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#curls up into a ball. openly weeps.

kingdaddydaichi · 1 year

Text

DAICHI coming home to find you curled up on the couch, crying...

600+ words. comfort. gn!reader. unapologetically self-indulgent catharsis. i needed this. if anyone reading this is going through it, may this bring you comfort. i hope daichi's hug reaches you too.

The line from the "F.R.I.E.N.D.S" theme song comes to mind: ...when it hasn't been your day, your week, your month, or even your year... and it makes you cry harder. How has it come to this? You don't even like that song. You resent the fact that it sums up your life so succinctly. How basic.

You know he's home. You heard the front door open and close, the jingle of his keys, the sigh of relief that falls from your dear husband's lips every time, like clockwork.

"Babe?"

You always greet him at the door when he comes home with a bright smile and a cheerful "Okaerinasai!" as you wrap your loving arms around the back of his neck and stand on your tippy toes to give him the sweetest kiss.

But tonight was different. Nothing new, but different.

Over the years, Daichi has seen you at your worst more times than you care to remember, and yet he still loves you with all of his might. So it's no surprise when you hear his long, slow footsteps cease for a moment, no doubt having noticed your form curled into the tiniest ball you could muster.

He furrows his brow, knowing.

With your back turned and your puffy, wet eyes closed, like a cartographist, you can still map out your husband's every move. Daichi is light-footed. Without his shoes on, his feet don't make a sound. Particularly when he doesn't want to wake you in case you're asleep. But the faint whisper of his slacks rustling together is all you need to triangulate on his movements.

You feel his big, warm hand on your back and he whispers your name. You shudder beneath his touch, your body wracked with fresh sobs. Knowing he's here makes it okay to let go of all you've been clinging to in an effort to keep it together. Now that Daichi's home and within arm's reach, you begin to fall apart at the seams. Because you're safe and he's got you. Just like he always has. You don't have to worry and you don't have to be the strong one, for a little while anyway. He is your strength when you need to be weak. He holds space for you to come undone.

So you turn over to find him squatting beside you, his warm, brown eyes filled with sorrow and compassion and a whole string of unspoken I love yous. You reach for him and in the next moment, he has you. Strong, sheltering arms pull you in like your heart doesn't have the weight of a thousand worlds on it anymore. He smells like comfort and your whole body trembles as you openly weep. The last in a long string of losses has been threatening to pull you under. So you let the waves of grief crash over you, knowing full well your husband will never let go, will never let it swallow you whole. Because he loves you too much to let it take you from him.

He keeps you fastened to the sanctuary of his chest as his steady hand strokes your hair and cradles your head. With his lips pressed to your temple he says nothing at all. Even as you ball the back of his t-shirt in your fists, he doesn't tell you everything's going to be okay. Not yet. He doesn't shush you or offer you any words of comfort. He just holds you without negating anything you're feeling.

Several moments pass and all you can do is cling to Daichi for dear life as tears burn their way across your face, your skin saturated with hours of grief. But little by little, your tears are soaked up by the soft cotton of his shirt just as his mere presence dulls the pain and absorbs the ache.

"It's okay to fall apart, baby," he finally murmurs against your hair. "I'll help you pick up the pieces every time."

"What if we can't find all the pieces? What if they're too broken?" you whimper.

"Then I'll help you make new ones," he promises.

sorry for not tagging anyone. this is personal so ig it would feel disingenuous in a way?

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leam1983 · 1 year

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Curtain Calls

So, my last traditional day at my current job is now over. The hunger and need I'd sensed in Walt and Sarah yesterday hasn't abated yet, and I'd barely logged out and said my goodbyes that the big guy all but hoisted me out of my chair and took me to bed.

Suffice it to say, I'm writing this while pulling the cobwebs away from a mind that's been more or less concussed by sheer, unadulterated joy and hunger. Walt made me push like I'd never pushed before, he tensed every muscle and bone in his body and reduced himself to pre-verbal gurgles of deliberately intense strain, and finally let go with half a groan and half a scream, weeping about as hard as when the Nissan homophobes got to him - except now he wasn't hurt.

Imagine a wave of gratitude so intense that it's painful, and imagine it crashing into you over and over. Imagine your female partner guiding you into her, a mantra on her lips.

"We've made it. Oh God, we've made it!"

We'll have our business, with our rules, our client base, our address, our home offices. We'll clinch bigger salaries and finally have a prayer of picking a decent apartment for ourselves. Walt is as Walt does and is still silently weeping, even as he whispers the details of a balcony view we don't yet have, a spacious kitchen that only exists in his head - and a bedroom with a single bed big enough for all three of us, an absolutely massive piece - because he wants us close.

He clutches my hand and Sarah's while his tears stain the pillow. "Please don't let go," he demands, in outright supplication, "Please don't let go!"

As there's joy in there, too much to even properly express - but also fear. Walt's been left alone many times, we all know this by now. He's been hurt and used, and openly abused. Sarah and I are a shot of joy administered from a high-pressure IV into his carotid, and he's drunk on us, absolutely high off us.

My stepping away to unpack all this, to write this down, made his lips quiver. I had to slip back into bed and let him hold me for a few more moments.

"I know, baby - you need us just as much as we need you. Mentally, though? If I don't step aside for twenty minutes and put this in order, I'll curl up into a ball and realize that I just put alll my chips on you two, on this business venture of ours. If I think about it in these terms, I'll be just as terrified as you are."

I gripped his hand again. "I'll be back, Walt. Right back, in twenty minutes. I am not leaving you. Not you, not Sarah - ever."

His lips are twisted in a grimace of love turned agonizing, and he replies with strangled noises, his round face as red as a beet. Only his hands can still behave intelligibly, and he strokes my cheek with his thumb over and over.

I smiled. "I'm so sorry you were hurt before, Walt. You're done suffering, though - you hear me? Now I'm going to get out of bed and I want you to take Sarah in your arms. I want you to cry this out of your system - and I don't care how loud you get. Just do it, okay? We made it - now it's just us, for as long as we'll take it."

I'm eventually forced to call my mother to let her know the psychodrama she's hearing across our shared wall is normal, expected, and actually positive. In the meantime, an aging man's entire adult life is spilling out onto his pillowcase, on the other side of our bedroom's closed door. Decades of awkward relationships, botched dates, stinging rejections, crippling self-denial - and the sense that for every notch on his armor, a few other pounds were slipped behind his belt. He's so earnest he's slipped into badly-accented French and is unloading synonym after synonym for I thought no-one would ever love me.

Oh, Walt.

This is so unfair. I'm the one with an outright crippling disability, I'm the one with decades of hospital visits and dashed hopes in front of the doctor's office - and he's hurting more than I am. Him, the guy whose only real fault is of eating everything, from his joys to his sorrows.

#life post #work post #bisexuality #love #cw: abuse mention #cw: sex mention

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arofili · 2 years

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after a nightmare with russingon OR in a moment of anger with russingon >:]

Fey you simply picked the best prompts??? therefore I must deliver you some WHUMP. under the cut for violence!! (but dw there's comfort after the hurt)

16. after a nightmare

Fingon bit back a scream as Maedhros suddenly lunged at him with madness in his eyes, grabbing him roughly by the throat and shoving him up against the wall behind their bed. His heart beat impossibly fast, but unlike the last time Russo had manhandled him or cut off his air, Fingon was truly terrified. This was no game in the midst of intimacy—this was violence.

He knew that Maedhros did not mean to harm him. He knew that Russandol would never hurt him, not intentionally. He knew that his husband would feel horribly, agonizingly guilty when he came to his senses—but none of that stopped his utter terror as he felt Maedhros, his dear, beloved Russandol, choking the life out of him.

Desperate, Fingon scrabbled at the massive hand on his neck, trying to pry Maedhros’ fingers loose. It was futile: had not Fingon himself trained with Maedhros tirelessly to regian his strength, to wield a sword better with his left hand than any other elf with their right? Ai, Valar, he was going to die, at the hands—hand of the one he loved most—and oh, that would kill Russo too, destroy him utterly, send him spiraling into the Void—

Instinctively, Fingon flung open their marriage bond. Usually they kept their minds separate while asleep, to prevent nightmares from seeping from one to the other and rendering them both incoherent, but now Fingon needed to see—to know—to reach into his very soul and tell his husband to stop—

He sees a darkness, not a battlefield, perhaps a tomb? He sees his Enemy, at his mercy, eyes bulging, hacking out curses. He sees his hand, pale and sickly, so thin the bones look as if they are about to burst out of his skin; but no, that is not his hand—it was he who severed that hand from its wrist, who carried his husband away from this torment, his own hands are dark and smooth and—

The fury overwhelms him again, and Þauron shudders, going limp in his grasp. Dark pleasure roils in his belly, and he begins to laugh, and then—

No, no! This is not—this isn’t—

The face changes, warping into beloved features that cannot, cannot be here—a mockery of the one he loves—

Russo, it’s me, it’s me, please—

No, no! It is a lie, a trick, if he lets Þauron go he will lose what little leverage he has won, he cannot—

Russandol, vennonya, it’s Finno, it’s your Finno, you’re in Himring and you’re—

The pain that crosses his face is so real that he forgets to breathe. Doubt flickers across his mind...

—you’re killing me, Russo, please, I know this isn’t you, I know you wouldn’t—

But has not his captor played this trick a thousand times...?

And yet: in the back of his mind he knows. He remembers in flashes: the Eagle, a coronation, a cold hill, a golden laugh...

And then the force of Fingon’s love and desperation breaks through entirely, shattering the illusion, and Maedhros cries out in horror as the cell around him dissipates

and Fingon fell down onto the ground, gasping for air, weeping openly as he curled into a ball of fear and betrayal and relief.

He heard Maedhros collapse heavily onto the bed, panting roughly. Fingon couldn’t bring himself to look at him, couldn’t find the strength to do anything but tremble. He knew, he knew that Russo didn’t mean it—he had seen Sauron in his husband’s mind, he had felt the rage and horror of his captivity. But he hurt, so terribly that he could not comfort Maedhros as he ought.

For a long time there was silence in their room save for the awful sounds of their haggard breathing. Fingon’s lungs ached even as they filled again with air; Maedhros’ pants had morphed into horrible, rasping sobs.

At length Fingon heard the mattress creak, felt heavy footsteps reverberating through the floor. Maedhros knelt down beside him, still trembling, and Fingon felt his soul bleeding with pain and horror and guilt, even though Maedhros held back the worst of his inner torment.

“F-Finno,” Maedhros croaked. He reached out his hand—and Fingon, damn him, flinched back. Maedhros recoiled as if he had been struck, and Fingon sobbed quietly, hating to do this to his husband. He knew exactly what it felt like to be denied the opportunity to comfort; how many times had Russandol flinched away from him?

“Finno, I—I’m so sorry...” Maedhros’ voice cracked. “I—I’ll leave. I’ll go, you can...stay here, love, please, I’ll leave, you won’t have to see me again, I—”

“No,” Fingon wept, and even though it had been his husband’s hand that hurt him he needed now nothing more than Russo’s touch. He crawled into Maedhros’ lap, still crying, clinging to him, and felt Russandol stiffen—then carefully wrap an arm around him, cradling him like a precious gift.

“I...Finno, I can’t...” Maedhros began to shake again. “Finno, I could have killed you. I’m not safe—it’s not safe for you to be here with me—what if I hurt you again? Ai, Finno, you should have killed me on the mountainside—”

“No,” Fingon repeated, though he had not the strength to speak anything else. Slowly, slowly, his heart was calming, settling into a steadier rhythm. He reached out along their bond, their saving grace, sharing not words but feelings: Hold. Love. Warm. Need. Safe. You. Love. Hold.

He knew not how long they sat their, curled up together on the cold floor, taking comfort in the very hands that hurt them. The Sun had begun to rise when Fingon stirred, readjusting himself in Maedhros’ lap. Maedhros tried to lean back, get away, but Fingon refused to let him. He grabbed his husband’s arm, looking into his eyes as he very gently and deliberately kissed the stump his blade had left.

“Has that been happening a lot recently?” he whispered.

Maedhros looked away. “No.”

“Russo. Don’t lie to me.”

Maedhros looked back, his silver eyes pained. “Truly, it has not. I—I know not why it came upon me again, when recently I have been...so much better...”

“Has Maglor been Singing to you as the healers instructed?”

Maedhros bit his lip. “...No. He has his own command in the Gap—”

“Russo,” Fingon said, exasperated. He took a deep breath, summoning the strength within himself, and began to hum. The melody wound through their bond, relaxing the tension and guilt in Maedhros’ mind, soothing his pain, burning away the darkness with golden light. Fingon was no Singer like Maglor, but his song had saved Maedhros before. He would do anything to save his beloved again.

Tears fell from Maedhros’ eyes as Fingon’s gentle hum subsided. “Thank you,” he whispered. I—I do not deserve you. You are so good, and I am...Finno, I could have—

“But you did not.” Fingon pressed a soft kiss to his husband’s lips. You did not. I reached into our bond and changed your dream, and you stopped before you could truly hurt me.

“Finno, you have bruises,” Maedhros said in dismay, lifting his fingers to touch lightly at his throat. “I gave you those, I...”

Fingon forced a laugh. “You often bruise my neck, though usually with more intention,” he said wryly. Why would anyone assume otherwise? I brought high-collared robes for such an occasion, after all...

Maedhros shook his head vigorously. “This isn’t like that,” he whispered. “That’s—we mean to do that, we take pleasure in it, this... This was violence, on my part. If—if your father could see us—”

“He cannot,” Fingon said firmly. “Russandol, I love you. I love all of you. I know you did not mean to harm me; even as you choked me, I knew it wasn’t really you. I know the enemy you face, hiding in your own mind, I know who you are. You are dangerous, yes, but I choose to love you anyway. And I did not let myself die by your hands. I changed this, and you listened, because you love me even when the darkness takes you.”

“You should not be comforting me,” Maedhros croaked. “It is I who hurt you—”

“We are both hurting,” Fingon said softly. “Meldanya, I choose you every day, pain and all. I will bear it, for your sake. And this? This is nothing compared to the love I hold for you.” He swallowed. “I cannot bear to drive you away. If you truly need space, I will give it to you, but—please.” He pressed his forehead against his husband’s, staring deep into those silver eyes he loved. Do not leave on my account. I want you here, with me.

Hesitantly, Maedhros lifted his hand to Fingon’s cheek, his thumb brushing against one of the bruises. Fingon did not wince, though it was an effort. Instead he leaned into the touch, letting Maedhros guide them into a kiss, and the bond between them hummed with love, tinged with pain, but love nonetheless.

“I will stay with you,” Maedhros murmured. “For as long as you want me by your side, I will be there. For you. My Findekáno.”

Then be with me always, as we vowed upon our wedding night, Fingon sighed, kissing him once again. For there shall never come a day I do not want you, my dearest love, no matter the darkness we face together.

#maedhros #fingon #russingon #maedhros x fingon #silm #silmarillion #my writing #my fic #tefain nin #thatfeanorian #prompts #ur other request will be coming soon #the darkness we face

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berrydoodleoo · 3 years

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spring is in the world

Title from ‘since feeling is first’. Chosen with Luna in mind, who in this AU has defied her fate and is no longer confined to parentheses. Read more about the art here, or have a short fic instead:

In hindsight, she shouldn’t have assumed things were going as well as they seemed. She had no great experience in taking lovers, after all, having devoted most of her thirty-odd years to fighting the Scourge in one form or another. She had lost so much time, first to her injuries after Altissa and the coma that had swallowed her for years, and then to the terrible fear and lethargy that gripped her once Ardyn was dead and her purpose in life (seemingly) fulfilled.

Not to mention that Noctis and Prompto were Lucian, whose upper-classes still ascribed to all sorts of prescriptive rules about romance and marriage. She should have been more vigilant -- Prompto in particular still regarded Noct and the sunlit world with nervousness bordering on dread, as if they might be ripped away from him at any moment. So what if she had danced with Noctis and Prompto at the ball held for the New Dawn’s first anniversary last week? So what if she had kissed Noctis outside her room, when he very courteously escorted her to her quarters? So what if Prompto had given her a gift of watercolor paints and cold-pressed paper at breakfast, asking with a flirty smirk if she had a model for her newest painting?

And most of all -- so what if they had made plans to celebrate Noctis’ birthday with a trip outside the city, where they would sleep (hopefully together) beneath the stars (her first test of her new resolve to walk in the dark without fear). So what? They hadn’t said anything out loud, hadn’t made any promises. She shouldn’t have assumed. She should never assume. It was such a terrible risk, forgetting to be afraid. She should have known….

It’s when she lays her hand over his, resting on Noctis’ chest, that she realizes they’ve been having two separate conversations. “He’s here to stay, Prompto,” she says, pressing gently. “I promise.”

“I know, I know.” Prompto clears his throat, forces a rough little laugh. “It’s not that.” He sniffs.

It gives her an ugly jolt to see him so distressed. They’d only been watching Noct sleep, praising his handsome features and planning how best to tease him when he awoke. Umbra is snoring cutely at Noctis’ side and Pryna is probably still in the field, chasing butterflies. Everything had seemed perfect.

Prompto glances skittishly at her frown and then begins to babble. “I just, uh -- got used to checking, you know? Making sure he hadn’t stopped breathing or started bleeding inside or something. It’ll, uh.” He shakes his head, tries to pull his hand away. “It’ll be weird not being able to check, you know, but I won’t -- I mean, I know you two -- I won’t get in the way, I won’t make things difficult, I promise--”

“Prompto,” Luna interrupts gently, struggling to follow. “I don’t understand what you’re--”

Prompto rakes his free hand over his eyes, smearing the hint of tears around. “You guys are gonna be great, you know?” He smiles bravely, props his head on his fist like they’re still chatting idly and he isn’t weeping openly. “You’ve waited for each other for so long. I guess destiny can be kind after all.” He tries to smile.

But he can’t keep the bleakness out of his eyes, and it’s clear that Prompto doesn’t believe any of this kindness has been reserved for him. “Prompto,” Luna bursts out, fumbling, confused, “are you -- breaking up with Noctis? Through me?”

Prompto recoils, or tries to; she still won’t let him get away. “O-of course not,” he stammers, “we weren’t -- I mean -- not really, we haven’t, not since -- he wouldn’t lie to you like that--”

Luna untangles this with some effort. “Do you mean you two aren’t together?” Confused, she reviews their interactions from the past few days, and then from the last time she saw them, after the final battle. “You haven’t been -- Prompto Argentum, you two haven’t been refraining because of me, have you?”

Prompto gapes at her. She gapes back.

“You have!” Astonished, Luna leans back to peer at the sky. “Why in the -- Prompto. Dear, dearest Prompto.” She checks on Noctis, in case their spirited conversation has woken him, but he sleeps on obliviously. She’ll have words with him later.

Prompto tries to sit up, retreat again, and this time Luna tugs him quite firmly back into place. “Don’t you dare,” she orders, and he freezes. “Prompto, you and Noctis love each other. You’ve been part of each other’s lives for so long, have supported and believed in one another through the worst of--” She finds she can’t find the words to continue, and tries again. “I would never, will never, seek to separate the two of you.”

Prompto’s lower lip is trembling. Luna starts to shift forward, cup his cheek, and then realizes such a gesture might be unwelcome. Dear gods, she has misread this. Such a fool she is. She’d thought--

“Quite the opposite,” she finally continues, quietly, despite the cold terror creeping through her veins. “So long as the two of you have one another, I may have peace in my heart, for I know that one good, true thing prevails.”

She blinks back a sudden flood of tears. Perhaps they don’t want her. Perhaps she doesn’t have a place with them after all. She wants her room, suddenly, her safe, prison-like room, where nothing joyful grows but nothing can hurt her, either.

“But you guys have been -- oh.” Prompto blinks rapidly, and then starts to redden. “Oh. Is this a, uh, Tenebrean thing? Like the triad thing? Oh man, is this what Iggy was trying to -- oh, man.”

Luna can’t help it; she bursts into damp, semi-hysterical giggles, despite the icy shake in her guts. Prompto smiles up at her blurrily, and then starts to laugh as well.

