even Raziel himself could rouse her from Julian’s bedside, where she whispers all sorts of things to him, waiting hopefully for him to respond.

She even bears news of Tavvy, being cared for by Maryse in Cirenworth, along with the rest of the children. Although afraid for his siblings, he was safe and well, as Magnus could attest to, having dropped in on them as soon as he was able.

(The only person she has nothing to say about, no news and no comfort, is Kieran.)

(He had walked through the portal to the Faerilands after ensuring Aline and Julian made it to the Silent Brothers, with one last, lingering look at both Mark and Cristina, and they had yet to hear anything from him. Then again, he now had an entire country to run—he had his hands full enough.)

(Nevertheless, Mark and Cristina exchange sad, heavy looks. Their longing is strong, a wound that never softens and never scars, pulsing for their attention at all times. Reminding them that they can have Kieran, but only in increments, only in bursts. Nevermind that he’d have them forever and ever if he was able. Nevermind that they never want to leave his side, not for a moment.)

(Nevermind it at all.)

And then there’s the news about Julian.

Unconscious and boneless as tofu, he hung in the balance between life and death, running a fierce fever and breathing in patchy, awful heaves. Mark could see it in Cristina’s eyes, haunted and frightened; the truth of Julian’s precarious state. As she murmured, respecting the unspoken vow of gentle tones that the fear of the room seemed to carry, Mark could see it was taking everything in her to keep herself together, not only for herself, but for them. Because they needed her.

Mark yearned to sweep her into his arms and soothe her, to tell her not to carry their pains and focus on herself, for she was just as tired and just as scared. For she, too, had somebody whose return she hoped for breathlessly.

(But he’d promised Helen, and so he pressed a lingering kiss to her cheek, instead, sweeping her hair back and saying, I love you.)

(What more could he say, when love was his one absolute truth?)

She smiled at them, though, strained lines of exhaustion, and dropped a kiss to Mark’s hair and squeezed a hand to Helen’s wrist gently, promising to return soon.

As she went, Mark thought about Julian, his baby brother who never seemed small, who had gone and grown into something strong and insurmountable and hurt when Mark had been forced to go. And he thought of him on Helen’s back, pale and so very frail, delicate like paper as Mark took him into his arms, limp like a ragdoll.

He yearned to join Julian’s side and hold his hand, brush his hair back and sing him lullabies, even if they were off-key. Anything to give him the comfort he’d had to go without as a child who had grown up too soon.

Anything to soothe him just a bit, as he waited for him to come back, as he always, always did. Julian had never left them, not once, and surely he wouldn’t start now.

(That’d be beyond preposterous, after all, and what were they to do without him? A life without Julian was no life at all for the Blackthorns, Mark knew with utter certainty. A life without Julian would be a hell none of them would be able to endure.)

(If they lost Julian, Mark feared the truth that he knew—they’d all crumble to dust, and nothing would rouse them back up.)

(They had barely recovered from Livvy—if one could even call surviving by the very skin of their teeth recovery—and that’d been with Julian painstakingly pulling them together as he had since their father had died. Without him...)

(Mark banished the thought, and pulled further into his side, pressing a kiss to her temple.)

(Julian would come back to them, just like they would go back to him. They would all come back to each other, come back together. They always did.)

(Always.)

So they wait.

And Mark is right, in the end.

Aline comes awake with fluttering lashes and hazy eyes, hand twitching in Helen’s and already reaching for her clumsily before she’s even opened her mouth around her wife’s name. It’s alright, though, for Helen is just as quick to notice, tears dripping down her dirt-stained cheeks in furious lines as she draws Aline’s hands into her own, holding on like a prayer, like a lifeline.

Her entire body quivers with the force of her gratitude, her relief, love pouring out of her battered form in torrents. Her forehead presses against the lock of their hands, battle-weary knuckles and fingers against porcelain skin, and Mark hears the litany, too low for even nephilim ears, but not too low for him.

Aline must feel it, for her entire face softens, so immediately smudging into gentle adoration that Mark looks away.

He presses a kiss to Helen’s hair and gently detangles himself from her, saying, you’ll be okay.

He waits for her to nod, barely perceptible, and then nods at Aline, who looks at him with steady gratitude and the affection she holds for each and every one of the Blackthorns.

As he goes, he still hears Helen’s words, her quiet sobs.

(Hears her saying thank you, thank you, thank you.)

(You came back to me, you came back to me, thank you.)

In the room where Julian fights to stay with them, Dru pokes another iratze onto the bruised skin of her thigh.

Sat at the foot of his bed, where she can keep track of every move he makes, Dru has her leg spread out before her. It’s not nearly as grotesque as it was back at the clearing, bone poking through swollen flesh in bloody bursts, twisted at awful, odd angles. Quite like Ash’s wings had been as he staggered into the clearing, actually, blood dripping down in thick, ceaseless streams, feathers falling and cartilage scorched in more lines than she could count.

(The thought makes her heart drop to her feet, not for the first time today, tears pricking her eyes. She tries to swallow it all back into place, digging her stele in more harshly.)

(Crying won’t do anything for anyone right now. They need her to keep her cool. She needs to be patient.)

(Ash will probably be okay. He heals fast, faster than any of them, Kieran aside. This is nothing. It’s nothing.)

(The Silent Brothers have performed greater miracles than healing...whatever was wrong with him. They can fix this. They can fix him.)

(They have to.)

The humming from the bed distracts Dru enough for her to lift the stele and go back to playing with it instead of drawing iratzes. Emma.

Emma, who lays curled on her side beside Julian, holding his hand and counting every beat of his pulse, mouthing the numbers one by one. They keep her sane, Dru thinks, like the stele does Dru and the pleas to Helen. It’s something to hold onto.

It’s something.

The hums are gentle, tunes Julian has hummed to her and the rest of their siblings for years when they couldn’t sleep, tunes he must have hummed to Emma, too. Hoarse with tears and pitchy with exhaustion, but soothing, soothing enough that Dru bites her tongue against another wave of tears.

Emma brushes away bits of Julian’s hair, sticking to his bandages and skin with sweat, the move unspeakably tender.

She waits.

They all do.

(The humming and the soft weeping are the only sounds aside from Jules’s shallow pants.)

(Somehow, that makes it much, much worse.)

Ty sits against the side of the bed, a tight little ball of misery, clutching the heron necklace he’d worn on his neck for years in his hands still. It’s ruined, entirely beyond repair, and yet his grip is still careful, cherishing.

(He’d been crying when he walked through the door, Kit’s blood on his shirt and necklace in his hand. He still is every now and again, on and off, and nothing can console him. They’ve tried.)

(But it’s the same grief as when Livvy was gone, desperate and feverish and bone-deep, and so she does what she can, and leaves him be.)

(Not even Raziel himself could make him leave Julian right now, though, so he stays, and they let him, because they're family.)

Now, she does what she can and waits for her body to heal, for her brother to wake up, for Aline to recover, for Ash and Kit to pull through.

She has a life of waiting under her belt. Waiting for her mother to get better, even though she never does. Waiting for her tears to dry up the day she realizes her father won’t ever get up. Waiting for Mark and Helen to come back home. Waiting at home with Tavvy in her arms as her family fought a war.

And now, even though she’s the one fighting wars, even though she was in that clearing when the be-all-end-all battle came, she’s still stuck waiting.

(She’s still helpless.)

(She was helpless under the tree, too, even as she broke her own body trying to get out from under it. She was helpless to watch what Emma couldn’t see, a scream in her throat as she watched her run both Janus and Kit through. She was helpless to watch as Kit bled out, growing hazier and hazier to her, and then to watch as Tessa tried to keep him alive.)

(Haven’t we all lost enough, she thought as Ash fell to his side, limp and still and awfully pale.)

(When Jem got her out of the tree, she had seen the thought reflected in his eyes.)

Footsteps rouse them all, heads snapping up and around, and right there is Cristina, hand in hand with Mark. She’d left to get them something to eat, having returned with fruit and crackers, the most any of them will be able to stomach.

She’s been their pillar, once more, helping Dru move and keeping Ty hydrated with remarkable patience and rubbing soothing circles into Emma’s back. She whispered comforting nothings in Spanish, her voice an anchor, and waited with them, exposing herself to their pain in the hopes of easing it in the slightest bit.

Dru looked at her and saw nothing but family.

She looked at Mark looking at them, eyes taking in everything with pain, mouth thin with it. She watches as he steels himself, a mask of calm as fragile as Julian looks right now smoothing his face, determination hardening along his shoulders.

And then he squeezes Cristina’s hand and does what he has to.

(He coaxes Ty to eat, though how he does it in the end, Dru has no idea. The point is that he does it. It’s not much, more nibbling than anything, but it’s something.)

(He bargains, pleads, and then outright leverages Julian against Emma to get her to sit up and eat. How will she help him, take care of him, protect him, if she can’t keep herself healthy and strong? How will they protect their family?)

(Emma glares balefully, resentment in the line of her mouth and gratitude in the stubborn scrunch of her brows, and snatches her share of the crackers up.)

(Cristina smiles, bright and relieved, and Mark cracks a grin that’s all tremors.)

(They eat in silence, too heavy with fear, with the beginnings of grief, for speech.)

Aline is healing, Mark says, and Dru thinks, at least some of us are, blue eyes and black wings flashing behind her eyes.

(Truthfully, She has no idea if they’ll make it. Last time she saw them, Ash was being carried off by the Silent Brothers, Cortana still in his chest and hand loosening from around Ash's as he, too, was carried away.)

(Ash had looked vulnerable in a way Dru had thought impossible for him, face slack and body raw, crushed by a threat she had been unable to protect him from. She had sworn to herself she’d never let anyone harm her friends and family again, and yet, even after he’d chosen them, had turned against everything he’d ever known for them, she’d been unable to help.)

(Dru bites her tongue and thinks of something else.

(Kit had had color in his cheeks. There had been a certain life to his limbs, as the dead leaves fell over Cortana and stuck to it with the darkening blood. There had been, until they began placing runes on him, clarity in his eyes. More than there had been since he fell to the ground.)

(Dru is pretty sure it was a result of the clearing. Or, rather, what was left of it.)

(In the time it’d taken Jem to get her out from under the tree, right before the Silent Brothers arrived, Kit had done something. What, Dru didn’t know. Maybe she’d be better off asking Kieran. Maybe he’d have an explanation for what she saw.)

(Namely, the way the clearing had died around them.)

(Abruptly and without a warning, the trees had withered around them, the trunks hollowing out and darkening into thin, twisted things, as though a giant had sucked them dry. All the green had fled the grass and the bushes, leaving it gray and ugly, crumbling to ash between her fingertips. The flowers had crumbled to dust under the wind’s gentle blows.)

(And Kit had inhaled, the first real breath since Cortana cut through him, and the whole clearing settled into darkness. Something in it, something she hadn’t noticed was magic, left. Died.)

(And Kit was better for it, looking far more liable to stay alive than he did ten seconds ago, among the empty husks and the ash of what it took.)

(Dru knew that, if it kept Kit alive, she'd burn a dozen clearings down.)

(If it kept Ash and Kit and Julian alive, she’d burn it all down herself.)

(Just please, she thought, staring at Julian, pale like Kit had been as he bled out in front of her, fragile and small as Ash had looked. She was helpless. Please don't take anything else from me.)

Mark wraps an arm around her, firm and reassuring, and looks at her with steady eyes that almost hide the fear and the pain.

We will be alright, he says, with utter certainty. Like Kieran speaks. Simply and softly, though not necessarily kindly.

Mark sounds kind, though. Mark always sounds kind.

And Dru chooses to believe him, because he’s just as afraid as she is, and leans into him.

(Julian wakes up the next morning, embracing all of them with trembling arms, holding them to his chest like he can ensure they never come to any harm ever again that way.)

(His eyes are unsteady, unfocused, but as he squeezes Dru and positively crushes Ty into himself, letting him cry into his neck for as long as he can bear, she thinks, welcome back.)

(As Emma laughs tearily into his back, Mark nuzzling into Julian’s shoulder, Cristina having ran to tell Helen, Dru thinks.)