“Man,” he says again, suddenly beaming, eyes still tear-reddened. “He is gonna give me so much crap about this. I am literally never gonna live it down. Wow.” He takes a deep breath and squeezes her hand tenderly, overwhelmed. “Is this really -- you might have to -- I am really oblivious sometimes, but uh, I guess you know that now.” He laughs again, edged, at himself.

Luna starts to nod, changes to shaking her head, and then feels hot, wet tears dripping down her face. She’ll feel foolish later. Prompto sits up, and this time she lets him, because he’s moving to lean closer, cup her face and wipe her tears away.

“Luna,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I misunderstood.” She presses his rough, large hands to her cheeks and feels herself crumple a little more. “No,” he continues. “No, please don’t cry. I can’t -- I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Luna takes a deep breath. She isn’t been rejected. You aren’t being rejected, she reminds herself. “No, no,” she says wetly, “I shouldn’t have assumed--”

She stops herself. She’s making an effort to reprimand herself less these days. She is trying so hard to be better. And in a fight for blame, she suspects she and Prompto could go round and round until the sun went down and never came up again, but that isn’t what she wants. For either of them.

Luna takes a deep breath. She refuses to start their relationship in a spiral of apologies and self-blame. She doesn’t want that anymore. She wants to open the door to a rolling world of yellow suns and indigo skies and, eventually, gentle nights that fill her with wonder and comfort instead of fear. She wants to let go of the fear and her desperate need for control -- she wants to be free, a part of the world for the first time in her life.

So instead of berating herself, she grips his hands in hers and lets their combined grip rest against their (still sleeping, seriously, Noct?) king’s chest. Umbra is watching them with interest, she notes. And then she takes another breath.

“Prompto,” she says, falling back on an old, formal proposal from a romantic show she used to watch, as a teenager confined within Fenestala Manor. “Will you grant me the honor of your affection and presence, and keep a place for me in your heart?”

Prompto’s lovely eyes widen, full of hope and delight. Pure sunlight. He’s grinning and she’s breathless. All further words fly from her mind.

His fingers squeeze hers as he leans forward for a kiss, and then another, tentative turning into playful, his smile slotting sweetly against hers again and again. Blindly, her hands work themselves free to touch his cheeks, his throat, the rasp of his short beard. He retreats for a quick breath, tracing her lips with hot, hooded eyes, and then devours her mouth in a kiss that raises her onto her knees, toes curled and body tingling. Oh, oh, oh--

“Hey,” Noctis grumbles, exactly like a grumpy cat awoken from a nap. “Uh, did I miss something? I thought we were waiting till my birthday.”

Prompto gasps, wrenching away. “That’s what that’s all about?” he demands shrilly, and Luna bursts into giggles. “The camping trip? Oh my gods, Gladio’s gonna kill me--”

Noctis pushes himself up his elbows, squinting and scowling with the sun in his eyes. “What? You seriously didn’t know?” He sits up, absently guiding Luna to sit at his side in a way that makes her heart warm. “Thought you were kidding about that.”

“--never gonna hear the end of this, crap--”

Noctis looks to Luna, about to ask something -- probably ‘what on Eos is happening right now, I was only asleep for thirty minutes’ -- but then his expression changes and he makes a wise choice of priorities. “Uh, Luna? Pryna’s after the cheese again.”

Luna yelps and Pryna yips, betrayed, and the dog knocks the picnic basket over in her haste to escape her mistress, wedge of cheese clamped firmly in her jaws. Prompto dives to catch her -- “I’ve got her!” -- but he doesn’t. Noct fails to catch him and he lands on their legs, trapping them. Umbra runs in circles and barks for the sheer, chaotic joy of it. Pryna devours her stolen prize. And in the sunlit field, with her loves bickering and playing at her side, Lunafreya laughs until she cries for the first time in her life.

#ffxv #lunafreya nox fleuret #noctis lucis caelum #prompto argentum #ot3 #my art

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sweetestlamb · 4 years

Text

I’m Not Okay(But That’s Okay)

Summary: Mun-Yeong accepts Gang-Tae’s harsh rejection and learns about love and life from unexpected friends, meanwhile Gang-Tae starts to realize what he had and tossed away and fights to win back Mun-Yeong’s heart.

Genre: Healing Romance and then smutty smut smut.

Author’s Note: This story started out as a revenge fic because much like my Queen MY I like to get even but then I started thinking, it should be more than just getting back at GT. So this is a story of realizing your worth and learning who you really are, without other’s opinions. Both of our babies realize their worth and find their way back to each other. 11k, my longest one-shot ever. Hope you all enjoy!

Salty tears fell uncontrollably as she held herself, shaking like a leaf in the bitter winter cold. She felt as if someone had scooped her heart out with a jagged spoon, scrapping everything until there was nothing left. She cried, each drop falling and joining the oceans crushing waves. Wondering if this was how the ocean was first formed, the tears of those who had endured unimaginable pain. Weeping for lovers who would never return.

You were like a firecracker to me. A one time event.

Sobbing, she fell to the ground remembering her own harsh words, visceral and acidic on her tongue. She didn’t want to be a bomb, not anymore. She had gotten a taste of what love could be like and it was ambrosia, cloying saccharine on her tongue. With one small press of his lips to hers he had awakened emotions in her that had not only laid dormant, but had been beaten and hardened into something grotesque. He hadn’t healed her, she knew now that she wasn’t broken just a little fractured, a cast had been wrapped around her heart until it was ready to fully beat and pump love, but he had definitely woken up her emotions.

Now, standing on that beach, the wind whistling through the soft strands of her hair, she clutched at her chest, trying to keep her heart from crumbling into pieces, holding so tightly that her fingers burned and ached from the pain.

When no more tears came, and all she had left was gut-wrenching sobs, she finally let go.

Then she started walking, her legs were heavy as if they were filled with lead but she pushed on, each step taking her away from the disaster site. She wondered if she would ever be able to look at the ocean again without feeling like she was drowning in its vastness. What was it about drowning that made you feel so alive?

The cursed castle looms over her and the idea of being here, alone elicits goosebumps all over her skin. The coldness that had smothered her after his remorseless rejection made her bones ache and she saw her body fall to the ground, as if she were an entity outside of herself. Her body too weighty to lift a second time, she viciously pushes back memories of his strong hands picking her up and keeping her balanced. The ocean pours from her eyes.

This is how Sang-In finds her, an empty shell of the woman he knows. Openly weeping on the ground, dirt sticking to her hands and her face ash-fallen, heartache visible in her countenance. Gone was her fire and brimstone and in its stead was ash and soot. She hears the footsteps approaching and hates herself for the seed of hope that starts to bud in her mind.

“Mun-Yeong.... are you okay?” He whispers to her in voice akin to one you would use with a startled animal. Worried, that even the the press of your lips forming around harsh constants will send them bolting. Arms outstretched as if he too, was waiting for the explosion. The wail she let out sounds inhuman even to her own ears, she can’t fathom that she could make such a sound. Cautiously he approaches her, over his shoulders the wide doe-like eyes of Seung-Jae are shining bright, unshed tears glistening like fresh dew. Her rosebud lips curl up in despair as their eyes meet and she falls into Sang-In’s waiting arms.

He exhales a short breath, surprise evident in the tightening of the muscles in his body.

She sees the castle moving closer through blurry eyes, her tears so hot and pathetic on her face. She never meant to give anyone this much power over her and he took it easily, until he was done and once again she was tossed away. She wants so desperately to hate him.

She can only muster up the will to hate herself.

“I’ll get you some water.” The chair he places her in, scraps across the wooden floors, the sound obscenely loud in the eerie silence of the castle.

In. Out. In. Out.

Aching arms ascend up, crisscrossing on her shoulders, tap, tap, tap. The cotton balls begin to clear from her head, the fuzziness declines until she opens her eyes once more and meets those of the little art director.

“Why are you here? Aren’t you scared of me?”

She looks long and hard, eyes darting all over Mun-Yeong’s face. Until her heads moves softly side to side.

“It’s hard to be scared of someone, who looks so afraid them self.” Her lips snap shut and Mun-Yeong feels the usual desire flow through her, scare her, break her, hurt her. The feeling of warmth on her hands yanks her back from the darkness, that swarms inside her. She looks down at the hand that encompasses her own hand on the table. Wanting to pull away and show her that all these hands know are destruction, they are only capable of pain and death.

But.

She’s so warm.

Sang-In’s eyes broaden in sheer astonishment when he returns to the warm scene but he knows better than to comment. Knows that her hands will become razor-sharp, ready to attack if provoked.

“Here’s your water.” He places the glass to her lips and gently tilts the glass, pouring back all the fluids she expelled from her body. Her eyes begin to droop in exhaustion, he looks at Seung-Jae and her small nod is the only answer he needs.

Together, they carry Mun-Yeong’s complacent body up the stairs and tenderly place her in the large bed, its sheer size dwarfing her small frame. Sang-In gazes into her empty eyes and lifts his hand, suspended in time before he thinks better of it and simply pats the bed and silently walks out without a second glance.

Her thick blanket is drawn up to her chin and the warmth almost brings the ocean back to her eyes.

“Just sleep. “ Seung-Jae murmurs, no words of encouragement or of better tomorrows, just a simple command and again that warm hand encircles her own and she drifts off into a deep slumber. She dreams of nothing.

The sounds of morning wake her from her sleep, she lays in bed, still, comatose until she hears movement in the kitchen and she rushes from her bed. Running, Sprinting. Not bothering to get her slippers, rushing down the stairs, gripping the railing to prevent herself from falling, she can’t miss them swiftly turning the corner and-

Her heart fissures.

No Sang-Tae. No Gang-Tae.

Yellow and green bags, cover the table instead of hot soup, rolled omelets, fluffy rice, quail eggs, and steamed tofu. Disappointment cripples her heart and she wonders if it will always hurt this much? Will she have to cauterize every memory she has with them? Burn them close so the scars can remind of what everything she lost and stop her from ever doing it again.

“Oh you’re awake, here we bought breakfast.” Sang-In presses a sandwich into her hands, sitting down to drink his own coffee and on auto-pilot she crosses the cold kitchen, all of its warmth sucked from the room with the removal of the brothers.

She turns to look at him with a curious eye. Recalling all those years ago, as she thrashed on her hotel bed, apparitions of her mother haunting her dreams, the rigor mortis in her dead hands not enough to stop her from squeezing the air from her lungs. His fist hand banged on the door, before kicking the door open and shaking her from her night terrors. His face had been ghastly as he looked upon her own wet face, words caught in his throat and she had lashed out when he tried to embrace her.

Vicious scratches like a wild cat, until he finally gave up and sat down on the ground beside her bed. Minutes passed before he started to hum a nameless tune, she had fallen asleep with his baritone hums soothing her back to sleep. After that, there was a minute shift in their relationship, her cruel words didn’t seem to land the same way as they had done before. He looked at her like he was seeing her for the very first time.

He was looking at her like that once more.

Then his eyes shifted and he picked up his own sandwich.

They ate in silence and she vaguely wondered where the doe had gone with her big Bambi eyes and warm hands. But she didn’t inquiry out loud, people were prone to leaving. She would stop letting that shock her.

Next day, Bambi as she had taken to calling her showed up. Containers of warm food tied in a bag. She forced herself not to think about where they had come from and instead, chewed the delicious food slowly savoring each burst of flavor on her tongue.

This went on for days. Some days it was just her and Sang-In and other days Bambi- Seung-Jae was there, and sometimes all three of them ate together. She got used to their constant bickering about everything. On days, when one was there without the other, she noticed that they would turn with complaints on their tongues and ready to engage in a verbal skirmish before remembering that the other wasn’t there. She realized that friendship wasn’t always nice. You were allowed to bicker and rage and then deflate and carry on.

She watched them do it and heard Sang-In’s words echo in her mind when she asked him about it, his face was as shocked as when she had asked him who he liked more, her or the two-faced bitch. He replied with a finger on his newly naked chin, “ Friendship is complicated because people are too. Anything good is always worth a fight.”

Gang-Tae had looked like all the fight had fled his body that day at the beach. No. All his fight for her. He was willing to fight for his brother but he had made it clear that she wasn’t worthy of fighting, of complications, she could be picked up for a good time and then abandoned when the show was over. She was temporary.

She stayed in bed for days after that heart-breaking revelation.

Only leaving to eat with Sang-In and Seung-Jae.

Sunlight trickled through her curtains, as she got dressed. All black armor wrapped around her body. The sleeves of her floor length black dress, puffed up daring anything to get close to this dangerous creature. The bodice of the dress was almost too tight across her chest, molding the shattered pieces of her heart into some semblance of normalcy. She completed her ensemble with a large black netted hat that draped into her face, partially covering her eye and her towering black heels.

Death, itself would shudder at the sight of her.

Sang-in and Seung-Jae both perked up in admonishment at seeing her in something other than a dressing down.

“Mun-Yeong, you dazzling beauty!” He sang standing, hands clapping together in joy, he walked around to meet her and saw that the frost that had lined her eyes these past few days had melted a little.

“Where is my sandwich?” She demanded, humming in acquiescence when Seung-Jae bounded over to hand it to her, eyes lighting up as she informed her that she looked better.

She felt better.

It was time to stop mourning she thought ironically enough, whilst looking like the human manifestation of a funeral itself.

“I have to go to a conference today, so I won’t be here for lunch.” Sang-In stated, pointed looking at his assistant and before she could read between his lines- you need to be here to have lunch with Mun-Yeong. She looked up and said, “I won’t be here today. I called the hospital. I’m going to teach my class today.”

She didn’t miss the silent conversation that transpired between the two but her mind was made up. She needed to keep moving, staying still wasn’t an option anymore.

“Okay, I’ll drive you.” Sang-In said leaving no room for argument, she wasn’t used to seeing this side of him. Did he care about her?

The smile that he was brandishing made her think the answer, might be yes.

The drive was pleasant, she watched the trees and foliage as the car zoomed past them. Cherry blossom petals falling as if begging someone to catch them.

Her heart raced as they pulled up in the parking lot, all the times she had done that before flashed in her head, arguing with Sang-Tae about the radio and who should sit next to Gang-Tae all washed over her. She let it. Taking a moment to feel it. Before opening the car door and closing the door on it.

“I’ll pick you up later.” Sang-In called, pulling out as Seung-Jae waved goodbye, soft smile spread across her innocent face. She ached to wave back but only nodded her head in affirmation, before gripping her bag in her hand. This was it.

I can’t believe she’s here. Did anyone tell Gang-Tae? What if they run into each other? Do you think they’re still dating?

She heard all the whispers from the nurses who seemed to have endless time for gossip but none for much less, she had the bruises to proof it, all except Ju-Ri who avoided her like she had the plague and that at least made sense to her, it was just like when they were kids. At least she was consistent.

Her class had ended a few minutes ago and to her surprise she had missed the idiot patient with the too-bright eyes and endless optimism. Everyone else had nodded in agreement as she told them that “The Little Mermaid” was a tale of making yourself smaller to receive love, that love wasn’t gentle or unconditional but rather controlling and retraining. Trade in your values, beliefs and even voice so you could feel love’s tight grip and even then it wasn’t enough.

A-reum- she recalled her name- would have stood up and revolted against her and her bleak outlook on love, would have argued that love was a compromise and sometimes you had to make sacrifices for it but they were worth it. It was easy for her to say that when she had someone who thought she was worth fighting for, Mun-Yeong thought.

She walked the hallway aimlessly, until her feet brought her to the cafeteria. The same one she had watched him eat in, so many people around him, unlike her people gravitated towards him. Like he had his own orbital pull, but was completely unaware of it or its power.

Finding an empty table in the back, she walked there not knowing why she felt the need to be here. She slid on the smooth solid plastic of the chair, placing the lunch Sang-In had forced into her hand this morning as she had left the car.

Soon, she could be a representative for Subways, the way they were consuming it daily.

The sandwich was cool to the touch, but she didn’t mind. She had high internal heat. She ate alone, taking bite after bite of the sandwich, eyes down at the table before she heard the chair across from her being pulled out. She didn’t look up at first, swallowing her bite and taking a deep breath before she willed her eyes to rise.

She saw something she had never seen before.

A warm motherly smiled greeted her.

“I didn’t know you were back already, you look cheerful.” Soon-Duk teased, taking in her outfit with an amused grin on her face.

“This is my happiest black.” She responded, almost jumping at the burst of laughter that her joke garnered and she shyly smiled back, taking another bite of her sandwich.

“What kind of lunch is that? I will get you some real food.” She moved faster, than Mun-Yeong thought a woman her age should but within seconds, she was back with her delicious home-made food and despite her sandwich she felt her mouth watering.

Lunch was a compilations of here try this, eat up, no put this with this, you like that? She ate until she thought her stomach would explode.

“How are you?” Chopsticks stopped midair on their journey to her mouth. How was she. Everyone was asking her that. She had never had so many people worry about her well-being before, it was unsettling. She wasn’t worth any of it. The sooner everyone followed his lead the better. Didn’t they know that everything she touched turned to ruins? She was a harbinger of death, a bomb that would kill everything in its wake.

She never got a chance to answer that innocuous question.

Ju-Ri and Gang-Tae were frozen, across the room. Eyes wide in trepidation as she ate with their mother-figure. She wondered if they were scared for her? Terrified, that even being this close to her would result in anguish?

“Thank you for the food.” She surprised even herself with the words, before standing and walking away, a warm hand on her wrist stopped her escape, “You’re welcome. You can come to me anytime.” She fought back the tears that threatened to spill at the compassionate offer. She nodded. Then continued her escape, never one to stray away from confrontation. She met their eyes, one filled with contempt and the other....too many emotions to read. It wasn’t shocking to see them together, if Mun-Yeong was a firecracker, then Ju-Ri was a wet rag. Dependable. Damp. Lackluster. Jealousy burned like acid in her stomach as she quickly left the room.

She never saw those dark soulful eyes, watch her very move, drinking her up like he was dehydrated and she was the only source of relief.

So lost in her, that he didn’t notice two pair of eyes watching his rapture.

Life continued, like it always did she thought bitterly. The Earth didn’t stop spinning for any of us. It had been days since her not encounter in the cafeteria, Sang-In had picked her up as he promised and there had been another not encounter, Sang-In’s eyes had hardened while opening the door for her and she turned around to meet those dark haunting eyes.

He stood silent, as his brother rambled on about... someone named Terry? The circuit when their eyes met had been electric, fizzing through the air. He broke the contact first, eyes gazing over with...something as he looked down at the guiding hand her manager had placed on her back as he ushered her into the car. His other arm looming over her head as he opened the car door for her. The proximity between their bodies minuscule. That sharp jaw had tightened before he seemed to snap out of it and grab Sang-Tae’s arm, changing their course.

Giving them a wide berth of space.

Are you jealous?

Her own words echoed in her mind, as she remembered his aloofness as the fan had sat besides her. Showering her with praise and glowering at her every move, enraptured in her as she was simultaneously enraptured in the pen. The table had jilted from the force with which he slammed the coffee down with, his body turned away from them in overly zealous nonchalance. Until she had started writing her number down, he couldn't stop his contemptuous glances then. She had seen the anger in his eyes has she had pressed this stranger’s hand onto her waist. She has reveled in his jealousy, mindlessly taking that as proof of his feelings for her.

His reprimands afterwards had not doused the flames at all, his jealousy was palpable then. The addition of words to his actions, painting an even clearer picture. You’re mine.

What a load of bullshit.

Was she is his Mang-Tae? Something you hide away in a drawer only to possessively clutch at it when someone else tried to touch it?

Anger blistered under her skin, recalling with disdain how happy that moment had once made her. She was a fool to confuse possession with love.

Not so long ago she had seen them as two sides of the same coin. But she was learning that she was wrong. Everything she had been taught about love was wrong, soured by her mother’s volatile love and her father’s discernible hatred.

His jealousy brought her no satisfaction now. It might nothing if he wouldn’t fight. She was ready to go to war for them and he could barely pass a punch. It wasn’t equal, and love should be.

Pale pinks and reds enveloped her body, her pink chiffon dress was soft against her skin, a sheer red covering outset the ensemble resembling Aphrodite herself, her hair was curled in soft waves that framed her face perfectly. The gold-heart necklace that Sang-In had gifted her this morning sat on the prominent clavicle of her chest. On her feet she donned bloody red heels, matching the red of her lipstick that she swiped across her lips.

Perfect.