(She wonders about Kit through her violent relief. Wonders if Tessa is waiting by his bedside, humming like Emma had been; if Jem had sat by him like Mark, staring at Julian like a hawk, refusing sleep until Julian's eyes began to shift behind his lids.)

(If, just maybe, she's another one of the grieving, wailing people who have lost something irreplaceable.)

(Wonders about Ash, knowing he has no one to be by his side, no one to fret over him and hold their breath with every shift he gives, hoping, hoping—)

(He’ll have them. He will. He already has Dru and Kit. They’ll work something out, they always do.)

(All he has to do is survive.)

(Both of them. Survive.)

(She hopes against hope that she doesn't lose them, too.)

(She hopes and hopes and hopes, for Ash and for Kit and for herself.)

(It's all she can do.)

Jem returns Cortana to Emma five hours later, his face drawn with exhaustion and a terror so raw Dru remembers what it feels like in her chest. The terror of losing family.

The terror of uncertainty.

“It’s not your fault,” he assures Emma quietly when she tries to explain, tries to apologize. “Kit is a Herondale. We’d have better luck trying to stop the sun from going down than trying to stop any of them.”

“Will he be okay?” Dru asks into the silence that follows, wanting to wipe the fond melancholy that’s always just on the wrong side of agony on Jem’s face.

Her answer is the way it falls further, even as his eyes blaze. “They are unsure. But Tessa isn’t. She’s absolutely certain he’ll be okay.”

“And you?” Emma asks.

Here, Jem smiles. Not very glad, not very wide, but fierce and knowing, hope so strong it burns. “He’ll survive. We always do.”

Dru believes him.

She has to.

(She asks him about Ash, before he goes. She expects apologetic silence, maybe a promise to find out, because she doubts he’s inquired about it.)

(Instead, something softens in his face, and he says, “They’re keeping him asleep. It’ll help him heal. With time, he’ll recover. Both of them will.”)

(She can’t stop her tears this time, lapping them up with her sleeves, but when he gently squeezes her shoulder in comfort, she can’t bring herself to feel anything but relief.)

(We’ll be okay. We will.)

(We have to be.)

The Carstairs take Ash in during the immediate aftermath of the war.

It's not entirely purposeful, initially.

After the clearing, it takes Ash four days to wake up.

The Silent Brothers keep him knocked out via Sleep runes, in a sort of magical medical coma.

(They tell Jem it's to speed up his recovery. That, as far as they know, it's the simplest way for Ash's body to cope with the damage and mend, given the extent of the abuse it underwent. That it would help his unique physiology kick in, surely, given that he seemed to heal at an accelerated rate; something the iron had impeded. Something Jem does not doubt they will file away for future reference, were Ash to become troublesome.)

(In truth, Jem was a Silent Brother and a nephilim long enough to know that Ash's unconscious state is a lot less about them wanting him to heal swiftly and a lot more about them being wary of him.)

(He can't fault them for that. He himself hardly knows what Ash will do when he wakes up and realizes that he chose their side, when he had no real reason to, and lost it all in one fell swoop in return.)

(Just because it was the right thing to do doesn't mean it didn't cost Ash everything he cared about. That was a big loss to ask a teenager to cope with. Especially one such as Ash.)

(Briefly, Jem entertains telling Alec of the matter, seeing as he's the head of the Clave in its totality now. If anybody can sway the will of the Silent Brothers, it is him, however mildly.)

(He discards the thought just as quickly.)

(Sleep is a mercy for someone who will wake up to his world torn to pieces. Ash will wake up to mourning runes upon white cloth and funerals and ash. He will wake up to loss, heavy and long. He will wake up alone.)

(Better he sleeps for as long as he can, before he inevitably has to face the wounds war has left behind.)

(So Jem asks to be notified when he wakes—I will answer for him, he says, just as he did with Kit—and goes back to his equally unconscious son.)

(Kit's sleep has little to do with runes, and plenty to do with the fact that he'd drained every drop of energy he had left turning the tide of the war time and time again, with little to no rest. Taking out whole fields, going into Faeri time and time again, getting hunted through Idris and chased through way too many places to count them.)

(He'd used his abilities more in the past days than he had in all his years with them. That took a toll. An enormous one, in fact, particularly because Kit had forced himself into some semblance of control and dipped his toes into the true well of his power. He had soon found himself drowning in it.)

(And now here they were, Tessa and Jem, watching over their son as he recovered from the depth of his power. There was color in his cheeks now, blooming fast and steady, and his breathing came easy and smooth.)

(Nevertheless, he was much too still. Nevertheless, he gave no signs of waking. Nevertheless, his healing fluctuated.)

(They didn't know when he'd wake up. If he'd wake up.)

(The things he'd done, how he'd done them—opening Pandora's box without a rope to hold him had cost him. He hung in the balance now, somewhere where they could not help him.)

(But Tessa knew that he'd wake, with a mother's fierce heart, and Jem believed he would see Kit smile again, with a father's ferocious certainty.)

(And so they sat and they waited, watching Kit's veins run pale and bright occasionally, watching as he became something other, even more so than he'd already been.)

(Watching as he accepted it.)

(There was power in his veins, the likes of which nobody matched and the likes of which nobody should have. Kit did not want it. He did not like it.)

(But he would come back to them, even if it meant accepting that he was the last of the First Heir, and he would live only with her power pumping through his heart.)

(Jem thinks back to how the clearing had withered around them, the finality of it, and tells Tessa that Kit has already accepted what he is.)

(Tessa smiles and says, now comes the who, doesn't it?)

The first thing Ash notices upon waking is that he's not in the Faerilands.

In Faeri, the air is crisp and pleasant, carrying with it a sweet scent and a lofty cheer. There's flowers and spice in it, traces of nostalgia in the butterscotch and the roses, the pine needles and the earthy trails no common nose could catch. The power of the land has a scent, the most enticing swirls of color to it, the kind of wondrous curses that thickened in the Unseelie Court.

It's idyllic, almost, though Ash knows better. No thing in Faeri, no matter how lovely, was ever without its thorns. Never without its harm.

(Not even Kit was exempt from that.)

Even so, it's much like the air high up in the clouds; fresh and addictive. It's thin and cold and roiling in his lungs, the illusionary press of freedom, and it's like yin fen to the caged. It's the thing that almost led Ash away astray more than once.

(It's the thing he'd most wanted to show Janus, once upon a time. The thing he had gotten to show Drusilla, watching condensation thicken in her blue-streaked hair and her long lashes as she clung to him, casting trembling shadows over the vivacious wonder in her ocean eyes.)

(The stars had reflected in them, giving new shape to all the constellations Janus had told him about, and for a moment, Ash thought, how beautiful.)

But the air here is damp and heavy, pushing down on him like rocks, a burden as heavy as any crushing his lungs. It gives Ash the impression he might be in a cave, filled with the beginnings of mold and the tepid scent of parchment. He has a moment to wrinkle his nose and try to hide it in the pillow he's laying on, sheets scratchy and stiff, before he catches the ashy smell of ancient bones, so pungent it almost cloaks the faint scent of blood. So domineering that Ash can almost outrun the overpowering tang of iron before it burns through his nose.

And then he gags on it, struck like a knife to the throat.

That wakes him up.

He's up and crouched by the bed in a snap second, hand reaching for a sword that isn't there and touching instead raw, rubbery material where feathers out to be. Which is more alarming still, because his wings aren't supposed to be up there.

Ash hesitantly, slowly touches along the arch of the bones, finding them set and stiff with a material he can't recognize. They're no longer crooked and mangled, no longer oozing and raw, but he can feel how they've been forced into a semblance of their usual, proper shape against their current will, with varied results. He can feel the thick bandages and the places where runes did not suffice.

Memories come back to him in sharp, swift bursts. The pungent scent of iron and burnt flesh. Tiberius and his inclement gaze. Tessa and Jem and their ferocious will. Power strong enough to knock the breath from his lungs. Ash and scorched grass. Blood and gold, Cortana the blade of mercy and—

And Janus, golden gaze hollow and mouth coagulating with red. His entire body pooled in it, really, a body that had been so imposing now drained and small, fragile as porcelain. His fingers, graceful musician's fingers even with all their scars and violence, had curled with longing, so very close to Phaesphoros. All of him had curved with desperation, the very same one that roared within Ash.

All of Janus had curved and stiffened into something other than what he had been, because he was gone.

There's a clatter, steel on steel against rock, against skin, and there's sensation in Ash's ankle, sharp and strange. Tender and yielding, like the bone has somehow softened while he slept. He looks down at it, uncomprehending, and finds more bandages, vigid bruises peeking out from under them.

(Iron. Iratzes never work quite as well as they ought to on him when it's iron.)

There are chains, too. Manacles wrap tightly around both his ankles, loose enough to allow for the breathing of his bandages and yet still uncomfortably close to his skin. They're not iron, that much he knows; he'd know if they were. But they're certainly something, because when he tugs, reflexive and utterly dispassionate, there's resistance that only comes with a power. They're tied around the foot of the bed, pooling on the stone floor in glimmering coils.

(He has a moment to be overcome with bitterness, because he's caged and at someone else's command even amongst the so-called "good guys.")

(It had sounded right on Drusilla's tongue, eyes burning with certainty as she told Ash that he'd become one of the bad guys if he didn't choose to do the right thing for himself at some point.)

(But Ash is still Ash, no matter what he does, no matter where he goes. The Queen's son. A Morgenstern. A weapon. A prisoner.)

(A thing.)

Warmth, thick and strange, pools between his toes and under his soles as the silence blurs into white noise, his surroundings blurring in and out of focus. Try as he might, Ash can't keep himself aware, can't keep himself focused. All he can do is look down at his feet and try to see anything but bloody bodies in a clearing, blond hair and golden eyes and a rune over a quivering, too-slow pulse.

Ash nudges half a step forward, desperate to put distance between himself and the way Kit had said his name like a plea, the way Janus had looked so miserable, and feels vaguely surprised as he realizes there's more than chains by his feet.

There are blades, their blades—his blades, which must have been resting against the bed before Ash jostled them and sent them clattering toward the floor. He's managed to make a mess of them, too, stepping on their sharp edges, blackened steel growing slick and shiny with blood.

That doesn't make much sense. In fact, nothing makes much sense at all.

(He keeps seeing golden eyes, hollow and staring up into the sky with a look of distinct anguish, preserved in eternum in death.)

(He keeps thinking, what have I done. Where have you gone.)

(Don't leave me.)

(Still, it's too late, and he's alone now as he was before Janus came along.)

(He's alone as he always will be.)

He picks the swords up, mechanical and easy, and cradles them to his chest like the most precious of babes. He can feel their edges sinking softly into his sweater, not quite cutting through but just close enough; he can feel the blood seeping through the fabric, warming uncomfortably against his skin.

(He can feel the phantom of Janus's blood under his knees and against his knuckles. It'd been hot against the grass, thick and dark, growing gelatinous with time.)

(How long had he been dead before Ash arrived?)

(Had he suffered?)

(Had he been afraid? Had he screamed and wailed? Begged and pleaded? Fought until the very last second? Remained silent and spiteful to the bitter end?)

(Had he said something before he died? Anything? What had his last words been?)

(Had he thought of Ash when he realized he wouldn't survive? Had he found it in himself to care?)

(Had he found it in himself to want to see him one last time?)

(Fuck.)

Ash sinks into the bed with clumsy steps backwards, the back of his knees clattering against the wooden frame harshly. All his usual grace has deserted him, leaving him with leaden bones and thick, coagulating blood.

He feels heavy as rocks as he collapses onto the thin mattress. The hilts knock together with a sharp, awful sound, his feet sliding harshly against the stone floors, scuffing slick with blood.

Ash has never felt heavier. He's never felt stranger. He's never felt weaker.

He's never felt more helpless or more alone.

His wings are broken and charred and he's grounded, trapped. Chained. His back is burnt and oozing into the bandages tightening around his torso, healing at a rate that was much too slow for one such as him. His ankle is a mess, raised welts and burning indents tightening into skin, bruises darkening the flesh.

Ash's body is one big, heaving wound. It's a rotten mess.