“You look beautiful Ms. Ko Mun-Yeong!” The wide Bambi eyes glimmered in happiness, as Seung-Jae hopped up and clapped her hands, curling wand still in her hands.

They had been up since morning, the usually frightful art director had dragged her from her a bed with a quick birthday song- do you have a death wish?- before begging her to allow her to help her get ready today.

It was the first time, she had ever had someone besides her mother touch her hair. She had counted until the panic had subsided. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5......

Before looking up and seeing that her hair was all glossy, bouncy curls that she had never been able to achieve on her own. She had reached up to touch the wondrous curls before a soft hand smacked her own away.

She looked up in shock and met the terrified eyes of Bambi before she cracked a smile and watched the girl do the same, breathless laughter followed close behind.

“Don’t touch. Your hair is so silky it was really hard to make it curl, don’t ruin all my hard work.”

Sang-In pressed in soon after and her skin tingled from all the praises, she looked in the mirror and agreed with all of them. She looked pretty.

“She’s in a good mood.” She hears one of the patients whisper as she passes by, she can’t deny it. She is. Today she had allowed them to create their own fairy tales, instead of her usual lectures. Their first creative writing session and they were all engaged, stories about princesses and ogres and witches and she smiled as she listened in as a patient defended her decision to make the witch the protagonist and hero. There are good witches!

Their time soon comes to a close and she hears them all whine in displeasure, “Can we finish them next week and read them out loud?” The old man begs, with pleading eyes, flustered by their evident interest in her class, all she can muster up is a nod.

Without much thought, she finds herself going to the cafeteria knowing that she will get a few moments with Soon-Duk before they are interrupted.

She had always relapsed this morning, fingers aching to send him a message. To let him know that today was important. Before remembering that today wasn’t important to him, he had his fun and she needed to leave him alone.

His rejection still stung and she wouldn’t let it burn her today.

“Well don’t you look gorgeous.” She perked at the sound of her voice and couldn’t help but smile in response. Warm hands encompass her own and Soon-Duk, walks her to their table, still hand in hand. Mun-Yeong wonders how they look, if they look like mother and daught--

They lapse into a comfortable conversation, she regales her with stories of her class today and how ridiculous some of the stories had been. Soon-Duk’s gentile smile makes her realize that she sounds like a proud teacher speaking of her students and their mishaps. A weird feeling flutters in her stomach.

“There she is, the birthday girl!” A new voice interrupts their conversation, looking up she sees the kooky director himself, a stupid grin on his weathered face.

Shock blazes across her face, looking at Soon-Duk who winks in response before leaving without a word.

“....... my son is a businessman, you would like him! He has always been a big fan of your work. I think it would be wonderful if you two were to met!” She tunes back in, catching the final part of whatever the madman was talking about.

For whatever reason, she had learned that Soon-Duk liked the director, they teased each other mercilessly, bickering like an old married couple and every once in a while he would join them and bore her with his stories of courtship. How had had fought off a band of thugs to save Soon-Duk’s live with only his watch, as the woman in question rolled her eyes stuffing more food into his ridiculous mouth to shut him up.

This was the primary reason she found herself agreeing to meet his son later today, This will be his first time visiting me at work, he’s a very busy businessman!

She liked Soon-Duk a lot, she wondered what had made Ju-Ri such a two-faced bitch when she had that for a mom?

“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Mun-Yeong, happy birthday to you!” That woman must have been a magician in her past life because she suddenly reappeared with a small cake, perfectly round with heaps of sweet frosting and glazed fruits, strawberries and mangoes, her favorite.

Her cheeks were red from all the attention, the old man is singing terribly and loud, bringing everyone’s eyes to the tables, looks of curiosity and others called out “Happy birthday!” as well and she wasn’t prepared for any of this so she sits quietly, letting emotions she had never had the opportunity to feel wash over her- gratitude, joy, acceptance.

She felt her throat constrict from the emotions, her body overstimulated.

A perfectly cut slice was placed in front of her with a fork, “Eat up.” And she did. Treasuring every bite, like it was her last.

She felt their eyes before she even looked up and it was her time to leave. Happiness washed over her and without thinking, she pushed out of her chair and wrapped her arms around Soon-Duk. The warm body stiffened and she felt the rejection turn her blood ice cold, before those warm arms melted the frost away. Pulling her tighter into the spontaneous embrace. She hugged and let herself be hugged.

Remembering where she was and who was watching, she pulled way but not before those those hands were on her cheek, brushing away rogue tears she never knew had dropped.

Clearing her throat, she picked up what was left of her cake and started walking to the exit. She supposed she could give some to her idiot manager and his hapless assistant.

A hand shot out and grabbed her elbow, and when she looked up and saw who the hand was attached to- her reaction was immediate, she ripped herself out of his hold and felt fury bubbling under her skin. “Don’t touch me.”

She watched her words, stab him like daggers and his hand squeezed again as if still feeling the phantom touch of her arm.

He wasn’t doing good job at hiding his hurt at her words and actions and she momentarily imagined the satisfaction she would feel if she just smashed the cake into his face. Smeared it all over him and fled without a word. The cake was delicious though and she could feel Soon-Duk’s watchful eyes still on her.

That wasn’t who she wanted to be anymore.

She mustered up her courage and walked away, she had imagined what she would do if he ever approached her again, plead for him to stay, ask him to hold her, fall into his arms. Now that he was here, she still felt the desire to just forgive him but.. nothing had really changed. He was still the same coward and she was tired of being strong on her own.

“Happy birthday.” His soft statement, made her pause for a moment,. Her heart telling her turn around and run into his arms, feel his love for however long he allowed.

But she knew that she deserved more than he was willing to give. She wanted to be a faithful wife, not a dirty mistress.

So, she kept walking, until she was outside and sat on the bench, the one where they first met, when she had grabbed hold of him as her destiny, it was now time to let him go and let herself in.

The day was supposed to be enough, he wasn’t lying when he told her that he had been waiting for that day all this life. Experiencing it with her had made the day even more bittersweet, they had so much fun. Her smiling face had been the prettiest sight and then he had kissed her.

A quick press of hunger lips, arms folded behind his back to stop them from dragging her into his arms and never letting go. it had been pure torture, resisting her the night before, she had looked at him with those ravenous eyes and sweet mouth and he wanted to let himself be eaten alive.

But this was going to be his only day and he didn’t want their first kiss to be a drunken mess of tongues and spit, he wanted the kiss that had been taken from him all those years ago, when he had handed her his heart and she had trampled all over it, leaving him bleeding at her magnificent gate.

That kiss had awakened emotions in his soul that he didn’t know he was capable of feeling, and that should have been the wake up call he needed. But he ignorantly thought that he could have his cake and eat it too, and then Sang-Tae had taken his heart out and slashed it into small pieces. The water that had hit him was nothing compared to the guilt that crushed him, a tsunami wave that shoved him to the ground.

It was all his fault, he knew that now. He had wanted too much and dreamed a dream that was never his, he had let his brother down and betrayed his mother. You must always protect your brother, that is why I gave birth to you.

He failed.

But Sang-Tae had forgiven him, hugged him for the first time in years of his own volition. And then everything was fine.

Her crying face had haunted him in his dreams and he woke up in cold sweats, her screams still ringing in his ear, I’m a bomb! I don’t disappear after, I explode and kill everyone! Then dream Mun-Yeong had exploded, her limps sprawled all over and he woke up with silent screams.

He ignored the dreams and the pain in his chest. This was all for the best, Jae-Su had agreed and reminded him daily. He didn’t need anymore excitement in his life, his brother was enough.

He didn’t need to celebrate her birthday with her, they weren’t a couple. He wasn’t hurt watching her leave a room every time he entered. He wasn’t jealous of Ju-Ri’s mother for getting to hold her, a beautiful sight in her airy pink dress, her new hair in curls that he had never seen before. He hadn’t yearned to pluck her from the mother’s arm and hold her in his own, he was fine and everything was fine.

He didn’t mean to touch her but she had been so close and looked so exquisite, he heard Ju-Ri’s exhale of surprise when his hand reached out to graze her skin and he savored its softness before she had ripped herself away, her words cutting deep, dagger sharp.

His words had stalled her, but she kept walking not looking back and he wondered what was that breaking noise he heard so loudly in his head?

“Let’s go sit with my mom.” Ju-Ri stated exasperation profound in her tone, he wanted to tell her to go away and chase after Mun-Yeong.

He followed her to the table, sitting down before her mother started to share out their respective meals, seeming to have endless supplies of food at all times. He was always given the most, he noted with shameful pride.

“Well I got her to agree, to meet my son. I think they’ll really hit it off!” The director exclaimed, pure glee in his eyes as he almost danced in his seat.

“Leave the girl alone, she has enough on her plate. If your son is anything like you, she’s better off running for the hills!”

“I told you, he takes after his mother. He is a gentleman if I say so myself, when I mentioned it was her birthday he was adamant about picking up a gift for her!” He said with a voice laced with pride that only a parent could have.

Gang-Tae felt every muscle in his body harden at his words and the realization at what and who they were talking about.

He devoured all the food before him to stop himself from, lashing out at the director like he had with Sang-In. She’s mine. She’s mine.

It wasn’t his place to think that, much less act on it. He had said cruel things to her, thrown back all the affection she had given him because she was right he was a coward. He didn’t deserve her. He knew that. But knowing that didn’t stop him from wanting to punch the director in his face as he spouted out more information about his perfect son.

Who was perfect for Mun-Yeong.

He couldn’t sit here and listen to this any longer, even his patience wasn’t infinite. He launched himself out of his seat, ignoring Ju-Ri’s cries and her mother’s grasping hand. Tossing the rest of his food out, he pounded out of the cafeteria. Never seeing the twinkle of victory in the director’s eyes. Or Soon-Duk’s slap to his arm, chastising him for his obvious ploy.

He distracted himself by actually doing his job, something the other nurses seemed to be immune to. Nearly punching Cha-Young in his smug face, when he had boldly asked if he and Mun-Yeong were over and if he wouldn’t mind if he asked her out. His only response was a growl and the slam of his locker door, the lazy nurse had taken his hint and quickly ran off to gossip some more. “Sheesh it was just a question, she’s crazy but she is hot.”

He eagerly awaited the end of the day, counting the minutes until he could go home and recharge.

There was no preparation for the scene that greeted him at the hospital’s entrance. Mun-Yeong stood with an overwhelming bouquet of flowers, held tenderly in her small hands. Vibrant pinks, reds and whites that matched her outfit perfectly. She was smiling that soft smile, that usually came before her wrinkle eye smile. He had only ever seen that smile directed at him and felt his heart constrict in jealousy, that someone else was on the receiving end.

It felt like a sucker punch to the gut, when his eyes leveled with the someone else. That fucking guy from the coffee shop. He felt satisfaction at being correct about this guy, he was a stalker, how did he even know where she worked? Had they spoken after that first meeting? No. She had told him that she had not been interested in him at all, as she waxed poetry about the beauty of the stolen pen.

Mun-Yeong was many things but she wasn’t a liar.

All the female nurses cooed at the flowers and congratulated her as she struggled to wrap her arms about the expanse of the flowers. Coffee shop guy reached out to help her and the desire to beat him to a pulp was almost staggering.

Then the director swaggered out and placed a hand on the stalker’s shoulders and with another sucker punch to his gut uttered, “My son, you never do anything in moderation huh? This is quite the bouquet for a first time meeting.” Despite the reprimand in his words, he looked jubilant at the sight of his son, his son. How was this possible?

“Sorry dad, but actually we met before. She was kind enough to take a picture with me. When you told me she was here, I knew it was the perfect opportunity to surprise her on her birthday.” His answering smile made Gang-Tae sick to this stomach.

He didn’t have enough resolve to watch this. His hand on her shoulder with undeserved familiarity. Her sweet smile in return, as she let herself be guided away by the father-son duo.

He stomped out of the hospital, ignoring everyone’s calls of goodbye.

His foul mood lasted all evening resulting in his brother hiding away in his tent, after he had snapped at him for spilling some milk on the floor. He couldn’t stop thinking about her with him. What were they doing? Where they still together? Was she smiling at him? It was driving him crazy, imagining her looking at someone else the way she used to look at him.

The cool rooftop air did nothing to cool off his anger.

“You really have some nerve, don’t you?”

He turned at the voice, meeting the cool eyes of Soon-Duk, calmly walking over to the table and pushing him over to make room for her to sit.

He didn’t respond to her biting words.

“She told me what you said to her. If you don’t want her, then let her be happy. You owe her at least that much.” She continued on and his eyes filled up with tears, knowing she was right he had to let her go, she did deserve happiness and he couldn’t give it to her.

His job was taking care of his brother and nothing else. It didn’t matter if the thought of her with someone else made him want to throw himself off this roof. it didn’t matter if she was his first thought in the morning and his last thought at nights. It didn’t matter if he dreamed of hugging her and kissing her and loving her. None of it mattered.

Then why was he crying?

He cried long and hard, finally letting himself feel. Tears scorching as they cascaded down his face and he felt warm arms circle around him. Holding him as he shook, patting his head soothingly, before harshly smacking him. “Stop torturing yourself already, what do you really want?”

He was scared to answer. The answer was clear but to state it out loud was to acknowledge it and make it real. Was he ready for that? Once he said it he would need to do something, that thought made him hesitate.

But the thought of her loving someone else, spurred him on.

“Mun-Yeong.”

The hospital was abuzz with gossip when he entered the next morning, he tried his best to tune them out, but could’t escape the talk of their date. They had left together, and both entered his car, the female nurses gushing at his chivalry, he had rushed forward opening every door for her. Carefully placing the flowers in the backseat before, driving off to enjoy a quiet dinner.

He wouldn’t lose her again. Destiny had brought them back together and he had stupidly fought tooth and nail to work against it, he was done with that.

He was ready to fight for her.

But first he had to speak to his brother, after work he sprinted home, nervous and anxious but determined, he didn’t have to choose. They could all be happy again, living in the castle together. At least he hoped they could.

Convincing Sang-Tae that he wasn’t losing him had not been easy. He cried and screamed and retreated to his tent, he waited him out, repeating “I’ll always be your little brother.” Until his brother’s frantic cries finally stopped and the sound of the zipper opening flooded the room.

“Why can’t it just be us two? We’re brothers all we need is each other, we’re brothers.” He repeated with sad eyes, looking like the world was crashing down on him and Gang-Tae almost lost his resolve. Mun-Yeong’s face flashed in his mind and it came back with a vengeance.

“Because she makes me happy too. You both make me happy and I don’t want to choose. I want to be happy with both of you.” He answered honestly, smile lighting up his face thinking about the times they had all had dinner together. Smiling and laughing as they talked about their day, Sang-Tae sharing his stories about the pizza shop as they both looked on with fondness.

“Happy. Gang-Tae is happy.” He felt his brother’s finger trace his smile with juvenile innocence, and he smiled even harder because he was happy and when he got her back, he would be even happier.

They fell asleep shortly after, he cuddled his brother until his breathing was steady, drifting off to thoughts of her dark tempting eyes and candied smiles.

He peeked out the closet door, waiting for that familiar head of lustrous short hair and impeccable fashion. She was looking radiant today in midnight blue, he reached out with trembling hands and yanked her into the small room with him. Her indignant, “What the hell are you doing?” was cut short by the slam of the door. She pulled her hand from his grasp, looking up at him in the dark before her vision settled. Her lips formed a perfect o.

“You’ve been avoiding me.” He accused boldly, recalling all the moments he had attempted to speak to her this week only to see her spin around and walk run in the other direction. Once, he had actually chased her only to collide with the director who needed help picking out a tie for his meeting with a donor, he had looked back in annoyance as he was pulled further and further away from her. Then another time, he had arrived to lunch early, bullying Cha-Young into switching breaks with him.

As soon as she saw him approaching, she had bolted with all her food in her hand looking like a squirrel hibernating.

He ignored the amused eyes of Soon-Duk, who appeared to be enjoying his suffering immensely for someone who had told him to stop torturing himself.

So, now here they were. In this closet. She reached for the doorknob and he extended an arm over her shoulder, forcing the door shut.

“What are you doing? Do you have a death wish? Let me out!” She pushed at his chest in petulance, he didn’t budge even an inch.

He placed his other arm over her shoulder and bracketed her in, leaning in close and watching her face. She looked beautiful, face flushed with anger, he really hoped she didn’t have any sharp objects on her.

“We need to talk.”

“I don’t want to talk.”

“Fine, then I’ll talk and you can listen.”

She tried to bolt again, trying to pry his hands off the door, even at one moment seeming to think about kicking him but he caught her leg with his own and pressed her into the door.

“Stop. I just want to talk.” He pleaded with her.

“I don’t care what you have to say. Leave me alone.”

“Mun-yeong please....”

Her eyes softened momentarily before the frost grazed back over them.

“What do we need to talk about? if you’re looking for fun I can’t help you, firecrackers only go off once. “ She spat back at him, going for the jugular. The desire to check his throat for blood was immediate.

He knew those words would be thrown back at him. He deserved them, when he had said them he knew they would hurt her to her core. But he said it anyway, because he was a fucking coward. He had lied to so many people around himself, including himself, he had felt trapped in the vortex of his own deceptions. So he lashed out and pushed her away, angry at himself. As soon as he had uttered the words out loud, he knew that he had damaged whatever trust they had build with tentative hands. He had taken a sledge hammer to the foundation of their relationship.

“I’m sorry I said that, I’m so sorry. I never should have said those things to you. You were right, I am a fucking coward- her eyes widened at his curse- and I pushed you away because you scared me. What I was feeling for you scared me. I want you so badly, that it terrifies me. But I’m ready to fight now, Mun-Yeong I’m ready to be strong for us. “ He poured himself out at her feet, giving her all the ammunition to hurt him and trusting that she wouldn’t.

But like he said he had been the one to break their trust.

Her cold laughter made him take a step back, “Oh you’re ready to fight now? Should I be thankful? Should I drop everything and follow you like a lost puppy? Oh wait, I already did that. You told me to get lost. So about you take your own advice Gang-Tae, stop stirring up my miserable life and get lost.”

She pushed him out back, harder than before, finally managing to escape, the door slamming behind her.

Damn.

That could have gone better. But he wasn’t giving up. Not now, he had hurt her and winning her back wasn’t going to be easy.

Their game of cat and mouse continued, with her running every time he was in her vicinity and he watched with anguish as he started to pick her up after her classes.

The first time, she had been on her phone talking to Sang-In berating him for his tardiness, “Get here now or I’ll kill you.” When he had showed up, and he despised the way she smiled at him, hanging up without a goodbye and walking into his open arms. His hands had soothed down the material of her baby blue sundress and Gang-Tae wanted to break each of his fingers.

“Sang-In told me he was running late and asked me to pick you up.” He offered as a way of explanation, handing her an iced coffee, which she happily took placing the straw between her plush mouth, sucking hard.

He tightened his fist, watching that punk, watch her with hunger in his eyes.

“Okay, I won’t kill him tonight then. I’m starving, what are you going to feed me?” She asked him as they left, arms linked, that was supposed to be him. He had taken those moments for granted, her arm linked through his, her adorable face as she consumed pounds of grilled meat and still demanded more. Now he had to watch another man, take his place and make her happy.

He didn’t know how much longer he could do this.

Every time he saw them together it was like salt in his wound.

He knew this was all his fault, he had brought this on himself. But did it have to hurt this much? Did his heart have to throb this way?

After the closet incident, it became impossible to find her around the hospital. It was like she knew exactly where to hide so he couldn’t find her.

It was time to fight harder then.

The gated loomed ominously before him as he pushed them open with determined hands. He knew that she was home today, he had Sang-Tae text her to make sure, as they were talking again, best friends once more as he was now the outcast. Unlike when he tried texting her, she had immediately responded to Sang-Tae, I am home, you can come over if you want. We can have fun.

It had been difficult, stopping Sang-Tae from getting dressed and taking up her offer, “That is what best friends do. They hang out and have fun. I have to go!”

He had distracted him with Teary, explaining that Teary needed his attention right now, it was still early days since the dinosaur had joined their family.

With a deep breath, he climbed the marble decaying stairs and put the key in the lock, twisting it open. He had never gotten a chance to return it to her and he was thankful for that now. The door creaked open and he glared at it with betrayal, this would only work if he caught her by surprise.

He heard her sultry voice, coming from the kitchen, “I don’t need a babysitter you can go out with the two-faced bitch. if I get bored I’ll call Sang-Tae or Daniel.” He ignored the pain that shot through his heart at not being one of her options. “ He is working late, but he promised to call me after and drop off food. Okay, have a good time. if she gets drunk and hits you, make sure to hit her back!”

She meandered out, still unaware of his presence, aimlessly scrolling through her phone, long silk nightgown sheathing her lithe body, the silk draped into each and every crevice of her body and left his mouth dry. Parched.

“We need to talk.” She jumped at the sound of his voice, grabbing a.....lamp defensively and readying it for her attack. Until she realized it was him, she only lowered the lamp marginally. He was going to take that as a small victory.

“How did you get in here? Are you stalking me now? What is wrong with you? Get out!” She fired off her questions and command, all in one breath, her voice higher and frantic.

“No, we need to talk. I need you to listen to me.”

“I heard you the last time, you’re ready now. I HEARD YOU. I just don’t care.”

He sidestepped the lamp as it flew from her hands, and hugged her close to him, feeling the tremors run through her body. She was wild in his embrace, scratching and fighting to break free, he pinned her tighter. Holding on for the ride.

“I want you, and I think you still want me too.”

“No, I don’t. You were just something to pass the time. I’ve moved on now.”

He marched on, “Does he make you feel like I do? Look me in the eyes.”

He grabbed her chin in his hands, gentle but firm, forcing her eyes to meet his and he watched them surge with anger, so much anger but he also saw lust and he was going to cling to that.

“It doesn’t matter. “ She twisted out of his hold, sprinting to the stairs, he followed right behind her, grabbing her wrist and jerking her around to face him.

“It does matter. Answer me, does he make you feel like I do?!” He roared now, his anger so close to the surface, he refused to spend another minute without her, refused to watch her run into someone else’s arms. They went hand in hand, bomb and safety pin.

She refused to meet his eye, vengeful tears filling her eyes, “No, he doesn’t.” And victory sped through him, his smile was instant, before it fell, “And I don’t want him to. I don’t ever want to give someone that kind of control over me. I like what he makes me feel, it’s easy and fun. it doesn’t hurt like this does. “

He should leave her alone. Walk out the door and through the gate. Walk all the way back home. Eat dinner with Jae-Su, Ju-Ri, her mother and Sang-Tae. Should go to sleep and accept his loss. Accept that he ruined the best thing that ever happened to him. Should be happy that she has something fun and easy.

Well, he doesn’t do any of that. Doesn’t listen to his head, that’s telling him to accept his defeat gracefully.

He eats her mouth, there is no other way to describe the ravenous way that he devours her, prying her mouth open with his tongue, swirling around, their tongues meet in a heated duel. Presses her hard, into the wall, hands lost in her hair as she tugs at his shirt, exposing his hot stomach to the cool air. At first, she fights him, biting him hard enough to draw blood, she is vicious. Then her kisses soften and her nails rake over the crevice of his abs, leaving welts in their wake, he moans at the painpleasure. He trails down her elegant neck, sucking the hot skin into his mouth, doing his damnest to leave a mark.

She pushes him back and he smirks, unashamed. She looks absolutely wrecked, panting on the wall, her nipples hard through the silk of her nightgown. He can’t wait to roll them through his teeth and watch her body writhe in ecstasy.

Time stands still, as they stand panting, eyes glazed over in pleasure, waiting to see who will make the next move.

She does.

She throws herself into his waiting arms and he hooks his hands under her ass, drawing her close as she sticks her wet, slithering tongue into his mouth. She kisses like how she does everything else, explosively. Biting at his lip, forcing him to open his mouth wider to accommodate her demanding tongue.

He walks backwards, praying that he won’t drop her, she might actually kill him then. Until his knees hit the couch and he collapses onto it, taking her with him. He moans as she straddles his lap, the heat from between her thighs is searing hot and he grinds up into her, dragging her down to meet his thrust.

Finally, their kisses breaks, both taking a gulp of much needed air, a string of spit connects their mouth, before she licks her lips, splitting it.

“Only I can make you feel this way.” He proclaims with confidence, everything they have been through has brought them to this moment. They aren’t perfect and there’s still so much they need to learn, but they can do it together.

She sits in his lap, eyes shining, taking in his declaration before she suddenly grips the bottom of her nightgown and slips it over her head and then he has a lap full of half-naked Mun-Yeong. Her rose-petal pink panties glow on her pale skin, the moonlight trickling in, makes her look ethereal and he almost pinches himself to make sure this is real.

He comes alive.

Running his hands from her neck, between the valley of her breast, down to her wet center, bringing his finger to this mouth for a taste, he moans as he licks her essence away hungry for more.

She watches in fascination, before grabbing his shirt and dragging it over his head. Her eyes rake across his broad chest, tampering down into a tight narrow waist, he already knows that she likes his body. She had looked like she wanted to lick him all over last time. Unlike that time, he doesn’t push her away as she presses her body against his. Pleasure shooting through him as her nipples catch on his.

They spend minutes just grinding on each other, his hard dick presses up into her moist opening, and she bounces on his lap, breathless moans leaving her swollen mouth every time they meet.

“Please, please I need more.” She begs prettily, the p popping off her lips and he wants to make her beg even more, wants to make her a filthy mess on the couch.

He hoists her to the side, chuckling at her huff of indignation, his baby has never been patient but right now he can’t blame her. He wishes he was inside her, like yesterday. As quickly as he can he rips his pants off and pauses at his boxers, his swollen length standing at attention, the head visible through the slit.

He is unprepared for her mouth to slide down his entire length, her hand gripping the base that is still in the boxers. She swallows around him and he fights to keep his hips still, her wet mouth is obliterating all of his thoughts until all he can think is fuck, fuck, fuck ,fuck.

That sinful mouth, suctions around his heavy dick, licking at his sensitive head causing him to buck up, deeper into the cavern of her mouth. She toys with him, bringing him to the edge only to, slide off completely and start all over.

Her eyes stay on his the entire time, and it is pure unadulterated gratification, watching his length move in her mouth, in and out, in and out, it is hypnotic and he is lost in the pleasure. With a smirk she releases his cock, with a loud slurp, tongue coming out to lick him from her lips, lest she miss anything.

With strong hands, he seizes her and tosses her over the arm of the chair. Putting her dripping, wet pussy on full display, he pries her thighs open and laps up all the goodness. He has never done this before, but is eager to please and porn was a great teacher. The girls in those videos had never been able to get him this hard, their moans fake and repetitive. But now with Mun-Yeong naked and squirming in front of him, he understands why men have gone to war for this.

He would happily wage war for the chance to taste her.

With broad strokes of his tongue, he licks at her folds, biting at her enlarged clit, chest puffing out in pride at her answering squeaks of pleasure, he presses his tongue inside the hot tunnel and she thrusts back in reckless abandon.

Riding his face, now. Bouncing on his tongue and demanding more more more so he slips in a finger and the noise she lets us could rise the devil, himself. It is music to his ears. He thrusts his finger in while exploring her with his tongue, both scraping out every drop of pleasure from her body.

With weak hands, she reaches back and forces his head away from his meal. He sneaks in one more lick, before allowing her to push him away.

Their pants reverberate off the walls, he looks over and she is still hanging over the arm of the couch, looking every inch the temptress she is. He grips himself in his hands, pumping up and down, squeezing at the base to draw this out, he still has to make her beg after all.

She watches him over her shoulder with rapt eyes, reaching back to touch her own wet pussy, pressing in two fingers and curling them roughly inside herself.

She draws those sinfully wet fingers out with a soft squelch and beckons him closer, with the seductive curl of her fingers. He flies across the couch, easily covering the small space that separates them.

He drags her back into his lap, with her back facing him, grinding into her hot core, groaning when his cock head dips in but moving away before she can fully sheathe him. He takes her soft breast into his arms, rubbing the nipples between his fingers and kissing her neck, as she wraps her arms over her head and around his neck. Giving him full control and access to her body.

He sucks hickey after hickey into her skin, in places others will see and hidden places just for his eyes. She is a whining mess in his lap, lifting up to catch his cock, but he snaps his hip away every time, only allowing it to slide through the wet folds. He rubs his dick against her clit and she starts to wail, nails scratching at his shoulders and that’s going to hurt tomorrow.

He looks forward to it.

She twists her head around, finding his lips again, distracting them from the hickey they were sucking into her neck. They wrestle for control, pushing and pulling, tongues meeting into a wet battle and he blames that diversion for his surprise as she lifts up and sinks slowly onto him, engulfing his fattened cock in an indescribable heat.

The connection is like a life wire.

Their hips smack together, colliding over and over, he can’t help but look down and watch his cock disappearing into her, captivated by humanity’s oldest dance. She rides him hard, feet planted on the side of his thick thighs, begging him to go harder, faster, more as he squeezes her jiggling breasts and pushes even deeper into her depth.

Fucking fuck fuck.

Gradually, she starts to slow down, the movement of her hips faltering, he feels the fatigue in his own body but desire pumps like adrenaline through his veins and he wraps his hands around her slim waist, pushing her into the couch, her chest flat with the couch and her ass high in the air. His cock never slips from her body.

He fucks into her hard, delighted at how deep he can move in this position, she thrusts back meeting him, and he does it again, watching her ass shake with the impact. His broad hands gripping the globes of her ass, spreading them, to get a clearer view of his dick inside her.

His movements quicken as he feels the end drawing closer, he doesn’t want it to end, wants to be with her like this forever. But his balls hang heavily, waiting to expel all their fluids into her willing hole, that clutches and pulls him back with every thrust. Reaching around and pressing his fingers to her mouth, he pants, “Suck.” She sloppily takes his fingers, when they feel wet enough he pulls them out from her mouth, praising her, “You’re so good baby, so good to me.”

She grows wetter at his praise and presses back even harder, and he winds his fingers down to her engorged clit and rubs against it until she breaks apart underneath him, he wraps her up in his arms and rides her through her orgasm, feels her juices gushing out and the clenching of her walls, shoves him over the precarious edge he’s been on. His thick cum coats her walls, shooting out as he falls in a heap over her back, just catching the arm of the couch before he could bash his head into it.

Euphoria washes over him in waves, until his vision rights itself and he sees Mun-Yeong still beneath him, fearing that he’s crushing her, he uses the last of his strength to lift his body off hers, flopping onto the other side of the couch.

“Will you be my girlfriend?” Her heads snaps over to his in shock, he looks back at her, his eyes wide and hopeful. Some might say that they do things backwards, but he just likes to think they move to the beat of their own drum.

She rolls her eyes before nodding yes. “if you ever make me cry again, I’ll kill you. “

He pumps a victorious fist into the air, take that coffee shop guy.

They spend the rest of the night, cuddling in her bed as he caresses her head and promises to make her happy for as long as she will allow him to. He whispers apologies onto her skin, until they fall into peaceful slumber.

He isn’t trying to stake his claim or anything domineering like that, but when he sees Mun-Yeong sequestered in a dark corner with Daniel the next day, he wanders over and catches the tail end of their conversation.

“I’ve had a lot of fun with you, but there’s someone else I was trying to forget. I hope you understand.”

“I do, spending time with you has been amazing. if you ever change your mind, I’ll be here.”

Yeah, that’s not going to happen. Fuck you very much.

Mun-Yeong starts to walk away, making her way the exit, leaving Daniel despondent in the hallway when he calls out to her, speeding up to catch her by her waist, she stops and rises an eyebrow, challenging him to act and he accepts it happily.

He drags her into a kiss, pressing his tongue into her mouth while stroking the hairs at the nape of her neck. Her immediate moan, making arousal sear through his blood. Imagining how else he could get her moaning.

“Oh my god, they’re kissing!” Sun Byeol’s high-pitched voice reaches his ear and he kisses her harder for good measure.

Pulling away, he sees Mun-Yeong roll her eyes again but he also sees satisfaction in those eyes, she’s just as possessive as he is. She secretly loves that she brings out his primal side, so different from the blushing shy Gang-Tae.

He looks over at coffee shop guy with a smirk, before walking out the hospital with his girl on his arm.

He was never letting her go. Destiny had brought them together, but they had made the decision to stay that way.

#its okay to not be okay fic #its okay to not be okay #psycho but it's okay #moon gang tae #ko mun yeong #healing romance #graveling #smutty smut smut #filthy gutter trash #but like also romance #stole Ju-Ri's mom #I said I would #sorry not sorry

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ashintheairlikesnow · 4 years

Note

ooo how about. “How could you do this? To them of all people?”

CW: Trauma dreams/PTSD, brief remembered noncon reference

"How could you do this?" Laken spits the words, their voice sharp-edged, the danger of a knife to the neck in their tone. "To Chris, of all people?"

"I fail to see why I should have to answer any questions from you," His Sir replies, all soft consonants and drawling vowels. He sits back, fingers templed on his desk, and his low chuckle seems to bounce and echo around the room.

Chris, curled up in a ball in his place underneath, back pressed to the wood, weeps openly, but neither of them ever hears him in the dreams. He is always a silent witness who can't escape the scent of Oliver's cologne, the weight of his legs trapping him here.

If he can get out, Laken will see him, will save him. But he never gets out. He never escapes.

"You have to tell me where he is," Laken demands, their voice shaking. They slam a hand down on his Sir's desk and Chris jumps, with a squeak.

Sir's hand grips into Chris's hair, which isn't blue, in his dreams. "Well," He says, soft and sweet. "I simply don't know."

"I'm here," Chris says, shouts, screams. "I'm right, right, right here!"

But Laken never hears him.

They leave.

And Chris wakes up, every time, with the sense of Sir's hand in his hair, covered in sweat, and the weight of a dead man on top of him, the sense of a dead man's horrific love inside him.

He tries not to wake them when he cries.

#chris the strawberry blond romantic #laken mamani: frankly i want to date them #dreaming whumpee #nightmares #ptsd tw #trauma dream #noncon touching #referenced noncon

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princess-of-the-worlds · 4 years

Note

So exciting to see that you're taking KC prompts ♡ Maybe something with Caroline as a queen and Klaus as a war hero that falls for her.

Reunion

Peasants and nobles alike mill in the stone courtyard of the castle, chatting, snacking on finger foods from the platters floating about, and generally intermingling like never before, but Klaus, adrift on the balcony, feels distanced from them. It matters not that the citizens of Mystic Falls were who he’d fought in the war for.

Klaus had never felt part of them, part of Mystic Falls. They’d scorned him for his bastard parentage, scorned his mother for being a witch, scorned his entire family - all seven of his siblings - for their poverty. And now, they have thrown this ball in his honor.

He would have left Mystic Falls far behind in his youth if it hadn’t been for his sunshine-haired love and for the years-long war.

But his sunshine-haired love is long-gone, married off to some prince. And it is time for Klaus to find his own bride and settle down in a cottage near the woods. The kingdom won’t allow him to forget the blood spilled, his family’s blood spilled, all the sacrifices he made, every friend he lost.

His fingers tighten over the stone railing with such force that his knuckles whiten. He turns away from the balcony, unable to bear to look down at the courtyard any more.

Fools, he thinks. Everyone of them. They have no idea that actual costs their so-called peace came at.

Klaus enters the castle and turns down a corridor. The castle is a maze, but a few more corners and he’s sure he’ll find a secret exit.

“Klaus?” comes a lilting voice from behind him, a familiar voice that compels him to turn around.

He does, and his lips part in shock.

“Caroline?” Klaus whispers.

There she stands, his sunshine-haired love, looking resplendent in a gown woven from the finest gossamer strands of dark blue, richly-dyed, with sparkling beading on the bodice. The train of her grown sweeps between her feet as she strides forward, giving her the appearance of floating. Her curls are pinned up, with flowers tucked between the locks, a delicately-woven silver circlet perched along the crown of her head.

It’s the same circlet her mother Elizabeth had worn as queen.

“Klaus,” says Caroline softly, tears glimmering in her cerulean eyes as she draws near. They spill down her smooth cheeks. She’s openly weeping when she’s finally close enough to press her gentle hand to his. “I’ve missed you.”

“I thought you were married,” Klaus whispers, “and sent away.”

Caroline nods. “I was to be. But then my father died, just after you were sent to war. And it was left to me to lead Mystic Falls into peace.” She inhales sharply, gazing up at him in awe. Klaus is sure he mirrors her expression. “I read every new battle’s list of the dead to make sure you weren’t on it.”

“We heard of a new queen,” admits Klaus. “I thought it might have been Elena or Katerina.”

“No, it was me,” Caroline confirms, lifting her head regally. “I did what I could to keep the peace while our army was fighting in the war.” She hesitates. “And now that the war is over, it is time for me to wed.”

Klaus dares not take a breath. “Do you have your eye on anyone?” he asks.

She smiles, an expression like a warm beam of sunlight on a cold winter morning. “I do indeed. A certain returned war hero. I was meant to ask him for his hand today?” The lines around her eyes crinkle. “Do you think he will say yes?”

“I think,” begins Klaus, lips quirking into a genuine smile, “that he would be a fool to say no.”

#nik answers asks #klaroline #klaus mikaelson #caroline forbes #klaroline drabble #destellolunar

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diindjariin · 4 years

Text

soft hands (din djarin x reader) - part i here

Rating: t+

Word Count: 3k

Warnings: Idk what my deal is but, like past i, this one also has a dude being creepy. Says sexual stuff to reader but it isn’t super explicit.

Excerpt: You’re both sitting at the bar and you notice that the seats next to you and Mando are both empty, despite the place being particularly crowded. You notice the way people look, how they both stare openly and avoid the glint of his armor like the plague at the same time. It’s mesmerizing, the affect he has on others. It’s been months since you joined him and you feel you understand him quite well, especially with the breadcrumbs of his past he’s shared with you. At his core he’s kind, gentle; the sort of man who’d raise a family in the country and would never raise his voice to his wife. He’s bitterly sarcastic, and though he doesn’t speak to strangers much, he talks to you. This you chalk up to his way of life, which discourages friendships and puts focus on criminals and corpses. His past, his upbringing, stifles the man he is when he’s alone with you and the kid and forms a quiet, hard exoskeleton that looks a lot like Beskar armor.

A/N: If you thought part i was fluffy.......... strap in foundlings.

Life with the Mandalorian is… not what you expected.

Granted, you didn’t have many expectations. Not real ones, anyway. You imagined the word danger followed him wherever he went and pictured evil around every corner, bounty hunters with blasters and arsonists like the ones who destroyed your home. You imagined yourself always on edge, looking behind your shoulder anytime you and the Mandalorian and the Child left the Razor Crest.

This was true for the first week or so. Well, not the bounty hunters hiding around every corner. But the nervousness, the paranoia, remained. You’re not one to be afraid of ghosts, but the men who kidnapped you left behind a small haunting. Mando noticed, too.

“What’s wrong?” He asks. The three of you sit at a table in the corner of a small restaurant on some backwater planet. You’d stopped for food and fuel and now the three of you sat together, Mando feeding the child soup while you ate your own. You’d assumed you’d be feeding the little one by the spoonful but Mando had taken the spoon right out of your hand, pushing your own soup towards you and nodding down at it. You smiled and ate on your own, but without the Child to distract you, you began to feel antsy again, your gaze shifting across the room slowly and deliberately.

“What? Nothing,” you say in return, forcing your eyes to meet the slit in his visor. “Why?”

“You keep looking around the room. Did somebody… do something?” He pauses before he asks his question and you feel as though he’s choosing his words carefully, leaving the question open-ended so you’ll be more forthcoming. He’s relaxed, left arm resting over the back of the booth. The child sits on his left side and with his right hand the Mandalorian feeds him. Now, though, the spoon rests loosely in his fingers and his attention is completely on you.

“No, no, it’s just,” you shift your gaze and look down at the tabletop instead, “I guess I just want to be on guard, you know? For the kid. What if someone’s behind the trashcan, ready to hurt him as soon as one of us lets our guard down?” He doesn’t respond for some time so you raise your eyes to look at him again. The Mandalorian stares right at you, silent. You can only imagine what his expression says, behind the mask. He leans forward, arms folding across each other and elbows resting on the tabletop.

“My guard is never down. Relax. Leave the protecting to me, okay?” You smile at that, shyly, cheeks tinting a pretty shade of coral.