He is a rotten mess, and not a particularly interesting one, either. He's as unsightly as they come, and he can't even bring himself to care, staring down at his blood on the stone floor and trying to blink away Janus's body on it.

It was grass. Grass. Not stone. This wasn't real. Ash's mind was playing tricks on him. Preying on his weakness, on his vulnerability, like everyone had for as long as he'd been alive. It had been grass and it had been greying with ash and blackening with charring and blood. It had looked nothing like stone.

It had looked like the vague memory of his throat getting cut open felt. Hazy and sharp all at once, brutally painful and yet wholly numb. It'd felt like having iron injected straight into his veins, burning him from the inside out in one cool, ruthless go.

His eyes had been so, so empty. The molten gold of them had gone queasy and flat, utterly dull, utterly hollow. They'd never looked so empty. Not even at his worst.

(Ash wonders which of the two he hates most. The way Janus's face had been frozen in misery even in death, or the way his eyes, which had been Ash's sole anchor for so long, had filmed over like the eyes of so many others.)

(He thinks he doesn't want to answer that question.)

(Not ever.)

(But he does know the answer.)

(The answer is both and neither.)

(The answer is that the worst bit had been the utter silence of him.)

(No measured, poignant breaths, a pattern like that of a warrior or a dancer. No heartbeat, over-fast with angel blood and yet still easy somehow, still graceful, even in the face of death.)

(No nothing.)

(Just ugly, empty silence.)

(The same silence there is now, in the City of Bones and its aptly named silent halls.)

(He can't hear anything. Not even his own breaths. Not even his own heartbeat. Nothing beyond the very slow drip of his blood down his skin, beyond the gentlest of hums of Heosphoros against him.)

(Nothing but the roar of his grief.)

When he was finally free of his father's grasp, hand-shaped bruises that went unseen on his pale skin, for they were invisible even to himself, Ash had thought, now I can go back home.

He hadn't stopped to think that home was a concept that'd fall dismally short from what he remembered, what he imagined. Home was an empty house and a piano that went untouched, collecting dust, and jokes that fell rather flat time and time again. Nobody picked those up, either.

Home was the silence of Janus's absence and the silence of his presence, too. The hollow where Sebastian and Thule had taken something with their blood-red fury and their poisonous fog, leaving Janus burst open and only sewn half shut, so that everything that was carried in inevitably slipped out.

Home was the reminder that no matter what Ash did, he could not fix the harm that had already been done. He could love Janus, and be loved by him in turn, fiercely and without a moment's doubt. But he could not fix the broken mirror that reflected them.

(He could not save Janus, just like nobody had saved him.)

When they'd left Thule, Ash had had everything he'd ever needed. He'd had a friend, somebody to love him as he loved them, and a home, and his wings, and he'd had the swords and he'd had hope.

(Hope so bright and so strong it'd left blisters along his skin. They popped with every tiny, silly little disillusion. And then they cracked and bled with every loss.)

(And now they're scarred over, raised bumps all over his flesh, with failure and desolation.)

When he came back to Faeri, he'd had his mother and he'd had Janus and he'd had a home. He'd had someplace, someone, to call his own.

He'd had all he'd ever wanted right in the palm of his hand.

But now he's got nothing and no one. Only broken wings and burnt marks criss-crossing his flesh, cold like Janus's body. Cold like his eyes.

All he's got are two swords that belong to him because of his name and nothing else, and this is it. This is his legacy.

This is all he has left in the world.

(It startles a laugh out of him, a sound like the gurgling of a dying animal.)

(It sounds like Kit choking on his own blood, and that makes Ash choke on his own tongue and a sound that's a bit more like a sob.)

Ash crushes the swords to himself, hardly feeling them as they cut, as they sink deep. He doesn't care.

What has he done? What has he lost for it? He doesn't know. He doesn't know anything. He isn't sure he ever has.

All he knows is that Janus, Ash's some compass, is dead and so is his mother, who had cared for him and who hadn't, but who had still been his mother. His family, whatever crumbling illusion of it there even was, is gone. And they'll never come back.

The Queen is gone and Janus is gone and that the world isn't his, because Ash didn't want it. He never did.

Fuck, he hadn't wanted the world. He'd just wanted Janus. And Janus wanted to give him the world. Janus wanted him to be a conqueror. And so Ash had wanted that, too.

Ash had wanted everything Janus had wanted. Mostly, to stay with him forever.

And now that was never going to happen.

Ash is so focused on the way the swords begin to sink into him, like comfort, on the way he's drowning, that he almost doesn't notice when the door bursts open.

Which is a little alarming, because it's wrenched open, slamming against the stone walls and bouncing off it so harshly that it almost hits the intruder.

Some instinct, ingrained in him with fist and knife, sends his fingers twitching into a grasp around the blades in his hands. His head shoots up, teeth already bared, eyes glowering up at the threat.

Ash feels positively lethal with the sudden and fierce rage that bursts aflame within him, turning his bones to kindle at once. Right now, he could swallow the sun raw and let its fire slide down his tongue and upon the earth.

But as his lips curl back over his sharp teeth, as the fury simmers and builds, dyeing his vision Thule red, like it'd been on the battlefield—there's blue.

Bright, brilliant blue, sky blue, the blue he was denied for so many years that he all but forgot it. Hazy like a head injury and cloudy with pain, so that it almost looks grey, but even so, it washes over Ash until the anger is gone in a cloud of smoke. He feels boneless in its absence.

Not more boneless than Kit, though, who doesn't stand in the doorway so much as he splatters against it.

His knees look rather shaky, clanking together softly, like they can barely hold his weight. His fingers clench around the door, white-knuckled and stiff. He looks awfully pale and awfully drowsy as well, eyes hooded and droopy; it's strange to see his concentration flicker, when his gaze is usually one of single-minded, fierce focus.

(Part of it is faerie in nature. Ash is sure of it. But some of it is just Kit and who he is, plain and simple.)

(Ash feels all the more unbalanced to have that tiny little rug yanked out of him, too.)

"Ash," he breathes, winded and looking sick with relief nonetheless. "There you are."

Ash doesn't say anything. He tries. At least he thinks he does. But something has died and fossilized in his throat, leaving its last breath perched on his tongue light a weight, and the only thing that comes out is a sound that is mortifyingly similar to a whimper.

And then the blood from his hands begins to drip and pool on his lap.

Kit jerks, a full-body thing, his eyes following the current. He looks terribly alarmed, enough that Ash thinks his scent would have gone harsh with char and vitriol, had he been able to smell anything past the remants of iron and the torrents of blood.

(As it is, all his senses are dulled by the fuzziness clinging to his limbs. By the white noise that began shutting the world down when he saw Janus.)

Ash watches as Kit forces himself forth on trembling, halting steps, panting and trembling and sweating like he's running a fever all the while.

There's a bandage around his neck. Ash vaguely remembers the cut, sharp and surprisingly deep and surprisingly straight, but he thinks it should have healed by now. Iratzes. Amissios. Sangliers. There are ways.

But still, the bandage. The bandage and the hand pressing gingerly against his stomach, where there used to be a sword. The hand that's healed, maybe the only part of him that is.

(Kit looks ill. On death's door, really. Like a strong wind could knock him over and keep him down permanently.)

(It doesn't take a genius to figure out the myriad of reasons why that might be. It also doesn't take a genius to figure out he should be in bed, resting.)

(Ash can't help but wonder, what the hell are you doing here?)

"Sorry about the radio silence," Kit mutters into the void, voice breaking with exhaustion in odd spots. "They wouldn't tell me where you were, and they wouldn't let mom and dad tell me either, and I haven't been awake for long."

Ash says nothing. What is there to say? What is there left here?

(There's nothing but grief, Ash thinks. Nothing but the things they had to do and what it cost them.)

Kit doesn't make it across the room so much as he lurches through it. He doesn't crouch down so much as he collapses by Ash's feet, without a care in the world, even as he half sits and half kneels on bloody stones. He winces against what it must do to his wounds, leaning his body against Ash's leg mindlessly, the barrier between them buzzing strangely and unsteadily even as it painstakingly gives.

(Kit's magic must be disturbed. Unsettled. He did, after all, open the door to powers as of yet unexplored. Not to mention the frankly ridiculous amount of near death experiences.)

(And maybe, just maybe, Ash's magic was simmering all over the place, too.)

"It took a while to sneak out without them noticing, and then I had to actually find you," Kit continues, patting around his body for his stele and frowning down at the chains like they’ve wronged him. "That was the easy part. Finding you is always the easy part."

He unearths the stele from a pocket with a pleased sound and begins pawing at the manacles around Ash's feet, drawing shaky runes upon them until they clang open and clatter to the floor. The relief is immediate and intense. Dizzying.

Terrifying.

Kit looks up at him once Ash has been rid of both his chains, smiling wide and crooked, something that blurs into something lazy with exhaustion as his stele clatters out of his hand and rolls to a stop against Ash’s foot. His mouth is pale, lips cracked and chapped, even though his cheeks are blazing, hair sticking to his forehead oddly. His eyes are fully shut now, body beginning to tilt fully into Ash, like he might be falling asleep against him, now that his mission is complete. His breath doesn’t even out, not nearly, labored and shallow with pain, but it does ease some.

He looks a bit like he's gazing up at the sun, open and drained. He looks oddly content.

He looks safe, calm. Trusting.

It makes something inside Ash shatter like a fist around glass.

"Christopher," he croaks, shaky and small, and he thinks that says everything.

(It has to. It has to. Ash has no other words to give.)

And it does. At least Ash thinks so. Because Kit stills, a pointed difference that sinks into Ash’s body, and then slowly blinks blue eyes open, tipping his head into Ash’s thighs like a question.

The haze in Kit’s eyes clears rather abruptly, all the clouds chased away by the awareness that usually permeates them, until there’s only a serious stillness to him. The pain does not leave. Ash isn’t sure it can. But it’s shoved aside in favor of something deep and firm and knowing, something Ash has seen in his eyes a thousand times and then some.

(It’s the same recognition, the same bone-deep awareness, like Ash is both something particularly fascinating and something Kit knows most everything about. It used to be eerie, especially because Ash had the vague impression he looked at Kit in much the same way.)

(Now, though, it’s comforting in a way that’s like a fist around broken bones.)

Kit’s brows furrow, deepening into a frown. Concern, Ash thinks. Concern. One so deep it casts shadows over his face, sinks teeth into his lip and sorrow over the bruises under his eyes.

His eyes sting. His hands shake around the blades, or maybe his body does, because they clink together in awful bursts.

(Ash feels, abruptly, like he’s a child with a knife to his throat again. Like he’s a child getting dragged through a portal and into Thule’s wombs, into Sebastian’s claws. Like he’s a child getting dragged through the mud of the lives of everyone who’s tried to use him.)

(He feels weak and small, and he’s fairly convinced that he is.)

Kit must see it, like he sees so much about Ash, because his face twists into something distinctly mournful. Sad and pained and guilty, though not quite regretful. Just lost. Just drained.

Just helpless.

He blinks rapidly, mouth opening and closing time and time away, face screwing up horribly, until finally all he says is, “I’m sorry.”

Just that. Just that, once or twice or thrice, or maybe so many times Ash looks count.

Kit turns his head into the inside of Ash’s thigh, not to hide but to nudge in comfort, and says, “I’m sorry.”

(He’s kneeling, Ash realizes with a pang. Only halfway, and surely he can’t know what it means, surely—)

(But the next nudge is deliberate.)

(Kit always knows the things about Faerie that nobody else does. And he knows how fae apologize, too.)

Ash makes a sound that isn’t even human. Something so raw and small it sounds animal in its vulnerability. It starts out a sniffle and gets lost in a sob and a whimper, until all he’s got left is his stinging eyes and his aching, tight throat.

“What am I supposed to do now?” Ash whispers, feeling his mouth quiver around the words. He sounds gutted. He feels it, too.

Kit looks devastated, small and broken as he looks up at Ash. Utterly lost. Like he has no clue what to say. Like there aren’t enough words in the universe.

There’s the bandage on his neck. Janus did that. Janus did so much of this.

And Ash let him. And now he’s lost him.

And still, Kit is here.