“O-okay,” you respond, reaching across the table to pat his hand, “I’ll remember that. But you should remember to do that as well. At least when we’re alone on the ship.” Mando nods once and uncrosses his arms, giving the Child his attention again and continuing to feed him. You make small chitchat with Mando while you eat and pet the Child’s ears. After about ten minutes you realize you haven’t checked the cantina. You stare at Mando instead.

You take his advice.

You let your guard down. Stop expecting enemies behind every door, danger in the shadows. You move with a looseness in your shoulders that you haven’t felt in years and let yourself appreciate the wonder that is this galaxy. He takes you to Nephele, where you see snow for the first time, and Sorgan, where trees and grass swayed in the warm breeze like flags. You let yourself relax, which is probably what gets you into this problem in the first place because –

Because he told you to relax, and to enjoy yourself, on Sorgan at least. “Enjoy yourself,” he said when he declined your invitation to swim with a quiet shake of his head, “don’t let me slow you down.”

So this is you… enjoying yourself. You’ve made a pitstop on Tatooine – you need repairs and money and Mando’s been here before. The Child is alone on the Razor Crest; usually you’d stay with him while he slept and Mando got work, but you’re feeling crowded. You’ve been stuck on the Razor Crest for two weeks and the Mandalorian can tell you’re feeling the need to stretch your legs because he feels it too. He suggests the Mos Eisley cantina; it’s a solid candidate for him to find work and it’s an excuse for you to stock back up on wine. But his initial request for work is unsuccessful and he said to loosen up so you… have some wine.

You’re both sitting at the bar and you notice that the seats next to you and Mando are both empty, despite the place being particularly crowded. You notice the way people look, how they both stare openly and avoid the glint of his armor like the plague at the same time. It’s mesmerizing, the affect he has on others. It’s been months since you joined him and you feel you understand him quite well, especially with the breadcrumbs of his past he’s shared with you. At his core he’s kind, gentle; the sort of man who’d raise a family in the country and would never raise his voice to his wife. He’s bitterly sarcastic, and though he doesn’t speak to strangers much, he talks to you. This you chalk up to his way of life, which discourages friendships and puts focus on criminals and corpses. His past, his upbringing, stifles the man he is when he’s completely vulnerable and forms a quiet, hard exoskeleton that looks a lot like Beskar armor.

You’ve watched him talk to the kid when he thought you’d fallen asleep in the passenger seat, stroke his ears and hand him the ball knob off one of the ship’s controls. You’ve watched him patiently explain to the Child that he can’t touch buttons he’s not supposed to, and to listen to me for once, okay? He splashed water in your hair on Sorgan and chuckled when you squealed, let you win at a thumb war, offered you a place to live when your kindness had lost you your home. There’s softness in him that makes your chest feel tight and your cheeks turn coral and you weep for the life that he could have had. He’s eternally grateful to the Mandalorians for taking him in and giving him a home but you wonder what he’d do with all this softness if he’d been allowed the simple pleasure of touch. You wonder what it does to a man when he’s never been called handsome before, never felt love echo through the thin skin of lips.

“…? Did you hear me?”

“What?”

“I asked if you’re drunk,” says Mando and after months of living together you’ve categorized the minute differences in his tone of voice as facial expressions. His voice is deeper and slightly muffled which tells you he’s talking out the side of his mouth because he’s smirking at you.

“Drunk? No. I just… spaced out there for a minute. I’m here. With you.” You add the last part because you feel it’s important that he knows that you know he’s here. He shakes his head slightly and looks away from you.

“No more for you,” he says, holding his palm up in a gesture of no when the bartender raises the wine bottle and shakes it at you. He nods and returns it to the rack. You take his wrist in your hand and he stills, the muscles in his shoulders tensing up. You pull on his arm until he relaxes and allows you to put his hand in your lap. “What are you doing?” he asks, his voice flat and neutral. You can tell the tone is purposeful.

“I used to read fortunes for my friends from their palms,” you explain, curling your small fingers around his thick ones. “I read how to in a book years ago. I don’t really believe in it, but it’s fun. Can I try it on you?” His gaze is level with yours for several seconds without saying anything until he slowly inches his eyes down to where your hands are connected. He pulls his hand out of yours and the open smile you had before falters a bit, corners of your mouth tipping down. But he brings his gloved hand to the other and pulls on the tip of his index finger, squeezing the glove off his hand and returning it to yours. You smile so big you’re sure you look absolutely plastered.

“Okay okay,” you say, pushing up your sleeves and delicately stroking your right index finger down his palm. He whole body shivers, which makes you do it again. “You have a deep life line, which tells me you’re going to live for a long time. Probably all that bounty hunter training,” you tell him, smirking. You look back down at his hand, turning it this way and that and humming to yourself. “Oh!” you exclaim, which makes him jump a bit, “that’s interesting.”

“What?” he asks, leaning closer into your space.

“Your head line is incredibly short; must be why you run into everything head-on instead of thinking before your actions. Your palm says you lack smarts.” The smirk you send his way is villainous. You stare into the “T” of his visor and add, “Your element seems to be water, but I see you more as a fire type, myself.” By now there’s almost no space separating the two of you and you aren’t even looking at his palm anymore, thumb slowly drawing circles over the soft skin. You’re sure that if he wasn’t wearing his helmet, your noses would be close to touching. “But I’ve saved the most important one for last.”

“Which is?” he asks. The words are flippant but his voice is husky and thick. It makes you swallow hard.

“Love line. I don’t even have to look at it to know it’s long and deep. Anyone who sees you with the kid would see that.” And then you do something that can only be explained through liquid courage; you bring his hand up to your lips and press a soft kiss to his knuckles. His whole body jerks like a livewire and you smile at him innocently. The only message you’re trying to send with the act is genuine affection and you’re sure he hasn’t experienced that since he was a boy because he’s so caught off guard.

He says nothing, but a soft, strangled noise ripples from inside the helmet.

And then he’s standing on weak legs and insisting he needs to use the refresher, disappearing so quickly that you blink and feel a bit of whiplash. You watch him retreat to the back of the cantina and disappear behind a wall and it’s only when he’s gone from your sight that you feel your heart beating stronger than usual. You signal the bartender over and ask for a glass of water when you feel your head spin a bit.

“A Mandalorian, huh? Didn’t know they had girlfriends,” says a voice behind you. You turn and find a man with a glass in one hand and a cigarra in the other.

“Oh, I’m not his girlfriend,” you say quickly, and though the words are true they seem wrong somehow. A man in a bar inquiring about your relationship status shouldn’t be given such an opening when Mando is so important to you.

“My apologies Miss,” he says, eyes raking up and down your entire figure. You squirm a bit under his gaze. “I heard your… bodyguard inquiring about work earlier. I can’t offer him anything, but if you’d be interested, there’s a few tricks you could do with your mouth that I’d be willing to pay a hefty price for.” Your mouth drops open so fast that your lips make a smacking noise when parted. Did he just say… You have no idea how to respond. When you’d worked in a similar establishment back on your home world, you didn’t really get customers like him. Mostly just the same people day in and day out, drinking away their problems. Never had a man been so blatantly disrespectful to you in your entire life that you gape like a fish rather than respond. Then your gaze flicks upwards and you see the one person you both simultaneously want to intervene and hope didn’t hear a single thing that came out of that man’s mouth.

“What did you say?” Asks the Mandalorian. The man slowly turns from you to Mando and shrugs, raising his hands up in defense.

“Nothing, nothing,” the man says, backing up slowly. Despite trying to make a retreat he doesn’t look scared of Mando in the slightest. You think that’s a mistake.

“That’s what I thought,” Mando says, throwing some credits on the bar top and offering you his hand. You take it and use the stability of his body to shimmy your weight off the barstool. Stumbling a bit and landing directly into his arms. His right hand instinctively circles around the back of your head and brushes a lock of hair behind your ear.

“Didn’t think Mandalorian’s kept prostitutes,” the man says flippantly, shrugging his shoulders and letting his hands rest at his sides. “But I suppose you learn something new every day. Did you buy her here? I’ve never seen a woman this beautiful owned by a Hutt –” That seems to be the last straw for the Mandalorian, because he pulls his fist back and punches the man right in the jaw. He goes down hard, face red when Mando hit him and you’re a lot more sober now than you were a minute ago. Mando doesn’t wait for the man to get up and have a proper fight, grabbing you by the upper arm and dragging you out of the cantina instead. His face is grueling and your legs, much shorter than his, struggle to keep up. The lines of his shoulders are rigid and you can tell he’s pissed.

“Mando,” you say softly, “slow down.” He doesn’t. You squirm a little but his grim just tightens. “Hey, you’re hurting me,�� you say even softer and immediately he releases you as if he’s been burned, stopping in his tracks and turning back to you.

“I’m sorry,” he says gently. You smile tightly and say,

“It’s okay.” The two of you stand in the sand, breathing heavily, staring at each other. Finally you say, “I’m… sorry.”

“What for?” He asks, sounding genuinely confused. Your brows furrow together and you respond,

“For… the guy. You know.” He helmet tilts to the side in thought.

“Why are you apologizing? Guy was a creep. I shouldn’t have left you alone,” he says, hands resting gently on his hips.

“I shouldn’t have let my guard down,” you say, voice holding an air of disappointment in yourself. Mando shakes his head and rests his hand on your shoulder.

“What did I tell you? Leave your guard down when you’re with me. It’s not your fault. I shouldn’t have walked off after you’d had a few.”

“What, am I to follow you into the ‘fresher now?” You ask, letting a hint of teasing into your voice. Now that the immediate threat was over you were dying to have sarcastic Mando back. He lets out a sharp huff from under his helmet and you know he’s smirking.

“If that’s what it comes to,” he says the words on a sigh, no real threat behind them, but the worry is real. You shake your head and feel your cheeks heating up, as has grown to be a custom when around him.

“Maybe I should… carry a blaster around. I know I keep one on the ship when you’re gone but maybe I should actually have one. You taught me to shoot on Sorgan. I wasn’t too bad.” He nods his head in agreement. Footsteps come from behind and you whip around to see a man from the cantina who’d sat on the opposite end of the bar jogging over to the two of you.

“I heard you need work,” the man cried as he got closer. With his right hand, Mando pulls his blaster from its holster and points it at the man. With his left, he pulls you behind him.

“You try anything and I drop you,” Mando says. The man raises his arms in a placating manner and shakes his head vigorously,

“No, stars, I’m a bounty hunter. I need help with my first puck. We can work together; you keep the reward if I get the glory. Deal?” The Mandalorian thinks about it, turns to look back at you. You nod at him.

“Meet me at hanger three-five in half an hour,” says the Mandalorian, “and bring speeder bikes.” The kid nods and disappears. You and Mando share a look.

“We should get back to the ship; the kid’s probably awake by now and in need of affection. I’ll stay with him while you go make us some money.” The Mandalorian nods and begins walking back, knowing you’ll follow without hesitation. It’s nice to know about that security, comforting. When he turns to look, you’re jogging to keep up with his strides. He smiles, something he does a lot more often since you’ve come into his life, and walks.

#the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #din djarin x reader #pedro pascal #dyn jarren x reader #my writing #*#saddle up foundlings it's part 2 #there's a lot of sentences/paragraphs in here that i really like #part 1 was more of an experiment for me #this one i like more

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lesetoilesfous · 4 years

Note

if you're still taking prompts, fenders b8 + b2 from the nsfw prompt list pls :3 (preferably anders giving fenris a full-body massage, with lots of fluff that maybe turns into smut?)

Helloooo! Thank you for a lovely prompt, I hope this is something like what you wanted!!

(If you want me to write you a dragon age ficlet, send me a prompt from here!)

@dadrunkwriting

Rating: Mature

Pairing: Fenders

Characters: Fenris, Anders

Tags: established relationship, self-esteem issues, past abuse, justice is here in theory but Anders has put a sock on the door of their combined consciousness, so he doesn’t make an appearance, angst and fluff, ended up being way more angst than I intended, apologies!

“This is ridiculous, mage.” Fenris does not seem capable of keeping the smile from his voice, and he blushes as he says it, dark cheeks tickled red in the candlelight as he lies back on the bed. Anders takes a self-indulgent moment to ogle him, openly, as the muscles of his abdomen flex and he falls with the same perfect control that he brings to everything he does onto his back on the blankets. Fenris’ flush deepens, and he hits him gently with a pillow. “You are ridiculous. No one is as beautiful as you pretend to find me.”

Which brought them to the topic at hand. Anders catches the pillow and gently tugs it out of Fenris’ grip, tossing it onto the ground, careful to avoid the candles he’s set up around the bed. The sweet smell of sandalwood and jasmine is warm in the air around them, and the light is gold and flickering as it paints the wooden walls of their bedroom. Outside, in the forest, the trees sigh like the ocean, shivering in the wind. Anders gets up onto the mattress, kneeling at the end of the bed on the thick, white woven wool blanket, running one hand up the strong, sculpted line of Fenris’ leg. “Still don’t believe me, then?”

Fenris looks away from him, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth that he tries to hide as his hair splays against the pillow behind his head like starlight. He stares up at the rough, dark wooden rafters. “I believe that you find me attractive. I do not believe anyone is as attractive as you say I am. And if such a person did exist, that person would not be me.”

Anders hums, and presses a very soft kiss to a small scar on Fenris’ knee. Tal Vashoth, if he remembered correctly. A stray arrow that would have felled an ordinary warrior. Fenris had fought on anyway. He hadn’t even made a sound when Anders removed the thing. Just squeezed his hand, and thanked him roughly when it was done.

Anders shuffles back down the bed, all but prostrating himself to press a soft kiss to the top of Fenris’ foot and the lines of lyrium there. Fenris’ breath shudders out of him, and Anders moves between his legs, waiting until Fenris lifts himself up onto his elbows to look down at him.

“I beg to disagree.” Anders kisses Fenris’ left ankle, then, gently stroking his calf before moving to kiss his right. Then he sits up and picks up the small, brown glass bottle of oil he’d left beside their bed. In the eaves, pigeons coo low and soft as they settle for the evening.

“Must you make everything such a production?” Fenris’ fingers trail softly along the lyrium on his chest as he asks the question, and he doesn’t look at Anders, cheeks and chest dark with his blush.

“I must.” Anders answers, with a grin, rubbing the smoky, spiced oil between his palms until it’s warm. Gently, he picks up Fenris’ foot, pressing a firm kiss to the heel of it, and the ball, before sucking lightly on each of his toes. Anders bends to kiss Fenris’ ankle again as he begins to gently, firmly massage his foot. Fenris sighs, and Anders grins down at him from where he’s kneeling at the end of the bed.

“You are the most impossibly beautiful person I’ve ever met. And considering that I’m including the Hero of Ferelden, King Theirin, Zevran Arainai, Isabela, Varric Tethras and Marian Hawke in that assessment, you should be very flattered.”

On his back, painted gold by the candlelight, Fenris laughs and presses his hands against his face. “I am flattered, mage. I am also - ah,” Anders grins, and gently rubs the same circle he’d massaged before on the back of Fenris’ calf. Fenris’ chest heaves, his hands falling from his face to curl into the white cotton sheets further up the bed, squeezing them tightly. After a moment, he finishes, breathless, “Skeptical.”

Anders hums, thoughtfully, and presses a series of kisses to the curve of Fenris calf, ducking to press a long kiss to the soft skin at the back of his knee, before returning to the small silver line of the arrow scar. As he moves to give the same treatment to Fenris other leg, pouring a little more oil onto his hands, he asks conversationally, “Do you think I’m lying to you?”

Fenris frowns, though the expression eases as Anders’ presses a long kiss to his toe. “N-no. I think. You are telling me what I want to hear.”

Anders huffs, and Fenris pulls his foot back for a moment, laughing light and high as a child. Anders’ heart stutters, and he stops, catching Fenris’ foot firmly between his hands. “Wait. Are you ticklish?” Fenris tries to glare at him, but there’s still a smile lingering around the corner of his lips.

“No.”

Anders’ grin widens, and he squeezes Fenris foot gently. “You are. Well. We’ll have to return to that later.” He waggles his eyebrows, and Fenris snorts, grinning as he turns his head away from him and Anders begins to massage his other foot. “Seriously though,” Anders murmurs, kissing up the line of Fenris’ calf, brushing his nose against the thick coarse hair on his leg, “You’re gorgeous. And before you say it, it’s not the lyrium.” He kisses Fenris’ knee, and begins to massage his calf, gently bending his leg. “It’s like….A sculptor couldn’t make you this perfect. Your skin is so,” Anders bends to nuzzle at Fenris’ calf and kiss him again, “so soft, and warm, and you smell like….I don’t have words for it. Like lyrium but also like, dust and sweat and leather.”

“Most of those are not good things.” Fenris murmurs and Anders shakes his head, moving up the bed to kneel between Fenris’ legs. Far off in the woods, a distant wolf howls at the moon.

“No, but they are when it’s you. And even if it wasn’t, trust me, I’ve never had a lover who smells this good.” Anders runs his hand up Fenris’ thigh, and presses a firm kiss into the soft give of it. “You’re just. You’re beautiful. You’re gorgeous. You’re perfect. I feel like I’m dreaming, every time I kiss you.”

Anders sets down the oil and dips to lower himself over Fenris’ hips, kissing along the v of muscle that leads up to his side. Tentatively, Fenris’ hand falls to stroke his hair, and Anders sighs and tilts his head into his touch. “If I shut my eyes and try to imagine the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen, all I see is you. You’re like...music.”

“Music.” Fenris repeats, flatly, and Anders’ face burns, but he presses a long kiss to the wide, ragged pink skin of a burn on Fenris’ side before he sits up to meet his eyes.

“Yes, music.” Anders runs his hand up over the planes of Fenris’ belly, splaying his fingers against his chest, and pressing gently into the soft tissue of his breast. His fingertips trail through soft, dark hair, and his thumbs run over Fenris dark, soft nipples. Fenris breath catches, and Anders grins and bends to kiss one nipple, tenderly catching it between his teeth before kissing it again and doing the same to the other. Fenris’ hand tightens and relaxes in his hair as he does it, and Anders moves to press a line of kisses down from Fenris’ sternum to his belly button. Fenris’ legs fall loose and relaxed either side of him against the bed, and the air is rich and faintly hazy with candle-smoke and oil.

Anders sits up, and catches Fenris’ hand when it falls from his head. Gently, he kisses the heel of his palm, and the inside of his wrist, and each of his fingers, before pouring a little more oil into his hand and beginning to massage Fenris’ palm. Fenris sighs, and lets his head fall back against the pillow, eyes fluttering shut. Anders speaks softly as his hand slips up Fenris’ arm, gently massaging the muscle of his forearm and bicep. “You’re like music. Every line of you falls into every other. It’s like you’re...a symphony. You’re all balance, and harmony. Every part of you is meant to be what it is, shaped the way that it is. Looking at you feels like listening to the most beautiful song you’ve ever heard.” Anders ducks, and presses a kiss to the inside of Fenris’ elbow, feeling the massage oil stick to his lips before he brushes up to the warm, generous curve of Fenris’ bicep. He shuts his eyes, and presses his nose against the firm warmth of Fenris’ arm. “A song so beautiful it makes you want to weep.”

Fenris is quiet, then. Far off, there’s the high call of some strange Rivaini bird Anders doesn’t recognise. Night has fallen truly now, and the shadows between the candles are long and deep. Anders presses a kiss to Fenris’ shoulder before moving to his other arm. Fenris’ thumb gently strokes his hand and Anders pauses, looking down at his lover. The light of a candle glitters gold against the tears on Fenris’ cheeks. Anders stops, pressing Fenris’ hand between his.

“Love? Are you alright?”

Fenris shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut and heaving a great breath into his chest before letting it go in a noisy rush. Anders moves, brushing his hair out of his eyes and waiting for an answer. Fenris’ hand squeezes his, tightly, and Anders watches in distress as more tears run down Fenris’ cheeks.

After a moment, Fenris blinks away the tears and looks up at Anders. His eyelashes are damp and dark and long around the summer green of his eyes. “It’s fine, amatus. It is only -” Fenris stops, and swallows, and his hand tightens around Anders’ as he looks away from him. Fenris breathes again, and Anders waits and watches him, anxiously. After a moment he speaks, roughly. “I cannot remember anyone ever saying such a thing to me and meaning it, before.” Fenris frowns, and Anders runs his thumb over the back of his hand. “People have wanted me, certainly. Used me. Spoken in great detail about the ways in which I was ‘made’ to be used.”