(What are you doing here, he wants to ask. What are you doing here with me.)

Ash ducks his head, scrunching his eyes shut, hiding away from Kit. The one thing he’s never done.

(There’s a sharp inhale and then a pained breath, Kit stiffening and shifting, pressing a hand against his solar plexus. Where the sword…)

(God.)

There’s silence, then, as Ash tries to ignore the wetness on his face and his hands, drying into something stiff on his lap. As he tries to sink back into the pain, because it’d hurt less.

“I saw Dru on the way here,” Kit says suddenly, quietly. Ash stills.

“She yelled at me for being out of bed, because apparently I look like death, but she guessed I was trying to find you pretty quick. She gave me the info she’d collected on her own, since nobody but Jem told her anything. She asked me to tell you this—thank you.”

Ash’s breath is knocked out of him, like the words are a blow to the lungs. His eyes snap open, falling upon Kit’s. The gaze that greets him is patient. Serene.

Honest.

“She cares about you, Ash,” Kit murmurs. “More than you know. Emma asked about you, too. And Ty. He seemed really worried. I could hear Jem and Tessa talking about you while I slept, too. They’ve been keeping tabs. They’ve been worried.”

“Christopher—”

“They’re all thankful,” Kit cuts in, completely ignoring Ash. “I mean, sure, they’re all wary. But they want to know you. Clary wants to know you.”

“Clary?” Ash whispers, voice quivering with something that can only be hope.

“Clary,” Kit confirms, with a crooked half-smile. “She’s not the only one.”

Ash opens his mouth, trying to gather words, trying to respond. But there’s nothing. He has no idea what to say. He isn’t sure there is anything to say.

(Clary wants to know him. Clary Fairchild, who went against his father, who killed him, who has fought tooth and nail to create the world they have now, wants to know Ash. Even though he’s his father’s son. Even though he was—is—Janus's.)

(She wants to know him.)

There’s a heartbeat. Soft and slow, like a lullaby. Languid and pleasant, soothing, the rhythmic swirling of honey of it gentle like balm. Kit’s heartbeat.

(The white noise has faded, just enough that the world begins to filter back in. Just enough that Ash can hear the way Kit’s breath is stilted, but that it’ll grow steadier.)

Kit is alive. He’s here. He’s here.

He’s here, features softening into something familiar and heart-wrenching, something vulnerable and welcoming. His eyes are warm and fond, open in a way they’ve never gotten the chance to be.

(There’s flecks of amber there. Ash doesn’t remember those being there before. He doesn’t think they were.)

(He doesn’t think the thin ring of gold around Kit’s pupil used to be there, either.)

His hand comes up, wrapping around one of Ash’s, around Phaesphoros’s blade, even as it bites into his fingertips. It isn’t a tug. Just gentle pressure.

“You come home, Ash,” he says, brutally soft, brutally honest. “That’s what you’re supposed to do. You come home.”

Ash holds the swords to his chest, feeling where they nick his arms where his armor is no longer there, and says, sounding hoarse and smaller than he has ever felt: "I have no home."

Kit looks at him steadily, unsurprised and undeterred, like it's never really occurred to him to shy away from Ash and his pain. Like he can't entirely fathom leaving him. And slowly, deliberately, he presses a hand to Ash's wrist, pushing through the pressure with still fingers, their tips falling easily over his Enkeli, over his quick pulse. The hand around Ash’s, around Phaesphoros, clenches and tugs ever so gently. Warm, fresh blood spills over Ash’s knuckles.

But Kit’s face is set, frown deep and defiant, eyes soft and reassuring.

"You have me instead," he says with utter, unflappable certainty, just as Ash once said he is mine.

(Like he believes it, and that makes it somehow alright.)

Ash feels his expression blow right open, into something raw and distinctly painful, something as big as the weight of that realization and as small as Ash feels right now, with the remnants of the world crashing down on him. It’s crushing him down to nothing, grinding him down to dust.

But Kit is looking at this dust, same as Drusilla did when she told him he was more than just a fancy sword and a cursed name, and saying hm, what can we make of this? I think this would make a nice home.

“Christopher,” Ash sobs, the only word he still knows how to say, feeling the wetness finally avalanche down his face, feeling distinctly childish and just a bit okay with that.

Kit nods like he understands, like it makes sense. The gold in his eyes is sunlight on his sky blues. His voice is soft. “Let’s go home, Ash.”

Ash nods, blubbering quietly, and this time, when Kit tugs, Ash lets go.

(The swords clatter down with the awful sound Ash dreads more than anything, the one that makes him seize and tremble and curl in on himself, because it sounds final. He feels scraped raw and bloody with it, empty hand twitching and dripping, making a mess of them both.)

(But Kit just pulls at the place where he squeezes around Ash’s pulse, at the hand where there used to be the weight of the ghost of a legacy, and pulls Ash down. Ash lets him.)

(The pressure between them is thick as ever and maybe harsher, stealing away Ash’s hearing for the moments it takes for it to yield. It settles over them like a heavy quilt when Ash falls into Kit, aggressively warm and familiar, prickling at his skin with it. It feels like waves over his skin, roiling and raging, mournful and comforting.)

(He doesn’t think they’ve ever touched this much. It seems unlikely. It seems unlikely that Ash has ever been held like this, actually, hidden away by all of Kit’s limbs, cradled fiercely. It’s odd in the ways everything about Kit is odd.)

(But it’s not bad.)

(It's not bad at all.)

(Kit must find his stele again, because he scrawls iratzes along the line of Ash’s neck, cuts closing swiftly into tender lines of sensation. Then the stele clatters to the ground again, and the hand that had been holding it settles in the middle of Ash’s back, mindful of the mess of his wings. And Kit sits back and stays.)

(Ash cries into Kit’s collarbone, listening to the slow crawl of his pulse beat through his own bones like a physical ache, and lets himself be held.)

(And he thinks of the Blackthorns asking after him and Clary wanting to know him still and Kit, and figures that maybe he’s got more left than swords and grief.)

(When Jem and Tessa finally find Kit, frazzled and just about ready to start pulling all the tracking runes and magic, they heave a sigh of relief in the doorway. Then exhale in alarm at the blood on the floor and the bedsheets, the chains.)

(And then they see Kit and Ash, sound asleep in front of each other in the bed, and relax. There’s blood crusting on their arms, their clothes. They both look like they need a lot more rest, and about a dozen more iratzes. Ash looks like he’s been crying. He looks completely lost and drained, even in sleep.)

(But they’re asleep and they’re together, and that’s something.)

(They’ll be alright, Tessa says, leaning back into Jem, intertwining their fingers over her waist.)

(The bedroom across from Kit’s would do nicely, Jem says as a form of agreement, kissing her temple.)

121 notes · View notes

missgeniality · 3 years

Text

Opaline Moon (m)

“The Moon can never breathe, but it can take our breath away with the beauty of its cold, arid orb.” - Munia Khan

➺ Banner: @hobiandsprite 💕

➺ Pairing: Seokjin x Female Reader

➺ Trope: Friends to Lovers, Idol!AU

➺ Genre: Angst, Smut, Fluff

➺ Rating: 18+

➺ Word Count: 11.2k

➺ Summary: You are ingrained to love Jin, right upto the blood that courses through your veins. Confessing, however, is a whole other game. So it’s a good thing you’re bad at keeping your hands to yourself, because happenstance can handle the rest.

➺ Warnings: talks about dance floor fucking, making out in the bar bathroom, fingering, pussy slapping, passing out drunk, daydreams about thigh riding, reader masturbates, they make out A LOT, neck kissing, a hickey, nipple play, some biting, cum eating (kind of, you’ll see), blowjob, protected sex!, reader and jin are corny, the hurt is real but the sex is real-er

➺ Author’s Note: My lovely, lovely moots - @taegularities, @kithtaehyung and @baepsaetan, thank you so much for betaing this and hyping it up, your comments made this fic a hundred times better! As I mentioned on the teaser, this fic took a lot out of me, but I thoroughly enjoyed writing the angst and will write more whenever the story aligns! I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I did writing, and I hope this lovable Jin reaches your heart! (ngl, in usual fashion, I will come back and edit it again, so if you see a spelling mistake, your eyes are lying to you) Do let me know what you think, your asks and comments make my day!

This is the second part of my Dress Down series, find more at it’s masterlist!

ɴᴀᴠɪɢᴀᴛɪᴏɴ | ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

Sweltering heat. Blaring traffic. Little to no sleep. Through all things wrong, one man’s thoughts wrapped around you like a cooling breeze, a shield to protect you from the vicissitudes of reality, to draw you back into all of him. Unfortunately, your reality may never see that day come to light.

Kim Seokjin.

Kim Seokjin, the man who cooked you up a greasy break-up meal at three in the morning with not a sight of discomfort, putting your needs above all.

Kim Seokjin, whose puns make you roll your eyes heavenward, half awed at how he manages to pull one out of his collection at a moment's notice, and half irked by the untimely laugh it brings out of you.

Kim Seokjin, the man who will never be yours, and you have no one to blame but yourself.

One could argue that the miscommunication that had caused this present condition was two-way. If you had stopped him, corrected him, let him know the truth… you wouldn’t have to resort to the extreme measures you’re currently entangled in. One would also say, you are trying to redeem your mistake by trying too hard. Surely, everyone and their mothers could see through your ruse.

This is the fourth time you’re visiting Jin for his BE shoot - a shoot taking place two hours away from the city, disguised under various layers of secrecy to prevent any leakage of the album concept, or Jin in general. Of course, you had been made privy to such exclusive information, because you and Jin were ‘best friends’.

Best. Friends.

Nothing more, nothing less.

Best friends. The term you coined for (and forced upon) the bond you had. The bond that was too close to sprouting into something new, something fresh, something that was filled with glimmering allure and dragged you in like quicksand. But also, it reeked of commitment, of shadows, of newness that you hadn’t felt in the longest time, and fear of already being far too deep in without even taking the first step.

The loud thrum of some internet kid’s new hit pulses through the air of the club as bundles of couples occupy the dance floor, laughing and gyrating to a song that, in your opinion, most definitely does not suit gyrating. But with enough of the weekend happy hours intake combined with hormone-riddled minds, one could very well throw it back to a church choir.

You weave through the drunken bodies, trying not to spill the precariously held three drinks in your hands, making your way to your inner circle, the only people to blame for dragging you to this slosh-fest.

“Y/N!”

Somehow Hoseok’s voice can echo across the club, but you didn’t even need his addressal because Jin’s laughter is loud enough to navigate anyone to your table. Seeing you struggle with the glasses (and mostly the crowd, with some of them living their exhibitionist dreams), Hoseok gets up to assist you.

“I swear, if I see one more couple pretending to be dancing as they rub one off of each other’s thighs, the black market will have my eyes.”

“Oh yeah?” Jin’s breathy voice interjects your black-market dreams, still bursting in short laughs from whatever sent him rolling before your arrival. “Why don’t you go join them?”

“And whose thigh is she taking, yours?” Yeji snorts out, one hand holding her nebula blue drink, the other wrapped around Hoseok, urging him to come closer. Jin’s features scrunch into a cringe, and you’re thankful for the dim lighting because the disappointment in your features does not reach them.

“The only action these leather pants are getting is in the damned laundromat,” he points to his shiny trousers, “some jerk dropped his drink on it.”

“You could be the first person to give some chick an orgasm and a yeast infection.” Hoseok giddily adds, his fifth shot clearly making a mess of his brain cells.

Jin claps and gets up to move away from the group. “Better than a pregnancy!” he yells, before zigzagging through the crowd, possibly to the restroom. He is on his third cocktail, and you’d think cocktails are lighter drinks. But in this bar, their taps just seem to flow with tequila, and it is very evident in the way Jin is currently walking.

His absence hits you harder than you think, but it might be the alcohol talking. Jin has always been the mood-maker of the group, the one who brings everyone together. Of late though, his magnetic persona has been an irritant in your life. Any outing you two take, any chance you have to come clean about the burgeoning crush you have on him, is effectively disrupted by one of his posse. And today, Hoseok and Yeji took that trophy.

“Earth to Y/N. Has the cocktail finally broken you?”

You flutter your eyes in a manic fashion, to disperse the daydream you were indulging yourself in, and bring your attention back to the couple calling for you. Surprisingly, they have stood up, Yeji emptying the last of her neon drink.

“What happened?”

“We are going to the club nearby, they have better stuff. And that’s code for ‘they actually add water to the drink and the surround sound doesn’t shatter your ear drum’.’”

She isn’t wrong. The cocktails and music here are a 19-year-old frat party dream, not something the working class can digest. But you’re tired at this point, and don’t want to be smothered by someone else’s love life when your own is down the dumps.

“You guys carry on! I’ll tell Jin where you are and he’ll meet you there!”

You watch as Hoseok and Yeji lead each other to the exit, hands circling their partner’s waist. They giggle on and on, about nothing and everything, and it only hardens the emptiness you feel inside you.

Why can’t you gather the balls to spit your feelings out? What could possibly go wrong? Yes, you may lose one of your closest friends, but is this friendship really worth the agony? The bitterness you feel when you see any couple enjoying themselves? The anger you harbor whenever Jin tells you about his dates? The heartache, when he hugs you and tells you that you’re the best thing that’s happened to him… as a friend? Is it? Your plastered brain tells you to not make any rash decisions, so you don’t, instead choosing to get up and search for your best friend.

The corridor leading to the washrooms is dimly lit, throwing a merlot filter over your eyesight, making you squint in search of your friend. You being shitfaced does not help, and while relishing in your floating wooziness, you see Jin come out, and feelings you’ve held at bay for so long slither through your currently porous defenses.

He has always been good-looking. He himself has said so a dozen times.

But wow.

His hair lays messily atop his beautiful face, unkempt, like a breeze of beauty swept across his mighty looks and displaced every strand, causing disarray, but even the disarray only frames his superior looks and adds to its potent charm. The black, patchy sweater hanging loose off his broad shoulders makes you feel things you shouldn’t feel as a friend. That stupid gut of yours is currently screaming, yelling for all hands on deck, trying to block all the feelings from gushing in and sending you into overdrive.

By the time you can gather yourself to stop from giving in to those dangerous thoughts, Jin has crossed the distance between you, coming close, too close. Chocolate-brown eyes peer into your soul, searching for whichever fantasy you chose to lose yourself in. His eyes flit down to notice your rumpled dress that has found its way a couple of inches above its designated spot. His gaze returns to yours, but not without a newfound hardness, an almost steely glaze over the kindness that you usually find in the chocolate pools, accentuated under the garnet lighting.

“Hey, umm…” You beg for a reprieve, from your thoughts, from your filthy mind, from the way he is eyeing your cleavage, or just for the burning between your legs. You’re about to make some serious mistakes, you can feel it down to your bone.

You’re far too overdressed.

You knew it when you were in the process of getting dressed, but right now, you feel it much more - you look like a shiny disco ball orbiting amidst the plethora of loose tees, leggings and flannels. Everything screams comfort, because the amount of work they’re putting into this begs for it.

The strappy lace sundress you wear is extremely out of place, the halter-neck tie behind your neck fastened a little looser than necessary, giving your breasts the exposure they deserve, a nice valley view. Your dress skirt, adorned with pretty frills and dainty flowers, cut across your thigh to frame your petite hips. You are one floppy sun hat away from an extravagant Greek cruise - and in the moment you wish you had one to hide your face in shame.

You’re just out here, trying to escape the zone.

“Oh, would you look at the time, it’s tits out Tuesday already?”

Your eyes roll before Sanghoon even finishes his sentence, because you wouldn’t expect anything else from him. On the team of the set design, he is carrying a whole drapery worth of plush, mauve curtains, struggling with the slipping fabric. But apparently not struggling enough to stop him from getting his nose into your business, it seems.

“Literally not even a time you just mentioned. Can’t get one thing right.” You can’t stop yourself from stretching a hand out to feel the curtain fabric, the satiny sheets begging to be touched. Before you can though, Sanghoon moves away, not allowing you to shift the focus of the conversation.

“Don’t steer away from the facts. Your tits.”

“That’s the fact?”

“They’re out.” He bucks up, trying to point with the hand stuffed underneath all the cloth. “That’s the fact.”

“Ugh, can’t a girl dress up once in a while?” The pointed attention makes you uncomfortable, because everything he’s insinuating is true. With every passing staff member, you count a new shade of grey, interspersed with occasional blacks and greens, a stark contrast to your floral overtones. Amidst the thousand footsteps taken in your vicinity, only yours are pointed heels, echoing across the studio with every clack. But you’re a stubborn one, refusing to give in to his totally valid argument. “I just woke up early.”

“Girl.” Like light through frosted glass, he sees through your bullshit, but only partially. “You put an alarm to dress up? I have nightmares of the boss brandishing her whip and telling me to get into position, and even that doesn’t wake me up.”

“Have you ever considered… not announcing your kinks to everyone and their sisters?”

“Ehh,” he simply shrugs, “nothing is new when you’ve serenaded your boss drunk in a karaoke bar and still managed to keep your job. Wait. Is that highlighter?”

“Stop staring into my tits!” You can’t believe you got caught, but also, who can you blame? After testing this outfit out from the crack of dawn, you decided your cleavage needed some extra help. Three YouTube tutorials and one TikTok lady - who make it look far easier than it is - down, the contouring brought out the swell of your breasts, and against the light fabric of your dress, it does look too good to be true.

Memories of that night in the bar come in billows and waves, of how enamored Jin was with the way your boobs looked at that time. Even under the dingy lighting, in the cramped space, under heavily inebriated scrutiny, you couldn’t miss the flicker of heat in his gaze every time it passed your chest.

One thing led to another, and it was a cascade none of you could stop. The heat of attraction between you two does not help your wandering mind, and the fever drowns the knowledge that what you’re feeling is, beyond a shadow of a doubt, crossing some lines that can never be mended back again. With the proximity, his musky scent invades whatever defenses you were trying to patch, piercing through all your inhibitions and you pull him into you, claiming his lips to be yours.

With his wobbly knees and your wobbly heels, you somehow find your way to the washroom - mostly he does, you give in halfway to wrap your legs around his lean waist, his sturdy legs balancing your weight on them as your back hits the wall, and his lips tear down your walls.

“You look so fucking sexy today,” between bated breaths and indulgent sighs you confess, “just driving me nuts.” Letting your hands drag along his abdomen, feeling the ups and downs of his abs, you attempt to rid him of the sweater that’s been on your hit list all night. But to your dismay, your endeavor is blocked, when Jin gathers your wrists in his palm, turning you around to bend you over on the countertop, the smooth marble chill hitting your braless chest, perking your nipples under the cold.

“And you?” Jin bends to give your earlobe a languid lick, progressing very slow, a complete contrast to the movement of his hips as he ruts against your ass, your already short dress bunching up with every move. “You think it’s smart to have your tits torment me like this?” Grabbing a handful from behind, he tests the weight of each fleshy mound, and by now you are certain your perked nubs can pierce his palm.

His free hand, not yet torturing you, decides to get in on the action and disappears under the counter, swiftly crossing the bunched fabric of your dress, gaining easy access to your pussy. The cold touch of his pads sears against the heat of your core, finding your pleasure button and languidly fiddling with it, with no intention to cross you over the brink in sight. The only pleasure you can indulge in is the reflection of him abusing your nipples, pinching and tugging them down, whispering filthy words into your ear as he takes in your fucked out countenance.

You feel lacking, weak hands balancing your dizzy self, finding purchase to keep you upright - but you’re both drunk on alcohol and hypnotized by his beauty to do much more than stare at his mirrored counterpart. “For fuck’s sake, kiss me.”

How he understood your slurred words, you don’t know, but you are glad he did. In a moment you’ve been displaced, the hurried motion sending your neurons into a flurry. Once your back meets the hard marble, and your eyes have the privilege to see his, you pull him in closer, the force enough to hold you against the wall while your legs wrap around his lean waist.

Originally not a fan of drunken misadventures, that side of yours is strangely mute to the going current onslaught. Well, you don’t have much breath left to say anything, because Jin is efficiently stealing it all, his teeth clashing with yours as you engage in the messiest kiss ever known to mankind (or at least, to you). He changes pace often, dragging his tongue leisurely against your lower lip, conveying tacit words, just to switch it up with a sharp bite and reel you in.

One corner of your senses can feel his fingers messing around your cunt, and playing with the wetness your thong can barely contain. It makes you shudder, the damage that his fingers can cause solely circling around your hole.

“Fuck me.”

In your drunken stupor, you don’t know if the words leave you right, but you get confirmation when his long fingers finally penetrate your cunt, giving your walls something to clench on - although nothing could possibly compare to what you imagine you can get from his dick.

“God, you feel that grip,” he grunts, with two of his fingers in you, and Jin’s smile is the most sinister you’ve ever seen. “I think we should take this home,” is what his lips utter, but his fingers delve deeper, searching for the spot that crumbles you. The base of his palm grinds against your throbbing clit, and you are forced to bite down on this sweater, lest an embarrassingly loud moan escapes you and cues outsiders into your filthy doings.

“Now,” you half-hiss, half-growl as you grab the cusp of his legs to feel his half-hard erection grow under the pressure of your hand. Your palm sliters up just to go down again, this time without the blockade of his pants, but you are stopped short of success when Jin’s fingers slip out of you to give you a sharp swat.

“Stubborn, aren’t we? Can’t fucking wait,” he whispers into your ear, and as he envelops your lobe with his cushiony lips, he continues, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

No, no, no.

Your brain rejects logic, chews and spits it out before any of the rationale seeps into you. You have wanted this for far too long. The need inside you for a meaningful relationship materializes in the form of recklessness, desperately looking for surface-level relief for the moment. A night of sewing sutures to your battle-worn heart, stitches that may come off at the slightest strain - but right now, that will do.

“Please, Jin,” your tantalizing tone riles up his cock again, eagerly waiting for your next words, “can’t you feel me dripping? Come on, I can take you.”

“Fuck, hear that wetness.” He lets his palm slap against your sopping entrance, not stopping with one. With every slap, droplets of your arousal splash out, the insides of your thighs coated in the sticky sweetness, but your body is an endless reservoir producing plentiful more for Jin to play with. “Have you been sitting with this all this time?”

Two long fingers invade your channel again, leaving you with no response other than a gasp. They scissor incessantly, preparing you for what could be the railing of your lifetime. One curl inside and his fingertips hit the spot he was looking for, making you warp your body to take the pleasure coursing through your veins. His tongue seems to mimic the actions, looping around your earlobe as he sucks it inside, both ends of your body engulfed in all the attention he could provide.

Your cunt is weeping against the assault of this man’s hands, tears of your cum flowing down your legs with every pump of his arm. You are getting there, the sweet swell of release inching closer and closer.

But something doesn’t feel right.

The tightness in your belly, that is to a point caused by Jin, is harboring other sensations that are not entirely pleasant. Maybe you’re anxious about the happenings. Maybe you haven’t had a good orgasm in a while and have just forgotten how this thing works.

Or maybe, the bar should have the water tap actually give out water.

Either your eyes close, or your brain does, but suddenly all you can see is darkness.

Again, you are just trying to escape the zone.

“Step under those studio lights,” pointing at the too-bright stage lights being set up at the moment, Sanghoon continues, breaking your daydream, “I bet you could signal to aliens with the booby-reflection. Call them to Netflix and chill.”

“In about five seconds, my heel will be puncturing your eye. Don’t say I didn’t warn you!”

Sanghoon’s drivel was cut short, and so were your murder plans, with his entry. “Oh look, he’s on set. Gotta go!”

It’s like the lights, earlier threatening to burn away your skin, dim down in reverence of the glow of his face. The twinkle of his eyes when they meet yours. The shine of his smile when he throws you one. The vibrance of his tone when he calls out your name. Everything he does now threatens to burn you whole and it’s a wonder you’re not scalding, but the singe hurts you deep inside.

“Y/N! How do I look?” It’s a bathrobe. Like satin, or silk. Fucking hell, your brain could explode with the adjectives coming up, a whole chunk of them very much inappropriate to utter out in the current scene. Your arms want to rise, engulf him into you, and you have to physically halt the muscles from doing anything stupid. Brain, quick! Say something snarky and spicy, as best friends do!