Fenris’ expression twists, and Anders sits back on the bed, giving him space as he sits up. Fenris bends his legs and rests his arms against them, still holding Anders’ hand. Around their house, the wind rushes through the night and runs howling into the trees. Fenris breathes, and sobs, pressing his face into his arm for a moment before he turns to Anders and offers him a small smile, cheeks wet with tears. “But no one has ever said it as if I were a person. As if they loved me. As if they thought I could be loved.” Fenris’ voice breaks.

Anders swallows down his own heartache, and squeezes his lover’s hand, raising their joined hands and his other in a gesture of surrender. “You caught me. Guilty as charged.” Anders stops, then, and feels something heavy and painful pressing up against his lungs with the force of everything he feels when he speaks. “I can’t imagine a world in which you couldn’t be loved, Fenris. I don’t think it exists.”

Fenris starts to smile, then, and it breaks into another sob, and Anders gives in at last to the urge to pull him into his arms and hold him, tightly, cupping the back of his head as he cries. Gently, Anders presses a kiss to the corner of Fenris’ temple, lips tickled by the soft strands of his hair. “I love you, Fenris. Please believe that.” Anders laughs a little, even as he feels his own tears spill over and begin to fall down his cheeks. “I love you so much it hurts. I can’t do anything else.”

Fenris pulls back, then, and presses a kiss to Anders cheek, before giving another to his lips and pressing their foreheads together. “I know, amatus. I love you, too.”

The candles around them flicker in light and shadow against the walls, painting them red and yellow as if the wood is burning. Far off, a distant wolf calls into the night.

After a moment, another answers it.

#dadwc #fenders #da2 #fenris #anders #anon #my fic

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yourdeepestfathoms · 4 years

Text

We All Still Die (part two)

(Read Anne as Courtney!Anne)

Part 1

And, once again: Everything in this fic is to be seen as fictional. I doubt any of this actually happened historically. This is just me having fun and trying to entertain people. If this bothers you, then don’t read the story.

TW: Blood, abuse, PAINFUL ANNE ANGST

———————

She cried the entire time she was running to the castle. People glanced at her as she passed by or nearly barreled into them, curious or annoyed or even both.

She burst into the throne room, out of breath and weeping. She staggered forward, past the guards who had jumped to attention and were now pointing their spears at her warily, and toward the king and queen. Her knees buckled halfway there and she fell to the floor, openly sobbing.

“Joan?” Anne said in shock. “What’s going on?” At her side, Henry nodded slowly, although he didn’t look concerned at all, rather intrigued and almost amused.

“M-my brother-” Joan tried to say, but her words came out strangled and watery. She had to stop to get air because her lungs were burning more intensely. “M-my-”

Anne slid from her throne and slowly approached Joan, Maggie trailing behind her. She crouched in front of the trembling girl.

“Joan, it’s alright.” She said gently. “You’re having some sort of anxiety attack. But it’s going to be okay, I promise. Right now, I need you to breathe for me.”

Joan shook her head and wailed, “My brother is missing!!”

Anne frowned. Behind her, Maggie gave Joan a sympathetic look.

“I’m so sorry, Joan.” Anne said.

Joan suddenly grappled onto the queen so fast even Henry twitched a little in surprise. She gripped Anne’s sleeves tightly, not caring about the weapons now trained at her back.

“Release the queen this instant!” One of the guards ordered.

“Y-you have to send a search party!” Joan said, ignoring him. “P-please! H-he has to be found!”

“Joan...” Anne said sadly. “Honey-”

“Please!!” Joan cried. “Please, please, y-you have to look for him! I need him! H-he’s all I have left!”

Anne looked down at the girl clinging to her, then at her husband, and then back at Joan. Then, to the guards, she said, “Send a search party for John Astley at once.”

Joan wailed in relief and then collapsed fully into Anne’s arms. She curled into a tight, shaking ball, weeping uncontrollably. She can feel the queen rub her back comfortingly and Maggie even set a hand on her arm, but everything that’s said after that is a blur as she’s seized by her panic and fades into blackness.

———

A week passed. John doesn’t turn up. The search party stopped looking. Joan doesn’t say anything about her brother.

———

Joan was halfway down the stairs one morning, fetching sand and vinegar to help clean the knight’s armor, when she heard her name being called and turned to see one of the castle couriers at the top of the steps.

“Lady Anne requires you at once.” He said, overdramatically breathless and leaning against the wall. She looked at him with suspicion—most of the court had little respect for her or her family, especially since her brother’s disappearance—but she couldn’t take the risk. She abandoned her errand and headed back toward her lady’s chambers.

At the turn of the corridor, however, she saw a familiar shape blocking the passage ahead—the broad shoulders and sharp, glinting eyes of Princess Mary.

“Where are you off to in such a hurry, street rat? She called out, curling her lips. “Going to steal some more pennies for your wastrel family, or are you trying to run away like your brother did?”

Joan’s blood boiled in her veins, but she just clenched her fists and marched on, not wanting to keep her queen waiting. Mary turned on her heels to leer at her.

“My daddy’s letting me go up north to a tournament—have you ever been able to go farther than the vinegar barrel?”

She wrinkled her nose and grins, anticipating Joan’s response.

But Joan merely strode toward her as if squaring up for a fight, causing Mary to raise her own fists ready; then, at the last moment, she dove to the side and swerved nimbly below her outstretched arms, escaping down the corridor before the swearing youth could recover.

She entered into the throne room, where Maggie and Anne are conversing with a woman Joan had never seen before. She almost looks like her, with golden blonde hair and steel grey eyes, but was a bigger and much prettier than she could ever hope to be. As she walked over, the stranger looked at her skeptically.

“Ah, there you are,” Anne said. Joan noticed the small bump curving beneath her dress- the queen was pregnant again. “Joan, this is Jane Seymour, my newest lady in waiting.”

Joan looked at the woman next to her and dipped her head respectively with a small smile. Jane did the same.

“Huh. Your names are even similar.” Anne said, wrinkling her nose in an amused way. “Jane, Joan is going to be your guide around the castle. She’s one of my best maids in waiting.”

Joan’s heart leapt in her chest when she heard that. The queen thought she was one of her best maids in waiting!! That was the greatest thing she’s heard since John disappeared!

Jane peered over at her, raising a brow. “You’re making a maid in waiting escort me?” She asked. “She’s awfully young.” She turned to Joan. “How old are you? Fourteen? Fifteen?”

“I’m eighteen.” Joan said bashfully.

“I see.” Jane said. “Young face.”

“As I said,” Anne redirected them smoothly, “She’s one of my best.”

“Hm.” Jane tipped her head, but didn't give her opinion again.

“Go on.” Anne waved a hand. Joan bowed to the queen, while Jane merely nodded.

On their way down the main hallway, Joan and Jane pass by the king, and, for a split second, Joan thought she saw Henry and Jane exchange hungry looks.

What was that about?

———

It was a cloudy, misty evening and the back courtyard was a whirlwind of maids in waiting. Joan stopped under the shadow of a tall tree, reading a book she snagged from the castle library as girls swirled around her. Some called greetings to one another, tossed rocks, checked their reflections in puddles. A few settled on the low rock fence or benches to study, while others launched races around the garden. One was trying to convince her friends to try a washed out green, snarled vegetable. Jane was even outside, watching everyone with a curious, deep-in-thought expression.

Regardless of what the maids were doing, however, they all stopped and bowed whenever the queen and her right-hand lady in waiting glided through the pack.

“Hello, dear,” Anne said languidly as she passed by.

“My lady!” Joan looked up quickly, then immediately dipped her head into a bow. “H-hello. Hi, Maggie.”

“Good evening,” Maggie said with a small smile.

“Joan,” Anne tutted, staring disapprovingly down at the book in the teenager’s lap. “What have I told you about reading in the dark?”

“It’s an effective use of my time?” Joan guessed with an innocent grin, and she heard Maggie chuckle lightly.

“It will ruin your eyes.” Anne chided gently. “And then we’ll have a blind maid in waiting, and we don’t want that, do we?”

“But it’s not that dark!” Joan whined. “But...you’re right.” She sighed and surrendered the book to the queen, but she pushed it back to her.

“Keep it, dear.” Anne said. “Just get a candle, alright?”

“Alright.” Joan nodded. Her heart fluttered when Anne smiled at her. “What are you doing out here?”

“Punishing Maggie.” Anne grinned at her friend. “Can you believe she doesn’t want me to throw her a grand birthday celebration?” She said to Joan with exaggerated shock. Joan giggled. Maggie, on the other hand, blushed, and the shade of pink looked a little strange on her usually-stoic and calm face.

“It’s not that big of a deal.” Maggie said dismissively. “I’m getting older. Who cares?”

“I care.” Anne said, reaching down and squeezing one of Maggie’s hands. Acts of affection like this weren't uncommon for the two of them, but they were usually a lot more subtle. It seemed that the queenly rules Anne had to abide by loosened up later in the evening, when prying eyes grew more sleepy and relaxed. “It’s important to me.”

“I don’t trust you with planning any birthday celebration ever since the goat incident.” Maggie struck back.

Joan blinked. “Goat incident?” She echoed.

“I was turning twelve,” Maggie began while Anne giggled into her hand at her side. “And when I was asked about what I wanted, I said a boat. Because I wanted to sail across the ocean.” She swung her head around and narrowed her eyes at Anne, who was barely able to contain her own amusement. “But this one thought I said goat. And so she smuggled me a goat from a neighboring farm. And when I clarified I wanted a boat, she said,” She does an amazing imitation of Anne, “‘Ohh! I was wondering why you wanted to sail across the ocean on a goat!’”

At that, the queen burst into loud howls of laughter. She doubled over, clinging tightly to one of Maggie’s arms, and laughed so hard she snorted, and several people whipped their heads over in shock, as most of them had never seen their mistress like this before. Even Jane was blinking in confusion from where she was standing.

“Oh my,” Anne said breathlessly, wiping her eyes. She stood up straight, still laughing slightly. “That was my greatest achievement.”

“Not becoming queen or giving birth to a living heir?” Maggie said, quirking an eyebrow, and that made Anne dissolve into laughter all over again.

It was such a pleasant experience, Joan had to admit. She couldn’t even begin to fathom how difficult being a queen must be, but it was good to see that they were still capable of being human.

“So, it’s really your birthday?” Joan asked Maggie once Anne had finally settled. “How old will you be?”

Maggie blushed a little. “Tomorrow, yes. And I’ll be twenty-nine.” She paused. “Oh dear. I’m old.”

“Not THAT old.” Joan tried to comfort her and Maggie wrinkled her nose in a happy, appreciative way.

“Maggie’s birthday: the best thing that’s ever happened in the history of the world!” Anne cried.

“You loon.” Maggie giggled. “Don’t let your husband hear that. Or your daughter.”

“Well, they can come talk to me if they have a problem.” Anne stated, then bumped Maggie affectionately.

“I don’t have anything for you.” Joan said to Maggie, her shoulder drooping. “For your birthday. I’m sorry.”

Maggie’s eyes widened and she shook her head. “It’s okay!” She assured Joan. “Annie’s being dramatic. I don’t need anything.”

“You deserve everything,” Anne mused lovingly, kissing Maggie’s knuckles. Her friend blushed madly at the act of affection, while Joan had a weird, nagging feeling inside of her that sighed, “I wish that were me.”

“Well— maybe— what’s your favorite animal?” Joan asked.

Maggie blinked at the girl, then thought for a moment before saying, “Ferrets. I like ferrets.”

Joan nodded and began searching the tree she was sitting under. As she did so, she heard Anne say, “Do you even know what a ferret looks like, Maggie?”

“Yes, you jellyfish.” Maggie said back. “We’ve both seen one. You called it a ‘furry snake’ before.”

Anne tittered. “Well, it is.” She looked back at Joan, who was snapping off a thick branch from the tree. “What are you doing?”

Joan grinned at her. “You’ll see.” She sat back down in the grass, and she’s surprised to see that Anne and Maggie did the same—especially Anne. They both ogled at her as she took a hidden knife out of her boot and began slicing away at the wood.

“Oh my,” Anne said in an awestruck voice. “Look at how fast you can do that.”

“I’ve, umm, practiced a lot.” Joan said with a shrug, trying not to show off even though she desperately wanted to. “I had a lot of time on my hands when I was little.”

“Is nobody going to say anything about the knife-in-the-boot thing?” Maggie commented.

“Hush, my darling.” Anne shushed her. “Or I’ll kiss your hand again.”

Maggie narrowed her eyes at Anne and gave her a playful nudge. She’s nudged back, and that apparently sparks some kind of memory, because she began to tell Joan a story about when they were little and she, Anne, and her older brother, Thomas, played in this huge mud puddle after a storm and pretended to be ancient swamp dragons. Reciting the tale made Anne beam and smile brightly- it was so refreshing to see her so, well, human.

Eventually, the branch in Joan’s hands began to form into more of a distinct shape, like an actual creature was being born right out of the wood. She whittled the tiny ears, smoothed the long, winding body, and dug out little tufts of fur along the head.

“I’ve never made a ferret before,” She said apologetically after setting the carving in Maggie’s hands.

“No, no,” Maggie said, turning the ferret over and feeling the expanse of its wooden body. “I love it. Thank you, Joan. This is wonderful.”

“Th-thank you,” Joan said, blushing shyly. “A-and you’re welcome! I’m glad you like it.”

Anne curiously peered at the little carving. “Could you make me one of those?” She asked Joan. “Not right now, of course. Whenever you get the chance. I want a sheep.”

Joan’s heart leapt, doing gleeful somersaults in her chest. She stammered on her words for a moment, then sputtered out, “Y-yes! Absolutely!”

Anne smiled. “Thank you, Joan.”

A warm feeling bubbled up inside of Joan. It felt amazing to have friends to give her gifts to again.

Friends.

She didn’t know if the queen and noble lady in waiting could possibly ever see her as such, but she saw them in that way. And she loved it.

———

“Henry, dear. Please calm down.”

“How am I supposed to calm down? Another male heir is /dead/.”

“It’s not my fault! I didn’t want my baby to die!”

“It came out of you, did it not?”

“If I remember correctly, you helped in the process of getting me pregnant in the first place.”

Voices. Voices were echoing down the hallway. One was absorbed with worry and deep anger, while the other radiated resentment and hatred. Joan froze.

“It’s going to be okay. We can try again.”

“And have another die?”

“You don’t know if that’ll happen. It didn’t with Elizabeth.”

“She’s a female. I need a male heir.”

“I know, my love. I know.”

Joan set the basket of clothes she was carrying on the floor and crept closer to the source of the voices. They were coming from inside the king’s chambers, slipping through the cracked open door like hissing whispers whisking around a glacier.

“Please stop pacing. It makes me want to hit you.”

“Try anything like that and I’ll have all your teeth pulled out.”

A slight pause.

“Henry. I was just joking.”

“Right. Me too.”

Joan peeked in through the small crack in the door and saw the king and queen standing inside. Henry had his arms crossed over his chest with a hard look in his eyes, while Anne looked gentle, but nervous and angry at the same time.

Something very wrong was going on. Something very wrong was going to happen.

Joan remembered the week before. Anne had gone into labor despite only being three months into her pregnancy. It was a quick, but painful birth, and what came out was a bloody, disfigured, barely-recognizable baby boy.

Henry had been furious. Anne was distraught, but had looked more tired and used to the miscarriages than anything. She requested to be alone with Elizabeth and Maggie for the rest of the day.

Something bad was going to happen. But Joan could stop it.

“Maybe something is wrong.”

“Wrong with what?”

“You.”

“Me?!”

“Catherine was the same way. She had miscarriage after miscarriage after miscarriage. Maybe you’re just like her. Oh, I should have known...”

“Don’t relate me to her! She is gone, Henry. She’s dead. I am your wife. And you will not speak to me like that.”

A terrible, rumbling growl that would be more befitting of a wild animal came erupting out of Henry’s throat. Anne immediately took a step back, fear flashing in her eyes before she stamped it down to the best of her ability. But fear was consuming Joan from where she watched, and her mind kept screaming, “Danger! Danger!” on loop.

“You are nothing but a witch,” Henry spat. “That’s why our children have died. You did something to them, you temp-”

“Danger! Danger!” Joan’s mind wailed as something seemed to snap inside of the king.

Henry’s beard parted enough to show a black pit of a mouth that was yawning downwards into an elongated, upside-down ‘D’ shape that wobbled and distorted in the dim, flickering candlelight as he clenched ham-sized fists and howled so loud that it could be felt vibrating to the very soul.

“YOU LOOK AT ME WHEN I’M TALKING TO YOU, SLUT!!”

Joan is rushing forward without even really realizing it. Liquid adrenaline poured through every vein, urging her to get caught in the crossfire and help her queen.

But then the entire left side of her face exploded into bright, colorful bursts of pain as a fist that seemed to be the size and solidity of a small boulder came swinging around towards her, and her whole body popped backwards and spiraled down until she was sprawled on the floor.

There was silence, aside from her weak moans of people.

At least they stopped fighting.

“Joan!” Anne spoke first, rushing down to her young maid’s side.

Above her, Henry was peering at his hand curiously. He hadn’t been expecting a maid in waiting to come in and take the hit that was meant for his wife.

“I’m impressed.” Henry rumbled, but Anne didn’t seem to care. She was holding Joan’s head in her hands, looking very frightened. When her fingers brushed a swelling area on her face, the girl shuddered in pain.

“Get the doctor!” Anne cried to her husband, to the guards who must have been nearby, to anyone, and her voice sounded very far away in Joan’s ears.

Joan mumbled something incoherent. Her head hurts so badly, but felt a little better when Anne was touching it. She leaned into the queen’s hands.

“Joan, it’s going to be okay. You’re going to be just fine.” Anne said to her. “I promise, honey. You’re going to be okay.”

Joan could only reply with a weak moan. The world was pulling away as the pain shoved itself back in.

“You’ll be okay, Joan, you hear me?” Anne was not shouting. “Don’t you pass out on me! Joan, your queen is giving you an order! JOAN!!”

———

Joan now knew where Mary got her vileness from. Her father has done horrible things, and he’ll do worse someday.

———

“Mama,” Elizabeth babbled, waddling towards Anne with her arms stretched out. Anne chuckled and scooped the three-year-old up.

“Tired of walking already?” Anne asked her. Joan looked up from the piece of wood she was carving away to smile at them. “Oh well. You’ll get the hang of it soon.”

“Mama,” Elizabeth merely repeated, flinging her short arms around her mother’s neck and nuzzling her nose against her collarbone.

“Oi!” Anne yelped. “I’m ticklish, you little imp!”

“Oi!” Elizabeth echoed gleefully, then burst into a fit of giggles.

“Aaaand... Done!” Joan declared loudly. She jumped to her feet, proudly holding up a wooden sheep. “Here you are, my lady.”

Anne adjusted Elizabeth onto her hip so she could hold her with one arm and took the carving with her free hand. She gazed at it in wonder, smiling brightly.

“It’s beautiful, Joan.” She said. “Thank you. I love it!”

Joan couldn’t help the little happy dance she did. Anne laughed at the shuffle of her feet, then set the carving down on her nightstand, tapping its nose gently. “You will stay there, little one.”

And then, in a split second, her grin is gone.

“My la-”

“Shh...” Anne commanded, raising one finger. She crept over to the door and listened for a moment, then darted across the room so fast she nearly dropped Elizabeth. She grabbed Joan by the wrist, shoved her daughter into her arms, then flung open her wardrobe.

“L-Lady Anne?” Joan stammered. She’s never seen the queen look so scared before.

“Joan, listen to me very carefully, alright?” Anne said softly. “Stay in here with Elizabeth. Keep her calm. And stay quiet. Do not come out.”

“Wh-what?” Joan squeaked. She could hear the clanking of metal and scraping of steel blades in the hallway.

“Please, just listen to me.” Anne pleaded, gripping her forearms. She looked down at Elizabeth, who was fussing slightly, and cupped her cheeks. “Hey, hey,” She whispered. “Elizabeth, my sweet little princess, let’s play a game, okay?”