“What’s the theme, unicorn puke?” The safest way to deflect is to attack. So you do just that. “You look like you dressed out of Hannah Montana’s closet. Which if it's true, I really need to see it. There’s a top that I’ve been eyeing for decades!”

“Don’t say decades.” Jin’s eyes crinkle in humor. “Makes me feel so old. Your dress is pretty cool too!”

Cool.

You find out how difficult life can be when you count every single minute of yours. So far, you have counted 4,310 minutes. That is two days, twenty-three hours, and fifty minutes. Ten more minutes and it will be three whole days since you and Jin spoke.

Yet again, you can’t blame him. When you came to the next day, you were in your bed, clad in the same shimmering silver bodycon that you had donned last night. The same one that had been privy to the colorful deeds you had committed in what was a dreary, colorless setting.

One ibuProfen and ginger ale, downed with some severe recollections of the previous night, and you had been ready to throw it all up again.

I don’t want to hurt you.

Words couldn’t describe what you were going through, and numbers weren’t invented to count the endless thoughts racing in your brain. You don’t know what is more upsetting. The fact that you actually had a chance to open your heart and you totally let your pussy think instead? Or that he was the one coherent enough to stop you from getting too far, and you let your desperation get the best of you? Everything about that night was wrong. And all the wrongs lie on your side.

I don’t want to hurt you.

In the moment, it was physical, he had to have meant that. But there was a tremor in his voice, you can remember clear as day, a slightly shaken side of him had emerged through the intoxication, and the words he had breathed were not shallow. There was a gravity to them, that you’d stupidly ignored in the heat of the moment.

And now, here you are. Counting up till the last minute, after which you can effectively call the friendship ruined. Stirring your tea mindlessly, you try to focus on the show on TV, the variety show comedy not striking the usual funny bones that they could 4,311 minutes ago.

The programmed ding of your phone bursts your thought bubble, a sound you have missed the past 72 hours. The ring you dedicated to Jin, that always had you running to receive because anything he sends brightens your day. But unlike those happier times, this ring has your gut fall into a pit of despair, struggling to choose between dispersing the suspense or remaining blissfully unaware of the damage you caused.

Jin: Free tmrw? We could grab coffee Jin: And talk

Talk. How? You barely remember what went down, save for fleeting moments that you recollected with great difficulty. Your fingers type back, trying to mimic the nonchalance in his text, that is very much absent in your actual demeanor.

Y/N: Sure. Paik’s at 1? Jin: Yup. See ya

Three texts, zero laughs. Of course, you’re not expecting him to land his jokes in this situation, even someone as talented as he can’t flip this tension. You’re just going to have to wait for tomorrow, when he decides whether you have a place in his life or not.

The painstakingly worn outfit, accessorizing the whole look, the straps of your heels digging into your toes, the specks of makeup dust lying stale on your collar bones, the shine faints at that word. Cool. A perfectly normal phrase for a normal friendship. You are left maimed, while he absent-mindedly tends to the rope of his robe, blissfully unaware of the cyclonic emotions churning inside you. All you can possibly do is gulp it down.

He runs his hands through his hair, beautiful locks coming out of place, and from one corner of the set, a groan of anguish emerges.

“Oppa! Don’t play with your hair and face.” A masked lady runs forward waving combs that look like artillery, “We just got done setting it!”

Some finger guns, a happy apology, and some silly jokes later, all the stylists merrily round up to undo his doing, and Jin signals to you to catch up later. And as he walks away, the strings tugging at your heart reappear, as they do every time you come to meet him.

You have a masochistic streak in you, putting yourself through this every day, when he had made it clear, that you two never stood a chance.

As if things aren’t already difficult, he looks like a dream.

Soft, snowy skin gleaming like it has personal lighting wherever it goes, you get flashes of the rarely witnessed sweat on his skin, from the ferocity of last night. He’s blowing away the foam of his cappuccino, and tiny bubbles float into the air before falling flat on the table, like an animated shine that follows him along. God has His favorites, and God makes sure all the lighting in the world is perfect for these favorites.

In no hurry, you wait at the counter to get your latte. After receiving it though, you can’t linger any longer and drag yourself to the table of doom.

“Hey.”

If the rasp in your voice is evident, he doesn’t show any recognition on his face. But you’ve learned to never trust an acting major.

“Hi. How are you doing?”

Inadvertently, a snicker escapes your lips. “Are you interviewing me for a job?” you joke, trying to disperse the heavy air, filled with unspoken words. “If so, at least know that I’m very expensive.”

The familiar windshield wiper laugh does not greet you. Dead silence does. The half-smirk he painfully gives you is heavy, and the furrowed brows haven’t an inkling of joy. It shoots daggers in your heart, to know that you are the reason for this jolly man’s despondency.

“Listen, I don’t think we should skirt around the issue too much. It happened, these things happen. You think Hoseok and Yeji didn’t have sex before making it official?”

His matter-of-fact nature isn’t new to you. Jin has always been a very practical man. Regardless of his inane sense of humor, his logical point of view has always been flawless.

But right now, at this very moment, logic isn’t what you are looking for. You are looking for answers, but as far withdrawn from logic as possible, to take the edge off of the tension-laden air that surrounds your table.

“Yeah, but even… unofficially… we aren’t a thing, right?”

Your abrupt question takes Jin unaware, almond eyes widening, like a toddler caught in an act.

“No, no! Of course not! I would never!”

His confession slips out with an ease that hurts you, digs deep to carve out the part of you that dreamt of anything more. Your eyes fall to your knees to avoid his perceptive gaze, the sting clear as the sky on a summer day.

You force a smile and continue. “Then there’s no issue. Anyway,” you gulp your coffee down, burning your throat, but it's a distraction from the burning inside, “I need to get to work. Anything else?”

He’s still searching you, for what, you can’t possibly fathom. From the looks of it, he should be happy with this homeostasis; he doesn’t even know what this means for you. To still stay suspended in limbo, not being able to move up or down, to continue having thorns digging into your beating soul as you watch him like nothing bothers your already frail feelings. Scene by scene, you can visualize the future, him distancing himself from you as he finds the one he calls his, with you left in the shadows. Your knees tremble in fear of the impending future.

Seeing you in a tizzy, he calls out, the voice too loud for the cafe and your mind’s prison cage.

“We’re still best friends, right?” If you knew better, you’d say his expression is that of sadness, of regret. But your judgment is clouded with your own bothers, and you interpret it as a look of pity. Like a lovesick puppy, kicked to the streets, with nowhere to call home.

“Yeah! Always.” You give it as much enthusiasm as you can muster.

Best friends.

Ropes wind around your heart, tugging and causing the deep ache that sets in as you walk back into your dreary building. Each string pulls you into a different dimension where you could move on, where you could be okay with the setting you had just agreed to. Where you would keep up your end of the promise and truly remain friends with him.

But no matter how strong the tug, your heart never yields, never lets go of the castle of dreams you built, staying steadfast in its own misery, choosing to hope, choosing to live the life of unrequited love.

“And that’s a wrap! Good job everyone!”

Applause and hurrays echo across the set to bring you back to the present. The shoot has officially concluded, which means it's time for your most favorite and least favorite part of the day - Jin and you doing best friend things, like grabbing lunch, gossiping about obnoxious coworkers, threatening to disembowel each other (in Mortal Kombat, of course) and other friendly activities.

Ever so respectful, Jin takes his time thanking every member of the set, regardless of whether they moved a cushion or held the reflector screen for hours. All the women gush over his beauty, reminding him of how, even amidst the glowing ornaments, his face was the brightest. His responses vary, from quiet little giggles, to complimenting the crew for making it happen, to straight up owning his charisma like a boss. That’s your man.

Well, not quite. Not one bit.

After exhausting the handshakes and hugs to be received, Jin walks to you, hands pushing his robe back to give it a cape like effect. You’re just glad that the man’s child persona still stays with him, no matter the situation. He guides you to his green room, cracking his bones on the way, (very sexily, might you add).

“Holding a pose for that long gives me cramps! You’d think dancing breaks my back, and you’d be wrong.”

You’re desperately avoiding looking at his fingers, and keep your eyes below them - shoot! His ceaseless stretching gives you a glimpse under his shirt - it is dragging your memories back to the last time you saw them, and you’d rather not. It is hurting you in more ways than one.

Eye contact is your safest bet. Looking up, you give him a lopsided grin. “Your grandfatherly days are approaching, Jinnie.”

“Hey!”

The rest of the conversation was less speaking, more yelling and chasing after each other to the green room, Jin taking mock-offence at your jab at his age, and his fingers reaching out to flick your forehead in retort. In your noisy, messy fashion, you both finally enter the room, dim gold light bulbs and shiny mirrors meeting your huffing self.

One hand on your knee, you hold on to Jin’s arm with your other, gasping for breath.

“Your grandmotherly days are already here, Y/N,” he snorts, and earns a kick on the shin, but that doesn’t stop him from bursting into snickers.

“Wow, why does one man need 4 mirrors?” You gape at his current green room, mouth wide open. It looks better than your entire apartment, with the counter carrying top-of-the-line makeup products. Only the best for this man. “So you can admire yourself from 4 different angles?”

Jin has disappeared into one of the inner rooms, but you can hear him snort at your comment. “Come on, I’m not that conceited. When the whole crew shoots together, the extra mirrors help.” The last part of that sentence is muffled, and that cues you into an important fact.

Jin is currently changing into something more comfortable.

A process that includes him getting naked.

Well maybe he doesn’t get fully naked, top on, top off, bottom on, bottom of-

Still. You’re sweating like a whore in church.

And things only get tougher when he finally comes out.

The ocean blue sweater he dons is tucked in. Who tucks in sweaters? Kim Seokjin. Why does he tuck sweaters? Oh, because he’s got an amazing waistline that he should most definitely show off, and the heat between your thighs becoming increasingly potent is a testament to that. You pretend to adjust your heels, giving the right expressions to show you’re in pain, but in actuality you are bringing your legs closer to get you some relief, just any relief.

Ripped jeans too. You get a peek of the thighs you were denied access to the night of the fuckening. Ridged and beautiful, not a speck in sight to mar his perfection. You are glad the facial expressions for pain and pleasure are not far apart, because your thighs, albeit very lacking, are helping the imagery in your head. Just Jin, seated on one of these leather chairs, and you straddling his thigh, clit aching against the strands of the rips in his denim, the fabric soaking up the wetness, with every push forwa-

“Now that you mention it, I do look dashing.”

And there goes that dream.

You pinch his cheeks in adoration, the vulgarity of your thoughts getting whitewashed by his silliness and blooming heart-shaped flowers in their stance. You feel your own pinch in you, wondering if this scene would be the same had you blurted your feelings out that day at the cafe.

It's times like these when you remind yourself why you choose to quieten that side. This dynamic cannot reincarnate in any other form. Any imbalance to this equilibrium could cause a serious case of best-friends-turn-awkward-acquaintances, and you don’t know if that’ll hurt you more than you currently do. You don’t plan on finding out.

But on God, he tests that resolution every single day.

Jin doesn’t even hint that he knows of the turmoil blasting behind your eyes. He nonchalantly fixes his hair, gives you a one-over as you are mentally undressing him, nonchalantly as well. Then he moves to grab his cologne, and two spurts disintegrates all the whitewashing and takes you back into the obscenities you were unfolding.

“So I’ll just go over the shoot photos, and then we can leave! You’re cool waiting here?”

“Hmmn, yeah!” You don’t let your mouth run any longer, fearing what might slip out.

He gives you a wide, innocent smile. “Great! See you in a bit.” Poor guy. If only he knew how debase plans you were conjuring just from the aroma of his cologne.

It is musky, like cedar or pine, perfectly suiting him. It is the same scent you remember inhaling, face stuffed in his sweater when he was fingering you to the tenth circle of hell. As he walks away, the fragrance diminishes, save for the slightest hint of lingering. You search for the source, and find the culprit strewn across the sofa.