Elizabeth perked up and nodded her head eagerly.

“We’re gonna play hide-and-seek!” Anne said with heavy enthusiasm in her voice. “Mummy is going to go hide while you and Joey will count to...one hundred! That’s a big number, I know, but you’re a big girl!” She tickled Elizabeth’s belly. Joan thought she saw tears glinting in her eyes. “I know you can do it.”

“Okay, mama,” Elizabeth said.

“That’s my girl.” Anne kissed the top of her head. She glanced up at Joan and squeezed her hand, then pushed them into the wardrobe and shut the door.

“Start counting!” Anne called from outside.

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10...

Joan braced herself against the back wall and edged upwards a little, but her limbs were tangled in the silk and bejeweled dresses around her and she couldn’t move without rustling the clothes around her. She rested her chin on top of Elizabeth’s head, breathing in the scent of the toddler’s hair oils and the lingering smell of her mother.

What was going on?

Through the small crack between the wardrobe doors, Joan could see Anne wipe her eyes, smooth out her iconic green dress, and sit down at the edge of her bed. She picked up the lamb and began to peer at it as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. A moment later, Henry and a flurry of guards burst inside.

11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20....

Joan jolted a little and felt Elizabeth’s head turn upwards to blink up at her curiously. Through the crack, she can see Anne look up with a mock-startled expression (she knew they were coming, Joan realized) as the guards pointed their spears at her. She tilted her head in confusion.

“Whatever is going on?” She asked.

“Anne Boleyn,” Henry snarled lowly. “You are under arrest.”

21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30....

It felt like the entire world was flipped upside down. Like someone had picked up the castle, turned it over, and shook really hard until all the pieces came falling out. And it felt like the walls were closing in on Joan, suffocating her, trapping her.

“What for?” Anne asked. She doesn’t look shocked at all.

“You know what.” Henry said. “Witchcraft, adultery, conspiracy against the court...” His lips twisted up in a wicked smile. “Incest.”

31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40....

“You lying bastard!” Anne suddenly exploded, leaping to her feet. Up until that charge, her face had been amused at the list of ‘things she had done’, but now she just looked furious. She gripped the wooden sheep so hard it was a wonder that the body didn’t splinter.

“I do not lie.” Henry said coolly. “So, which was it? Your little brother? Or your sister?”

“I have never-!!” Anne had to stop herself to breathe before her nerves took control. Her face was beet red with rage, a terrible contrast to the emerald green dress she was wearing. “I have never done anything with my siblings, you sniveling coward.”

41, 42, 43, 44, 45, 46, 47, 48, 49, 50....

The guards shifted anxiously. None of them looked like they believed the incest claim, but they were too afraid to face Henry’s wrath if they stood down. When Anne glanced at them, she seemed to see that and her eyes grew slightly sympathetic. However, they turned right back into smoldering coals when she looked at her husband again.

“Do not spread lies about me, Henry.” She warned scathingly. There was a deep, rumbling noise that curled around her words, making her seem like a cougar that was about to pounce.

“What do you have there?” One of the guards suddenly asked. Was he trying to relieve some tension?

51, 52, 53, 54, 55, 56, 57, 58, 59, 60....

“Oh,” Anne’s anger is sniffed out for a moment. She held up the wooden sheep, smiling softly. “It’s a carving. My wonderful little maid, Joan, made it. Do you know her? She’s a sweet girl. Would you like to hold it?”

“No,” Henry answered for the guards. “You’ve enchanted it, haven’t you?”

“Of course not.” Anne rolled her eyes. “Listen to yourself, Henry. You sound mad.” Her slight smirk is then wiped off her mouth as she’s struck across the face.

61, 62, 63, 64, 65, 66, 67, 68, 69, 70....

It took everything in Joan to not cry out or yelp or leap out of the wardrobe as she watched Anne fall to the floor.

The queen never fell.

“You do not speak to me like that, woman!” Henry roared. “I am your KING!”

Anne raised her head, her cheek welling up in a horrible shade of purple and red, and said, “You’re no king. You’re a DEVIL!”

71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80....

Henry’s boulder-sized fist smashed into the side of Anne’s face, sending her right back to the floor. He hit her and slapped her and beat her until sweat was running down his reddened face and a small puddle of blood was pooling around Anne’s head. All the while, the guards and the two stowaways in the wardrobe watched in horror.

Joan held Elizabeth closer, tucking her head underneath her chin, and shook all over. Tears were streaming down her cheeks as she watched her queen get beaten senselessly.

It was awful. It was so horrible. She wanted to jump out of the wardrobe and save Anne, protect her from the blows she was getting, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t even look away. But when she looked closer, she realized that Anne was clutching her lamb carving tightly in her hand.

81, 82, 83, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88, 89, 90....

“Sir! That’s enough!” One of the guards yelled. He looked queasy at the violence set before him, despite being trained to fight and kill.

Henry stepped back, wiping sweat from his brow with one of his blood soaked hands. A smear of his wife’s blood is left on his forehead.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself, witch?” He hissed.

Anne pushed herself up with her arms, took a few strained, heavy breaths, and then staggered up to her feet. She almost immediately fell back down, but managed to steady herself and look up at the king. Her face was swollen, dripping blood, and dyed in several shades of black, blue, and red. But even still, she managed to smirk.

“But of course,” She rasped and then spit some of her blood into Henry’s face.

91, 92, 93, 94, 95, 96, 97, 98, 99....

Henry lifted a hand, slowly wiped the blood away, and snarled, “Seize her.”

100.

In an instant, the queen of England is gone in a whirlwind of spears and growling and soft apologies. She leaves the sheep carving behind, drowning in her pool of blood. Somewhere down the hallway, Maggie could be heard screaming.

Joan doesn’t move. Even when silence fell over the hallway, she didn't move. She just remained perfectly still, frozen in horror, unable to breathe, while Elizabeth squirmed restlessly in her arms.

“Mama?” The toddler said softly.

Joan sobbed.

She threw her head back and began to cry even harder. Tears were now rapidly pouring down her cheeks. Her throat was clogged with anguish and panic and trauma- she couldn’t breathe. She was spiraling like she had when John went missing.

“Mama?” Elizabeth said again. She wiggled furiously and managed to get out of Joan’s arms. Before she could be stopped, she tumbled out of the wardrobe and looked around the room.

“E-Elizabeth,” Joan crawled after her. She couldn’t stand. The scene she had witnessed kept replaying behind her eyes over and over and over again, crushing her. “E-Elizabeth, I’m s-so s-s-sorry...!”

But Elizabeth didn’t understand.

“Ready or not, mama!” She cried gleefully, romping obliviously through the pool of her mother’s blood. “Here I come!”

Joan crumpled to her side, curled into a tight ball, and began to wail. Because something deep down inside of her told her that Anne was never going to be found.

#hhhghghh please reblog im desperate and really want this to get around #we all still die #six the musical #six the musical fanfic #six the musical fanfiction #six fanfic #six fanfiction #anne boleyn #elizabeth i of england #jane seymour #king henry viii #maggie on the guitar #joan on the keys #mary i of england #tudor history #tw: abuse #tw: blood #tw: violence

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thekitchensnk · 4 years

Text

and the spider lilies bloomed in the fall (chapter 20)

Rating: T Warnings: Violence Pairing: Gin/Ran Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11, Chapter 12, Chapter 13, Chapter 14, Chapter 15, Chapter 16, Chapter 17, Chapter 18, Chapter 19, Chapter 20

“They say that lovers doomed never to see each other again still see the higanbana growing along their path, even to this day.”

A girl collapses on a dusty road one day. A boy takes her home.

The girl lives.

—

(The boy doesn’t.)

Stars still shone in her eyes as she climbed the stairs.

It had been one of those nights - one of those brilliant, shining nights - where the sake had flowed and the music had run in her blood like a drug - where the night had seemed to last only for the intervening moment between closing and opening her eyes.

She had been freed from her duties behind the bar an hour early and told to enjoy herself, and so she had dove into the crowd to the cheers and whoops of her regular customers, who beckoned her with open arms into the throng.

She had passed the hour twirling on the dance floor, passing from one pair of arms into the next until the flush was high on her cheeks and she was caught up in giddy, breathless excitement.

She had swayed and she had rocked and she had raised her arms into the air wildly and arched back her head. She had bared the delicate column of her neck and her golden hair had cascaded down her back like a waterfall and her golden lashes had fluttered shut as she smiled a heady smile, her white teeth flashing.

Men’s eyes had raked over her, and she had eyed them back with careless abandon from under heavy-lidded eyes, and they had been hypnotised by the movement of her hips and the secret curl of her mouth.

They were hers, those men. She had not had to pay for a drink that entire hour, and she had not spoken as much as a word, preferring to dance and pull them closer and into her arms, only to drop them as she found someone new.

That was all her. They wanted her. They all wanted her.

Her fingers tried to find the tin ring on her finger as she danced, but her fingers found only skin. She had taken it off weeks before. It was too small for her fingers, these days.

Her head was thick and heavy with the alcohol, and she had to watch her step as she stumbled up the stairs. She would likely pay for her fun in the morning, but morning was morning, and now was now.

It had been so bright, she thought feverishly, and so beautiful. Her thoughts were hazy, but they were filled with light, and she felt so close, so attached, to her new friends that she felt she could cry, cry happily and helplessly and hard.

She sang a mumbled song under her breath and she shimmied as she climbed. She did not know the words but it didn’t matter one bit. Her back was sore, her feet were sore, and her legs were sore, but she found that she could grin through the pain.

What a night it had been. She deserved some rest after a night like that.

She had reached the landing where her room was when she heard a strained shout echo from down the corridor.

“You stupid girl!”

Rangiku looked around thick-headedly, but the shout didn’t seem to be directed at her.

That was strange - as far as she knew, she was the resident stupid girl, though it was usually only Sayaka or Ayame who would venture to call her that.

It didn’t matter in any case. She was drunk and she wanted her bed. She grabbed the wall for moral support as she stumbled along the corridor and pulled the door to her room.

She blinked blearily.

Yuki, white-faced and livid, had rounded on Ayame, who shrank back from her, the whites of her eyes visible with fear. Neither noticed Rangiku squinting in the bright light and attempting to sidle along the wall.

Sayaka was watching, and her expression was dark.

“You fool,” Yuki hissed. “How long?” she gritted out.

Ayame’s eyes were glassy with fear.

Yuki took her by the shoulders and shook her violently. “How far along?” Her eyes were mad and intent.

“Yuki-“ Sayaka tried to break-in - but Yuki would not be dissuaded.

Uncomprehending and afraid, Rangiku watched on. Her hands balled up in her yukata and she looked wildly between the three.

“Yuki? What’s the matter?” she tried to ask, but when she spoke, it came out as a confused half-mumble.

Ayame trembled pathetically where she stood; her brown eyes were bright with unshed tears, and she looked up into Yuki’s face in mute terror.

Rangiku was reminded suddenly of something she had known in the back of her mind the entire time she had known Ayame, but never before felt as keenly- that Ayame was young, almost as young as Rangiku herself.

At that moment, she certainly looked it. Her arms were wrapped tightly around her middle, and her mouth was parted. She looked like the child she was.

When she spoke, her voice broke in her throat.

“Five months,” she whispered, as if whispering could somehow make it any less true.

Something in Yuki deflated then, and Rangiku watched on, still drunk and terribly, terribly lost. She did not know what was happening, only that she hated it, that seeing these two women fight made her feel like she was going to start crying helplessly herself.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Yuki asked, her voice raw. “I could have helped. I have savings.” Yuki looked at her beseechingly. “You didn’t have to suffer alone. Ayame…”

The tears that had been pooling in Ayame’s eyes began to fall then, trailing glistening tracks down her cheeks, but still she said nothing.

Rangiku turned to look at Sayaka, begging her with her eyes to intervene, but Sayaka was as helpless as she was.

Unbidden, something that Ayame had said to her drifted into her mind.

“When I'm gone, the first thing she'll do is coerce you into whoring yourself out for her in my place. I'm on your side, and I will be even when no one else is- you have to listen to me.” Ayame had begged her. She hadn’t understood then, and she didn’t understand now. It made no sense. Why would Ayame leave when she wanted to save enough money to start life on her own?

“Tell me you at least have a plan, Ayame. Tell me that you’re not this stupid,” Yuki begged, looking into her eyes.

Ayame’s lip began to tremble, and she shook her head slowly. She couldn’t meet Yuki’s eyes, too overcome with shame.

Yuki turned and her expression was dazed. “She’s going to find out,” she murmured. “She always finds out. You know that, right? She won’t let you stay. She never does.”

The words were familiar, somehow. Rangiku had heard them before.

It was then that everything suddenly became clear.

The afternoons where the first thing Ayame would do upon waking was throw up.

The way she would always try to pass it off as Rangiku’s cooking, but would always eat anyway, and the way that no one else but Ayame seemed to get ill anymore.

Her anxiety around Chiyo, who had the power to throw her out into the street.

The fact that she had been walking around like she had a death sentence.

The four of them had usually started to bleed within days of each other, almost always without fail. It had almost been something of a joke between them. Yuki had laughed gently about it, and said “Women’s bodies know each other in ways that go beyond what we can see. Think how terrified men everywhere would be if they knew we conspired together.”

Now Rangiku thought back on it, she could not remember Ayame complaining of cramps for months.

She turned to look at her, stumbling as she did so.

Ayame had always been willow-thin and slender, her stomach flat and taut, her limbs long and almost gangly. But if you looked closely, looked beneath the intricately wrapped obi, so meticulously placed and tied in such a way as to create a natural bulge at her belly...

Rangiku’s mouth dropped open in sudden horror. She looked around, and saw everyone’s expressions in a new light - Yuki, bleary eyed and haunted. Sayaka hovering uncertainly, her dark brow tight with worry. Ayame, weeping openly now into her hands.

Rangiku’s eyes were wide.

She knew her role. She was the clown, the child. It was her job to smile brightly and make them all smile. It was her job to make them laugh. It was her job to keep them safe, not just from dangers that came into their beds, but the dangers in their hearts too.

But they were beyond smiling, and so was she. All she could do was bite at her lip till it was red-raw.

Sayaka shook her head in pent-up agitation

“I’m going for a walk,” she snapped suddenly, stalking towards the door.

Yui’s eyes narrowed. “Be careful,” she said softly. “Sayaka?” Sayaka turned viciously, her eyes wild. “Don’t be temp-“

Sayaka didn’t let her finish. “Don’t,” she snarled. “Don’t you dare tell me what to do.”

Rangiku couldn’t help but notice that she wouldn’t meet Yuki’s eyes. The doors banged in their frame as she left.

Yuki’s head tipped back, and she heaved a heavy sigh. She turned to Rangiku for the first time since she had made her way drunkenly up the stairs, and Rangiku flushed self-consciously to suddenly be the subject of attention with Ayame still sobbing plainly in front of them.

But there was something empty in Yuki’s glance, something absent and lost.

“We should all sleep,” Yuki said quietly. “We’re in for a hard few days.”

She spoke with a kind of flat inevitability, and the words echoed out of her as if coming from a place a hundred miles distant.

Rangiku was struck suddenly by the notion that Yuki was not really present, that though her body was there, Yuki herself was lost somewhere else, lost in the same place, lost in the same situation, and lost with the same powerlessness, but with a different crying girl, from a different time.

Alone, Rangiku thought miserably. Sayaka is gone. Yuki is gone. Ayame is gone.

It’s just me. I’m the only one here.

Yuki’s eyes were dull as she lowered herself onto her sleeping mat, and when she curled up, she buried her face in her hands, and turned to face the wall. Her fingers played with a faded length of braided string strung about her wrist.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ayame crawl blindly into her bed, red-faced, her shoulders still shaking.

Rangiku stood on her own quietly, in the middle of that small, but crowded room, and she opened her mouth, to give voice to the small and lonely thing crying out inside her.

Her eyes travelled beseechingly from one side of the room to the other, but all she saw of her room-mates, of the women who had grown to become her best friends, the women she loved, were their backs.

Please, she wanted to say selfishly, say something. Tell me everything is going to be alright.

But nothing was going to be alright. Not even she was innocent enough to think that.

For long moments, there was nothing but silence.

Heart-heavy and eyes resigned, she trod quietly across the tatami and she blew each candle out with a small puff of air.

She lay on her back and stared into the darkness. Her limbs were like lead. Her mouth felt thick with cotton wool and the floor see-sawed slightly beneath her.

Outside, snow dusted the ground like rice flour. Outside, the air was chill and crisp with the first touch of winter.

Inside, it roasted, and coupled with the alcohol, it made her head throb. Inside, the stale, second-hand heat of bodies on the dancefloor had risen through the building to keep them all warm. But inside and out, the night was still and blank.

In the darkness, she could see nothing, and when she blinked, there was no difference between the sight of the back of her own eyelids and the world around her. In the absence of light, she felt herself grow conscious of herself, of the weight of her body against the ground, of the taut and aching muscles in the arch of her feet and the back of her calves, born of a long night spent tending the bar.

Her head ached and her mouth felt like something had died in it, tomorrow’s hangover hanging perilously over her.

She felt like the only wretched creature left alive, abandoned in the darkness.

But that was not quite right.

But there was sound in the darkness, and it kept her away from the aching gravity of her heart and grounded her in the waking world; gentle, tissue-thin sobs sharpened by the darkness made their way into her ears as she stared out.

Because she knew it was there, her ears were filled with the sounds of airy crying and it was impossible to ignore. The noises ripped at her heart and slowly, her shoulders began to shake. Her own lip trembled in sympathy, and her eyes flooded with tears. Her heart ached, and she could not bear it.

She was drunk. She was so drunk. She was four-sheets-to-the-wind plastered.

But as clumsy and wobbling as a new-born animal, she rose to her feet and determined, she stumbled her way through the darkness to where Ayame lay. She stumbled, and she almost fell, but her heart was full.

Matsumoto Rangiku was many things.

She was a ditz. She was an airhead. She was melodramatic. She was vain and she loved the sight of her own face in the mirror, and would practice coy pouts and make kissing faces at herself.

She liked the thought of kissing boys, the hunger in their eyes, and she would throw a tantrum if they didn’t give her the attention she felt she deserved sometimes.

She was lonely and she clung to people fiercely and sometimes she felt like she might be the saddest person in the world. She was greedy and she was lazy and she liked to scam free drinks from men, just because she liked the honey-sweet taste of power and the feeling that someone, somewhere, was paying attention to her.

But she would never let someone cry alone.

She slid under Ayame’s blanket. She still had her work clothes on, and she was not so drunk that she didn’t take a moment to think Oh, Ayame will hate that. She moved blindly, working from the suggestions of heat and noise in the pitch black to find the contours of her friend’s body. She bumped gently against her, like a moth falling against a dim light.

When she did, when she had eventually found her in the darkness, she wound her arms about her tightly and pressed her lips clumsily against her chestnut hair.

Something in them both broke then; the tears that Ayame had been just barely suppressing fell thick and free, and Rangiku felt her grab at her hand as she trembled in her arms.

It was as if Ayame’s feelings became her feelings too; she felt her heart tighten in her chest, and before she knew it, she was crying too, crying into her hair and into her neck, and she squeezed Ayame’s hand with a desperate ferocity, as if to say “I’m here, I’m here. I’ve got you and I love you.”

Her thoughts travelled in a figure of eight, drunken and incoherent and repetitive even in her own head, and each cycle brought with it a fresh wave of misery. She could not help but think of Ayame- Ayame, alone and helpless on the streets with a squalling baby in her arms, Ayame cold and bruised and empty like Kanae, Ayame defenceless, Ayame hurt- and the thought made her howl and cling all the tighter. Eventually, she could not tell who the tears on her face belonged to- whether they were hers, or whether they were Ayame’s.

It didn’t matter. They stung all the same.

They lay like that a long time, young and breaking apart, both incapable of speech and neither willing to let go, still awake even after Sayaka returned several hours later high as a kite. Sayaka paused to see them, and crawled under the blanket from the other side, her limbs cold and chilled and her teeth chattering. She wrapped her arms about Ayame from the other side, and the three of them lay together, their hair mingling.