The outfit Jin wore for the shoot held remnants of the perfume, and when you bring the shirt close and take a long, deep whiff, you transport yourself to the land of your dreams. You relish the fever smell of his cologne, mixed with his own natural scent, deciding that this is what you wish to smell like every waking morning.

Your longing for him has crossed way beyond physical boundaries. You longed for his love, longed for his attention. Longed to be the one that brings the light to his face. From morning rays to the darkness of the night, you wanted to experience it all by his side. To be his lone star, shining bright beside the moon.

Your hands are moving without your control, disrobing you of your thirst trap of a dress and putting on Jin’s shirt instead. One look at the mirror and you let out a silent groan - it fits you just right. Just enough to cover your ass cheeks, loose enough to let the air conditioning hit your heated pussy. While well-fitting shirts have never been the cornerstone of a successful relationship, your delusional mind takes whatever wins it gets.

Adding layers to your pipe dream, you don the robe that gave you a tough time throughout the shoot. When you press the tails of the robe to your cheek, the softness of the material is soothing. Soft, like Jin’s eyes, like his hugs, like his smile. Like him.

Leaning against the counter, you steady yourself, mind split in titillation. Your fingers find their own path, drawing circles on your breasts over his shirt, imagining Jin’s long fingers in place. While teasing your nipple to pointed peaks, you slip your other hand under your panties, trying very hard to mimic his digits, twiddling your clit between your fingers. Alas, the effect isn’t achievable, because Jin seems to know how to play you better than yourself.

The scent is getting stronger, without any provoking, and it is doing wonders for your immersion. You let out a loud moan when your fingers press inside, and you’re just glad no one can witness this.

“Y-Y/N?”

Fuck.

You are pulled away from your dreamland that was so impenetrable that you didn’t hear Jin step into the room. All the blood gushing to your nether regions has made a U-turn to flood your brain to think of a plausible explanation for this position. Instead it makes you giddy, and when you try to stand you wobble in your heels, to be rescued by what you think is a very scandalized Jin.

Time stands still when your eyes meet, and what you see are blown out pupils trembling, many questions fluttering between you two. Jin crosses a tenth of the distance between you, lips flutter as they try to make a decision - do they want to part and give way to the voice of question? The voice of reason? The voice that will break this hush, burst this bubble where he has the one chance to give in to his longing?

You bring your lips closer, and cause immense disquiet in his dome, the way of his heart gathering speed against rationale. Your eyes dance between matching his gaze and finding his lips, every fraction of an inch you cross sending tremors through you. You can feel the shockwaves traverse through your body, making a pitstop at your lips, tingling them awake. They move downwards, passing your heart, beating it wildly against its cage, and then to the pit of your stomach to tighten in anticipation; finally reaching the tip of your toes, where you stand right now, a nanoscopic distance between you. Each one of you is afraid to cross the bridge, unaware of the other’s desires.

Finally, Jin acqueises and meets you on your side.

Atomic explosions ring through your head, clearing out every single thought that is not about Jin’s lips on yours. The ropes that held your heart from beating to the tune of your want, they’ve loosened their knots to give you the leeway to love freely. As your lips exchange positions, his teeth lightly drag across your plush petal, and it brings back the most important part of that night that you couldn’t recollect - the one where his lips sang wordless songs of adoration against yours. Blind as a bat, you were.

You dig your fingers into his hair, not minding your residual arousal coating his locks, and you feel his hands doing the same to you. With your eyes closed, you feel a rough edge to his cushiony soft lips, but Jin fixes that mistake - one stray strand of hair trapped in the middle of your indulgence - he pulls it away to give you all of the kiss. The hand tucked in your tresses pushes in, silently demanding more access, and you’re nothing but ready to give it.

His tongue sneaks in to play a game with yours - when you seek it, it goes into hiding, finding perfect pleasure in soft, sweet kisses, but when you stay, it comes back in, awakening your tongue to deepen again. Everything he is doing is too much and not enough in one go, and you whine into his mouth in desperation, seeking some well-earned relief after months of holding back.

Amidst the flurry of your lips, your back hits the vanity countertop, and Jin pushes away everything on top to make space for you, not caring what expensive item flies down the counter to accommodate your ass.

As if you’ve made up for the months of holding back, the softness of the kisses erodes, teeth coming into play more and more, reminiscent of the night that went by in a blur. He swallows every mewl you give in return, blissed out beyond repair, your neediness making his cock strain against the denim.

His hand snakes down, spreading his fingers to get a hold of your back to push you towards him, covering any gap that dared to intervene. Now unworried about the shoot, your hands have effectively ruined his perfectly placed locks and messed them up to resemble the craze he let you spin in.

Before he can glide his tongue back in, you break the kiss, lest you lose yourself in it to the point where you forget to breathe. With attached foreheads, you take deep drags of air, letting the oxygen flow to your brain before you make some ill-advised, unclarified decisions.

“I- I was jus-”

“Shhh. Wait,” he breathes out, wanting to take a second and fully savor the moment. You nod in return, making his head move along with yours.

After sufficient air fills his lungs, Jin starts. “Y/N, we should stop.”

Last time this had happened, you had tried to force your way through his barrier, without giving his feelings a second of consideration. So this time, you don’t repeat your mistakes. “Tell me why.”

“Because, I don’t know what you’re looking for, but I’m way deeper in this than you think.”

“Jin, I-”

“Let me finish.” He stops you before you can explain how much you reflect his emotions, possibly more. He doesn’t seem to want to listen now. “Let me finish, or else I’ll chicken out, for the millionth time.”

You’re dumbfounded. Millionth time? When was the first? Acting majors, by God.

“I love you, Y/N.”

No, now you are dumbfounded. Your hands, holding his precious locks, drop down in shock, at sheer disbelief that all this time, he has been ready and waiting to return you the favor. Jin though, misinterprets it as a look of disdain.

“I-I know I do, and I’m sorry that I do. I know you don’t feel the same way. You can hate me all you want, but this is the truth.”

“And yes,” he continues, refusing to halt for even half a second, afraid that the courage he mustered to confess would dissipate the moment he does, “I’m attracted to you, and I don’t know what went down here --” flicking his wrist to mention your (his) outfit, “--but I’m looking, okay? And I’m hard as fuck. But that’s not all there is to it.”

“I need all of you.” He takes an audible gulp, trying to stymy his emotions from overpowering him. “I want to take you out, I want to hold you hand, I want to bring you to all the places I love. I want to introduce you to people, not as my best friend, but so much more than that. It hurts me,” bringing his hand to his chest, he emphasizes the point of pain by clutching over his heart, “hurts to call you that because I’m lying through my fucking teeth.”

You break eye contact, because there are tears smarting your eyes at his heartfelt revelation. You can’t believe the idiot that you have been all this while. The man of your dreams stands in front of you, baring his soul, and you can’t even do him the decency of telling him what you felt yourself before jumping his bones.

And you love him, too. Maybe you haven’t said so, even to yourself, but you’ve known all this while.

You love him.

“If you are just looking for a fuck, or want any sort of a ‘benefits’ situation, we should stop. I can’t lie to myself anymore.”

“Jin, my God,” you half-sigh, half-laugh, feeling a burden lift off of you after months of pining.

“You don’t have to pacify me, it’s okay, I’ll be fine.” Even in this moment, he is looking out for you. His lips are curved upward to show you that he’s okay, but his pupils are shaky and restless, not in sync with his smile. You hope your next words can fix that for him.

“Pacify you? Hate you?” You shoot him an incredulous look, one you will explain to him very soon. “You are a much better person than I am, Jinnie. For months now, I’ve loved you, but even at this point, I didn’t stop to tell you.” The guilt of letting your hormones cloud your judgement for the second time lays heavily on your conscience. “I’m sorry for not making this clear earlier, but let me now. I love you, Kim Seokjin. I have for way too long. I want you, I need you. You have me, in every possible way.”

It feels unparalleled to get that off your chest. The leaden weight of your emotions immediately disappears - or the fact that it's shared, makes it much, much lighter. But then you look at Jin, and he still seems to have not put two and two together. You patiently wait for him to process all the information.

When he finally recoups, he yells, “What?!”

You let out a loud guffaw, the first one with no inhibitions in the longest time. “What?”

“Why didn’t you say anything that day at the cafe?!”

“You said you’d never date me, asshole!” You punch his chest softly, before slipping your hands behind him and pulling him closer. “I might not look like it, but I have some dignity.”

“I said that?” Jin brings one hand to pinch his nose in annoyance. “What an idiot. I think I was just inverting everything to make sure I don’t accidentally slip up.”

You lift your head to meet his eyes again, letting him see the tears you were hiding. You find a couple in his eyes, too. But the smile on your face is genuine, and that is all that matters. “I was blind too, so don’t beat yourself up about it.”

Flitting your eyes down to find the contour of his cock against his jeans, you ask him innocently, “How about we make up for lost time?”

“Fuck, yes, please.” And with that, your lips are engulfed again.

When you have all your guards down, the kiss tastes sweeter than before. Mere moments ago, while thoroughly enjoying the kiss, a sense of reticence had clouded your pleasure, holding you back from luxuriating in the headiness. A series of what-ifs had plagued your subconscious without your realization, but with all that cleared, you wholly submit to the kiss, emptying your mind until nothing but his name remains.

“Fuck, Y/N,” Jin gasps out, when you bite into his pillowy lower lip, “I thought you looked the prettiest in the dress earlier but,” after pulling away, he drinks your current attire in, “you look the most beautiful in this.”

You snicker. “Even more than World Wide Handsome?”

His eyes bore into yours, no hint of the joking lilt he always carries in them.

“So much more.”

Your hands find their place amidst his shaggy hair again, and you lodge his face into your neck - a command Jin acquiesces to with great pleasure. After a long, wet lick to your collarbone, he lays feather-soft kisses on the trail he left, starting from your shoulder and working inward, until he brushes against the back of your ear. You grasp at his sweater, because his lips feel so good. Your breaths are short, sucking in every time he allows your skin the luxury of a soft peck. Once he lays a kiss on your forehead, he brings his gaze down to one of the main reasons that causes his cock to stir.

“Fuck, look at your nipples under my shirt.”

Gazing down, you can see the two pointed peaks that caught Jin’s eyes.

“That tends to happen when I’m thinking of you.”

He twists a nipple over the shirt, hardening it further, and you throw your head back in the satisfying pain. “Yeah, I remember.”

You are unraveling every second, the ache swishing amongst the bliss his fingers are bringing in you. He’s switched over to drawing circles around your nipple, until he snaps and tugs your shirt up, finally revealing the palmfulls of flesh awaiting his hands.

“Ah that night, I didn’t get to do this. Take this off.” But then, he makes you put on his robe again. You throw him a questioning look, to which he responds with a sheepish smile, “Just so, you know… you don’t feel cold… or something.”

“Just say you like me in your clothes and move on.”

“I love you in my clothes,” he admits in a heartbeat, his expression that of anguish, “can we move on?”

“God, gladly.”

Unexpectedly, he bites the side of your boob - not hard at all, but feeling his teeth against your skin sends your head reeling backward. Your involuntary response is to wrap your legs around his waist, grinding your core against him. His teeth continue to nip you lightly across the expanse of your breasts, the trail of saliva he leaves cooling parts of your flushed body. Finally, finally, he latches onto your left nipple and gives it a long, pleasurable suck.

“Ahh, Jin - you’re too - God damn it - you’re too good at this.”

Without stopping the onslaught he is unleashing on your breasts, his fingers begin to move - but soon, they stop, hesitation rippling off of their tips. His pace falters, and his mind is fighting on the next course of action.

“Can I-”

“Finish what you started that night?” you complete for him, already prepared with your answer. “Yes, please.”

All forms of uncertainty shoot out of his touch, and he confidently trudges forward. Playing with the band of your panties, he gives you a well-intended chuckle, murmuring, “As far as I remember, I was so good you passed out.”

“Boy,” You groan, intended in jest, but his teeth slide against your jaw and it mostly comes out more wanton than jovial, “let me see you have tequila for dinner and remember much the next day.”

“Fair fair,” he gives in, shifting to buss the valley of your cleavage, feeling your heart thud against your ribs holding it in place. “Well today,” he starts without moving his face, his nimble fingers moving past the barrier of your underwear, pressing two fingertips directly on your clit, and hissing like it's him at the receiving end, “I’ll give you enough to remember.”

You pull his sweater off and chuck it away, not wanting to be reminded of any blockades that kept you apart, and your hands roam the expanse of his back remembering the touch of his skin from the night at the bar. His body isn’t new to you, but the circumstances make it feel different.

Finally, his fingers find their way inside you.

Yes, this. This was what was missing from your drunken tryst. With your heads in place, your ardor intensifies, and you move his lips back to yours needing to release your animalistic desire into his mouth. Pleasure surges through both of you as you threaten to swallow him whole.

You can feel him being more present, and considering the merciless finger-fucking you had earned that night, this is taking it to a whole other degree.

The night at the bar, his fingers did their best to ravish you, but now, Jin is paying attention, close attention to the way you respond. Every muscle movement is recorded in him as you struggle to accommodate three of his lengthy digits. Leaning close, he gives your peaked nipple the lightest feather lick - the suddenness sends shockwaves through you as he continues to tweeze the other, talented pianist hands performing his musical piece on both ends of you.

His fingers pump into you with determination, finding new depths to explore that he missed out on, and with a curl of his pointer, you blank out, screaming in the orgasm that is washing over you. Every skincell of your body feels the quiver of lust spreading, your cunt squeezing for an eternity, milking the orgasm out to the extent that you can.

When you look down, your metaphorical orgasmic flood manifestes as a deluge of your arousal leaking on the table. And when you look back up, you can see the salacious ideas making their rounds in Jin’s head as he looks at the inundation you released.

Hurried hands still convulsing from the intensity of your orgasm, you undo his belt, followed by his jeans and finally - getting the pleasure you were heartlessly denied of - his cock is out, in all its glory, twitching as the cool air hits its naked skin. Jin’s plans don’t go hand in hand with yours though.

“Are we just - holy fucking shit - just, umm, leave that to waste?” he lustfully looks down to your leaking core, and someway, through your hold on his dick, he tries to steer you into his plans.

“I don’t know about that,” you cheekily reply. You have the right idea to satisfy both of you, and get down to the task.

With the flat of your palm, you swipe across the droplets of cum you released, gathering them to transfer them onto his thick length. Jin thrusts into your hand, the wetness jolting him into attention, and he places an arm on your shoulder to steady himself.

“You’re going to taste yourself?” he asks as you continue your vacillating motion, twisting at the base of his head with the wetness you graciously provided yourself. You give him a nonchalant look, something he is trying to do to you as well.

“Who said I’m gonna suck you off?”

His look changes, and the one you get in return is cocky, arrogant, downright rude if you were honest. You expected him to play on with your banter, but one raised eyebrow and the lazy smirk he gives, to what he probably thinks is a joke - Zeus could land on earth and not be able to stop you from gobbling his meat.

Your mouth is filled with his dick even before your knees hit the ground. Jin staggers back, but your suction on his dick is funnily strong enough to pull him back before falling. You switch positions, having him balance himself against the counter, all while you refuse to leave his cock out. His giggle of endearment has you pouting, but it swells your heart and makes you want to give more, more of anything and everything. With your renewed vigor, you push yourself in until his pubes tickle your nose, and his tip tickles your throat.

“Your-”, “I-”, “uhh-”

Every new sentence Jin starts crumbles to your actions. You furrow your brows both in concentration on your blowing skills and trying to decode what he is trying to say.

Jin takes a large gulp, adamant on making this one a coherent sentence. “You know, I used to imagine this, and in my dreams I used to be very sexy and suave, talking my way throug-oof-” You run your tongue over the tip of his leaking dick, emphasizing the point he is coming to, “Now I can’t even complete sentences here.”

“You being you is super sexy in itself.” And you curve your tongue to match the arch of his cock, letting the incoming saliva pool on it before letting it run down his shaft, dripping down from his balls. Strings of his precum connect to your lips, and you swipe your tongue through them, relishing the salty goodness before going back in for more.

“Y/N, shit, did you just moan?”

How couldn’t you? The fact that he is horny for you, so much so that rivulets of precum don’t stop drizzling down your throat, has you preening. You hum your assent in response, not willing to let go even for a moment, but Jin pulls you off before you can get a chokehold on the base of his cock again.

“Never had a woman moan while sucking me off. It’s sexy as fuck,” Jin breathes into your lips as he dives in for a kiss.

Your chest is heaving, catching the breaths you lost when you were down. “Then why’d you stop me?”

“Are you kidding me? I was about to lose it right there.”

“Jinnie, come on,” you break the fragmentary kiss you were sharing, looking into his glassy eyes, “let me feel you come on my tongue.” To emphasize your conviction, you lick his lips, persuading him of the sinful deeds your tongue is capable of doing if he’d just let you.

“Oh man, stop. What’s worse than busting a nut in your mouth? Busting it while you’re kissing me. Making me feel like a teenager.” You erupt into a loud laugh, soon followed by Jin as well. It is so him to joke about this.

“And babe,” all hints of embarrassment vanishing from his tone, “I’m only going to come inside you.”

“Fuck, fuck, yes. You got a condom on you?”

“Yeah, let me grab my wallet.” The instant he moves away, you feel naked, shivering from the comfort stolen away from you. But then you hear Jin grumble, “I hope I don’t have the bacon-flavored one.” And the absurdity of it all puts you at ease again.

“Ew, stop, even you can’t make that sexy. My lady boner is dying.”

He envelops you again, and you can feel the laughter echoing in his lungs before making it out to your ears. He brings your attention to the familiar rustle of foil wrapper. “Thankfully, we got chocolate.”

“Mmmh, gotta love chocolate.”

You take the condom out of his hands, and roll it onto his stiff length, flattered that he’s holding his erection for so long.

“Okay, stick it in me!” And you smack your ass in readiness, and a very flabbergasted Jin breaks out chortling.

“Y/N, stop being my best friend for like, five minutes!” His brows are furrowed in pretense exasperation, but you can see his lips holding back a genuine smile through the grimace, just happy that your dynamics haven’t changed the slightest, even though everything else has shifted.

“Okay okay,” you try and suppress your own laughter, before continuing, “how do you want me, baby?”

“Bend over on the vanity. And keep your eyes on the mirror.” And as you move into position, his palms grab your ass and squeeze it hard, feeling your glutes push back against his grip, and he pushes you forward till you're on the tips of your toes. You watch him through the mirror, watch him admire the way your ass curves over the table edge, how your toes struggle to keep you up, and how the dimples of your back are deepened by the arch, peeking under the bunched up robe tails, just waiting for him.

“Jin.” Your hushed whisper puts him in action.

Pushing the head in is anguish and relief at the same time. His bulbous head stretches your entrance; even with your preparation, you feel it sting. The searing gets better and better with every inch slipping in, and when he finally lodges inside, you let out a heavy breath, still panting and keeping yourself from screaming bloody murder in pleasure. Jin bends forward to paint the back of your neck, sucking the flesh till the circular bruise comes to surface.

“Can you- can you-fuck, no, wait-” Your brain is at war with itself, battling between adjusting to his girth and having him pump you into adjustment.

You can feel Jin’s snicker from behind you, and he finally makes the decision for you. “I’ll wait, I have things to do here,” he says before playing around the patch of skin, spreading from the base of your hair to the expanse of your back, his teasing licks relaxing your walls and accommodating his girth. The pain is almost gone, expect for the lingering ache that only helps you.

“You can move now, babe.”

“Okay, okay.” Your words snap him out of the painter’s dream he was in, and he twitches inside you. Something about the ease at which you both have adopted nicknames for each other softens his heart and hardens his cock.

Pulling out till only the head rests inside, Jin himself struggles against the third degree grip your pussy has on him. As he is thrusting inside again, your walls tense up, making it harder and harder for him to hold back.

“Y/N, sweetie, relax. I got you.”

“Jin, I’m-” You have tears running down your eyes, the pleasure and unsurmountable happiness rolling out in fat hot drops. “Fuck me harder. I won’t last.”

“Shit. Okay, hold on then.”

To what? Is what you’re going to ask before Jin unleashes his carnality onto you. Your breasts, dripping in sweat and saliva, are plastered to the countertop, which in itself is jiggling to the beat of Jin’s thrusts. His dick is curving inside to hit you repeatedly, and you have to gather the satin fabric to wipe your eyes to keep your gaze fixed on him.

He looks majestic. Forehead embellished with beads of sweat, his hair coiffed up, lips sanguine red after your vicious kisses - you swipe your tongue along your own lips to find them battered in response. His honey chest is heaving with every push, and a particular one hits you just right.

You let out a guttural groan, and Jin takes note of it immediately.

“Up,” he commands, and loops an arm under your belly to you pull you up and closer and now every thrust hits deeper into that spot he has found in you, your back connected to his chest as the two of you move in tandem; this is the most together you’ve ever felt with anyone. This moment is to be etched in your memories forever.

You scream into your fist to muffle the sounds, the edge of the table digging into your hip bone as you feel yourself getting closer to the brink. One swipe to the clit is all you have left to bring you to your release.

And from some telepathic force, or from the clutch your pussy has on him, Jin beats you to it. His fingers come down and carefully find your swollen nub, pinching it between his fingers. If he thought you’d shown him your hardest clench, he was wrong, because right now your dam has broken, and the iron-clad grip you give his cock sends him reeling, too.

You are gushing on his dick, the rubber dripping with your wetness. Jin too releases into the condom in stuttered gasps, his thrusts becoming shorter and shallower as he comes down from his high.

Petal-like kisses fall on your back as the two of you regain your breaths. The mirror that served you two well is covered in a fog of hot breath and perspiration, blearing your vision of yourself, but somehow, it sparkles with Jin’s reflection. His nobility-esque visuals use the haze as a valance for his appearance, framing them to make him look like you’re among the clouds. And in some way, you actually are.

“Ah, let me go.” You jiggle your shoulders back to make the man above you move. “Fuck, can you check if my spine is in place? I think you dislodged it.”

“Shut up and come hug me, I’ll squeeze it back in place.”

Now this is something you could get used to.

As he ties and throws away the used condom, you flip over to face him and fall back into his embrace, broad shoulders promising to protect you, making you feel safe in his care. Jin on the other hand is simply ecstatic to feel you on him, feeling your thumping heart beat for him, after months of pining and pondering whether anything would become of the seed of your tumultuous friendship. Now, it has blossomed to a garden of prospect and promise, every petal of every flower here reading a new opportunity to tell you how much he adores you, cherishes you, treasures you. How much he loves you. An opportunity he doesn’t wait to use.

“I love you.”

The pink tinge of your cheeks either comes from the sex, or from his comment, but either way, he is glad its from him.

“I love you too, Jin. So, so very much.”

If your heart could leap out of your chest, it would do so, to find its way to his and fuse into one. But for now, your entwined bodies give you all you want.

You hear Jin stifle a laugh, and pull back in question. He points to something odd on the countertop.

“What is that?”

The cream white surface of the table, that was maligned by your ignoble deeds, now sports two glistening, wheatish semi circles that look very similar to the sizes of one person who was splayed on top of it just moments ago.

“Is that…” Jin is trying to contort his lips and halt the looming snicker, and he brings his eyes down to your chest (trying not to get hard again), “Did you have makeup on your chest?”

“Shut up.” All you can do is fall closer into his arms, hopefully masking the tint of embarrassment highlighting the apples of your cheeks. “I wanted to make them look extra good for you.”

He’s given up on holding back, the full-bellied laugh that resonated from him echoing across the room. But it dwindles down fast, coming to small chuckles of tenderness, and he slips his digits beneath your chin to have you meet his gaze.

“They always look good,” he whispers, his admittance setting your chest aflame, “trust me, I’d know.”

Taglist 💛: @little7bitchh, @afangirllikeme-blog, @h34rt1lly, @marpotterhead

Thank you so much for making it to the end! I hope you enjoyed the fic, my ask box is always open for your lovely opinions. To read more of my work, find my main masterlist here. :)

595 notes · View notes