The sun rose high in the sky, and Rangiku’s head felt like it would split open with the double pain of a night of tears and a vicious hangover, and she realised dully that the night signalled the end of something, that some gentle and innocent thing inside her had withered away for good with the fading stars.

She had thought the brothel a home, and the girls her family, and even when warned, she had gone on believing it to be something pure and good and beautiful.

She had been a child.

She should have known better. How could this be home when she could be thrown out so easily, like she mattered as much as trash in the street? How could this be a family when they would cast out one of their own into the cruelty of the world and leave her to fend for herself? How could she live with a fear like that hanging over her?

Time after time, she had built up castles on the sand and cried like a child to see them washed away by the sea.

Tucked into the crook of her neck, Ayame was breathing softly.

Outside, snow was drifting softly across the sky, as it had on that night so long ago, the night when she had been abandoned and forced to start over again. Not far off, the river was moving gently under the saffron-coloured bridge, and the snow covered that too.

There was no bird-song. All was quiet.

Rangiku tucked a wayward strand of hair behind Ayame’s ear, and her expression was firm.

It had been a long time coming, but she had made up her mind at last.

She was no longer a child. She was done with building sand-castles.

#Bleach #GinRan #Rangiku Matsumoto #gin ichimaru #Ichimaru Gin #someone sent me the most wonderful inspiring ask about this fic #it pushed me to draw from pretty shallow reserves to try and get a bit more done #the day job isn't leaving much in the tank atm #but when someone takes the time to say something so nice #you gotta try to go the mile

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wolvesofinnistrad · 5 years

Note

Hey pls can you do a canon for the first time Callum gives Ben a BJ!!!

Ok, technically I think this already happened during the park hookup so I'll kind of split the difference..

That first night at the park Callum is wild.

His hands are everywhere, his mouth stays latched to Ben’s unless the other man pulls away.

He can’t get enough of him, intoxicated, lost in the moment of giving in.

There’s a hunger there, deep and yearning that he didn’t realize was this strong because of how long he’d denied himself but the moment he gave in just a little it came crashing down.

That’s why he was already undoing Ben’s belt buckle, not because he had a plan, but because he just needed every part of Ben right now.

There’s a thunk against his back and he realizes that he’s been pushed up against a tree.

H’s got his hand wrapped around Ben in his pants and Ben’s been storking him over his own, but suddenly Ben pulls away.

Callum whines but then Ben is dropping to his knees with a glint in his eye and Callum almost loses it right then.

Ben sucks the life out of him through his cock and its the closest thing to a religious experience Callum’s ever had.

His fingers are still locked in Ben’s hair when he finally starts to come down from orgasm, panting and sweating.

But now it’s his turn, and he doesn’t know how to do this, not really, but the moment he regains his composure he’s turning them around, pushing Ben into the tree instead.

“You don’t have to.” Ben says, soft, a little unassuredly.

“I want to.” It’s all Callum can say before he’s leaning in, tasting Ben on his tongue.

Remember Callum was a virgin before Whitney and he’s never been with a dude so he’s got hardly any experience.

But he did just have cocksucker extraordinaire Ben go down on him, so he tries to replicate what he remembered happening to him.

The taste is new, salty, sweaty, but somehow still making his mouth water at just the idea of what he’s doing.

He can’t think too much or he might chicken out so he just goes with it, sucking and bobbing inarticulately in a pale imitation of Ben.

Objectively Ben knows this isn’t a good blowjob but... There’s something about it, Callum’s eagerness, the tension between them, that’s making him lose his mind over it anyway.

“Cal, fuck,” Ben moans, thrusting his hips up.

That catches him off guard and he gags, having to pull off to catch his breath.

“Sorry...” Ben breathes, forgetting for a moment who he was with, not just some random hook up, but Callum.

“S’okay,” Callum whispers, voice already sore and raw before he goes back down.

This time he takes his hands and presses Ben’s hips to the tree, pinioning him as his mouth works up and down Ben’s cock, taking as much as he can handle.

The little hint of control Callum exerts gets Ben going and he groans, fingers in Callum’s hair.

He wants to grab him, hold him down on his cock or guide him up and down but he can’t, so he just stays like that enjoying what Callum gives.

Callum remember how good it felt when Ben was teasing his head so he pulls back, trying to work the head of Ben’s cock now that his foreskin has retracted some.

He can taste his precum now and its so weird to know what that tastes like now, but he’s focusing on his task.

It’s sloppy and messy, but Ben begins to openly whimper and his fingers clutch harder at Callum’s hair so he knows he must be doing something right.

He can hear Ben’s breathing picking up and he starts going faster, just bobbing on Ben’s cock up and down, back and forth.

“Cal! Callum I’m gonna....”

Callum hears but he keeps going, he wants to do what Ben did for him, take him all the way there.

Of course Callum doesn’t know how to swallow as Ben cums so he kind of just holds all that cum in his mouth with an awkward face.

FInally Ben looks down, eyes soft and crinkling at the edges and laughs.

“You can spit it out.”

Callum does, thankful, but before he can do anything else Ben is dragging him bakc up for another heated kiss, and he can taste their combined releases on their tongues as they mingle.

Callum doesn’t want it to stop.

Callum’s first time sucking Ben’s cock after admitting he’s gay.

By now they’ve already had sex a few times.

Ben has blown Callum a lot, and they’ve done anal, frotting, handjobs.

But Callum hasn’t blown Ben again, not yet anyway.

It’s not like he’s avoiding it, it just hasn’t come up.

One day though he decides enough is enough.

They’re on the bed, watching a movie on Ben’s laptop as Callum starts kissing at his ear, his neck.

Ben chuckles, fingers caressing Callum’s face, but still watching the movie.

Callum puts a hand on Ben’s chest, rubbing for a moment before sliding down down down to cup his bulge.

“Callum...” It’s a little whispered moan from Ben and his eye are shutting and Callum knows what he wants today.

He’s working this one spot on Ben’s neck that makes the man mewl as he unzips him and fishes out his cock.

Callum raises his hand to his mouth and spits in his pam before going back, using it as a little lube to ease things as he strokes Ben to full hardness.

“That’s so... BLoody hot,” Ben moans. He kicks his laptop shut, movie forgotten now.

Callum is experienced with Ben’s dick now, he knows what Ben likes, for the most part, how it feels in his hand, the heft and weight of it, but he wants to know more.

He straddles Ben’s thighs, ripping open the buttons on Ben’s shirt before kissing over his chest.

Ben’s breath is coming in stutters as Callum finds a nipple and latches onto it, sucking and biting like Ben has done to him, all the while still slowly stroking his cock.

Ben normally considers himself a powerbottom, but he has to admit that when Callum takes control he kind of loses it. There’s something about that man who’s so soft and docile normally taking charge that riles Ben like nothing else.

“Fuck me... Fuck,” Ben pleads, fingers in Callum’s hair.

Callum just leans in and kisses Ben, effectively shushing him before working on the opposite nipple.

He loves hearing Ben moan, watching his body react beneath his fingers.

Ben’s poor cock is weeping already, every stroke making more precum gush from his slit.

Slowly Callum crawls backwards down the bed, hooking his fingers in Ben’s pants and pulling them down and off.

Ben thinks hes about to get fucked, which he’s so ready for, but then Callum grips the base of his shaft and starts licking at the head and he groans in pleasure.

Callum is still not sure how this works in practice, even if Ben’s done it a lot to him and he’s done it once to Ben.

He wants to be good though, to make Ben feel good, to learn how to pleasure him the way Ben does him.

Long, slow licks up and down the shaft, from root to tip, kisses, he tries everyhting he can think of.

He hum as he wraps his lips around Ben’s cock, taking him down as much as he can.

Cal tries to speed up, but after a few moments he gags again and has to pull off.

That’s when he sees Ben’s got his fingers curled in the bedsheets so hard it looks like he might rip them and he remembers how Ben had his fingers in his hair the entire time before.

This gives him and idea and he reaches for Ben’s hands, gently unlocking them before guiding them to his head.

“What?”

“Show me. Teach me,” Callum says, looking up at Ben with earnest enthusiasm.

Ben’s never been more turned on in his entire fucking life than watching Callum Highway stare up at him and ask to be taught how to suck cock.

Ben nods, one hand in Callum’s hair. He gently presses cAllum down, not too much pressure, just enough to guide him.

Callum takes Ben’s head in his mouth, licking and sucking..

Ben shivers and moans, fingers gripping tighter as he pulls Callum up, then presses back down again, showing him the rhythm he likes.

“If you can’t, can’t take it all you, fuck, you use your hand to work the rest,” Ben says, biting his lip as he takes Callum’s hand and puts it on his cock.

Once Callum is stroking him while his mouth works the rest Ben isn’t sure how much longer he can last.

“IN time you can t-take more, fuck, but for now this is good toooo~”

It’s hard to focus on instructing when Callum’s getting better by the minute which means Ben can’t think straight.

“You can work the balls too, lick, suck, fondle...”

Callum pulls off to do that, but returns his mouth to sucking on the tip while his hands work the shaft and Ben’s balls.

Ben actually can’t take much more.

He starts guiding Callum to bob up and down again, getting faster and faster, but still mindful of not gagging Callum.

Callum loves it, loves the way Ben is moaning wantonly, loves knowing that Ben is showing him what he likes, giving him the gift of that knowledge so he can use ti to make his boyfriend feel just as good.

And he plans on getting good enough that he can wreck Ben with just a few sucks like Ben can do to him.

He’s massaging Ben’s balls which he can feel getting tight and drawing up, twisting his wrist to jerk Ben off faster.

Ben keeps guiding his head and Callum uses hsi tongue to stimulate the underside of Ben’s cock as much as he can as his lips glide over the glans repeatedly.

“Cal!” is all Ben shouts before he’s cumming down CAllum’s throat.

This time Callum is more prepared, and while he can’t exactly swallow it all, some leaks out the sides of his mouth, eventually he does manage to swallow down the rest.

When he pulls away theres a string of saliva and cum connecting his lips to Ben’s cock and Ben has to take a mental picture of the literal hottest thing he’s ever seen.

Callum leans bakc down, sucking on the head, clenaing it off and giving him a few more strokes until he hears Ben hiss.

Ben’s breathing is ragged, he looks fucked out like they just had mindblowing sex, and he guesses they did.

“God help me once you can do that on your own, Ill be dead,” Ben says, resting against the headboard, out of breath.

Callum smirks, moving up to lay on hos boyfriend and kiss him stupid.

“I can, I can return the favor just, gimme a minute. Kinda sucked out my soul there like a fucking dementor.”

Callum laughs and kisses his idiot nerd boyfriend again.

“DOn’t have to. I don’t always return it, sometime it can just be one of us wanting to take care of the other, yeah?”

Ben’s eyes get a bit glossy at that, he’s used to giving and not receiving in return, but not used to getting and not returning.

With Callum though, it feels okay, like someone wants ot make him feel good and that’s all that matter.

“Alright.”

“Good, so, was I doing a good job?” Callum asks, nervous still.

“I said you drained me, best blowjob you’ve ever gave, and definitely top 5 all around. With some practice you’ll take every spot soon enough for fucks sake,” Ben laughs, and Callum does too, both of them trading lazy kisses as the afternoon wears on around them.

#ben mitchell #callum highway #ballum #my fic #headcanons #mine #benway

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divinesilverlove-a · 4 years

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STUDY : MARIA YASMINE RENARD. Repost it, do not reblog.

tagged by stolen from : @patricursed tagging : hmmmm @princely-alucard @vampirivanator (richter) and anyone else who wants to

— basics.

▸ is your muse tall / short / average ? She’s a small baby! She only stands at about 5′6″!

▸ are they okay with their height ? She has her advantages and disadvantages. It’s times where she can’t reach the top shelf where she’s actually jealous of anyone remotely taller than her, but she does appreciate the height she has, as it makes her small enough to crawl into some tight spaces.

▸ what’s their hair like ? Pretty like the sun! It’s just about down to her knees and it’s very soft to the touch. She doesn’t often wear it down all the way, opting instead for a half ponytail. When her hair is all the way down though, she actually doesn’t mind anyone playing with or styling it. As a matter of fact, it’s a sign she holds affection for someone when she allows them to touch her hair.

▸ do they spend a lot of time on their hair / grooming ? A lot of care goes into Maria’s hair! She always makes sure to wash it every once in a while to keep the nice soft texture. She had considered cutting it once for practicality, but decided against it because it made her somewhat unique. Not many women in the village she lived in had quite luxurious hair.

In modern/reincarnation verses, Maria actually dyes her hair red for the hell of it, but she actually ends up enjoying it so much that she ends up going back to her stylist for repeat treatments when her roots begin to show.

▸ does your muse care about their appearance / what others think ? Absolutely! While she’s very pretty by her very nature, Maria still makes sure to care for her appearance. She takes several baths and uses different varieties of soap for their many benefits. Even entering her twenties, Maria didn’t look a day over 17, which prompted a rumor that she was performing witchcraft. That, however, was quickly debunked when Maria revealed her beauty secrets.

— preferences.

▸ indoors or outdoors ? outdoors ▸ rain or sunshine ? sunshine ▸ forest or beach ? forest ▸ precious metals or gems ? gems, but it depends on how pretty they are ▸ flowers or perfumes ? flowers ▸ personality or appearance ? personality ▸ being alone or being in a crowd ? being alone ▸ order or anarchy ? order ▸ painful truths or white lies ? painful truths ▸ science or magic ? both ▸ peace or conflict ? peace ▸ night or day ? night ▸ dusk or dawn ? dawn ▸ warmth or cold ? cold ▸ many acquaintances or a few close friends ? a few close friends ▸ reading or playing a game ? reading

— questionnaire.

▸ what are some of your muse’s bad habits ? Maria isn’t open much about her past before meeting Richter. Anything concerning childhood in conversation causes her to tense a bit, making her hug herself a little just to reassure herself. Whenever she’s asked about it, she just dismisses it as a problem she’s dealt with and they needn’t concern themselves with her.

She also seems to have a particular cold spot for any talk about mothers. Given that Maria’s mother wasn’t the model of what a mother should be, she doesn’t ever seem to oblige in talking about her own. She views this as giving her mother the attention she wants, even in the afterlife. These memories of her mother causes Maria to have a bit of a complex as better than those who belittle her or tell her she can’t ever rise to be better than the generation before her.

▸ has your muse lost anyone close to them ? how has it affected them ? Her father when she was only eight years of age. Having been exposed to her parents’ divorce at the age of two, Maria was very close to her father. He was the one who taught her to use animals as protection when hunting monsters and even gave her the very first hunting knife she ever owned. To protect this sacred gift she was given, she hides in a small hidden compartment in her floor, where she also keeps a box filled with many of her father’s various treasures.

▸ what are some fond memories your muse has ? She values all of her memories, but she treasures her times with Alucard the most. Even if by some chance they never end up together, she treasures him as the greatest friend a woman could ever ask for. Even if her feelings of romantic affection go unnoticed, she’d sacrifice her own happiness to keep Alucard as happy as she could manage. She still recalls the times where he’s tried to offer his assistance in cooking meals but the results are usually subpar.

She also holds memories of Richter close to her heart as well, as Richter was the man who helped her finish her training to become a full-fledged huntress. She enjoys any time she spends with the man she views as the exact image of an older brother and all of the training she continues to do with him.

▸ is it easy for your muse to kill ? Usually not. Maria doesn’t deny she has a bit of a ferocity that she can’t quite control, but it never comes out unless she relives any particular traumatizing event, such as the time she spent with her abusive mother. It’s never hard to tell when Maria is driven to the point of murder when she goes almost completely silent, knowing if she says anything it ruins her chances of ever getting away from the things that ruined her psyche.

▸ what’s it like when your muse breaks down ? Maria usually denies ever feeling negative emotions such as sadness in the face of her companions, but the facade never lasts long as she always ends up crying as soon as she’s in her room alone, where no one could bother her as she just curls into a ball on her bed and weeps, hugging herself to offer stability. Often times, this has resulted in Richter or Alucard checking in on her, only to realize she’s fallen asleep without putting herself under the covers.

▸ is your muse capable of trusting someone with their life ? Usually, Maria doesn’t trust people, given what she’s been through. However, those who prove to be by her side no matter what are those who Maria automatically sees as truly friends and family. It was the case with Richter when he first met her, a scared girl who knew nothing of where she was or why she was there, but following in Richter’s footsteps led her down a path where she could openly trust people again, something she never thought she’d be able to do again.

▸ what’s your muse like when they’re in love ? It starts off with Maria doing small things for the person she loves. Usually, she starts with walking into their room and giving them breakfast in bed, wishing them a good morning and running off to do errands. Upon return, she will have gotten them small gifts as a token of appreciation for their kindness. This lasts about 3-4 months, depending on how smitten she is with someone.

After about a year of living with someone she’s fallen in love with, she will confess on the day they met as an anniversary surprise, and she doesn’t particularly cry if they don’t reciprocate. As a matter of fact, she plays off her turned down confession with a smile, assuring the recipient of her confession that she’d be fine regardless so long as she could see them every day and know they’d be alright.

#Marked in Despair | Tagged #Thoughts of Sugar and Spice | Headcanons #((yayyy thanks for the tag! this was a pain in the butt to do lol))#((but i love elaborating on headcanons and creating new ones!))#((this actually put me back in a writing mood so hey it did something good for me))

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avengerscompound · 5 years

Text

Positive - Chapter 9

Positive: A Bruce Banner Fanfic

Series Masterlist PREVIOUS //

Buy me a ☕ Character Pairing: Bruce Banner x F!Reader

Word Count: 1545

Warnings: Angst to the extreme, unplanned pregnancy, miscarriage, smut, past child abuse

Synopsis: After a bad reaction to antibiotics makes you sicker than you should be, Bruce asks you to take a pregnancy test to set his mind at east.

When it comes back Positive you have to then weight the pros and cons of having a child when the pregnancy is so high risk. It doesn’t help that while Bruce would rather you terminate, Hulk is adamant you don’t.

Chapter 9

Bruce hadn’t stayed away long. He’d given you space to be mad with him overnight and the following day but he’d shown up in the morning to take you to the appointment you had for a D&C.

He looked heartbroken and in more pain than you’d ever seen him. Like he was barely holding it together. You wondered how he was holding himself together. Why the Hulk hadn’t taken over and just torn the place down in his grief.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t… I know I was scared but I never wanted it to end like this.” He said not meeting your eyes.

“I know. I know you didn’t.” You said shaking your head. “I was hurt and I was angry and …” You stopped and swallowed, wiping your eyes angrily with the balls of your hand. “And I’ve been that way through most of this pregnancy. You didn’t want this, Bruce. Don’t deny it.”

“I’m not. It’s true. You knew that all along.” He said. “But I did want them in the end. I did. I’m not relieved. This hurts worse than… anything I’ve been through.”

“How are we going to tell, Hulk?” You asked, completely breaking down. “He’s going to be so upset.”

Bruce shook his head. “He’s been pushing. He knows something is wrong. He keeps asking me what it is, but I - I can’t bring myself to tell him.” He let out a breath and shifted slightly where he stood. “I don’t think it would be safe here anyway.”

You nodded. “I guess you’re right. I guess after the surgery, we can go somewhere remote. Let him know.”

“I don’t want you to get hurt.” He said. “It might not be safe.”

“He wouldn’t hurt me.” You said. “Especially not when I’m already hurting so much.”

Bruce gave a small nod and shifted again. He finally raised his eyes to meet yours. “Are we going to be okay?”

“I don’t know. I don’t want to break up.”

“Maybe we should,” He said taking a step towards you. “Maybe you should find someone who can give you the life you want. Someone you can have children with.”

“I want you.” You said softly. “I’ve always wanted you.”

He ran his hand through his hair. “It’s too much to ask you to do that. Look at you. I broke your heart.”

“You don’t get to do that, Bruce.” You said, the tears now flowing freely. “You don’t get to decide for me what I want. I want a family. With you.”

“And look what happened? You know this is my fault. This was whatever mutation they saw from the Gamma. You have to know that’s true.”

“I don’t know anything.” You said, moving to the couch and just collapsing. “People have miscarriages. They do. All the time. Every day. It’s a statistical likelihood.”

He came and sat beside you, perching himself right at the edge of the chair. “I can’t do this again. Not on purpose.”

“Do you want a family at all?”

He ran his hands through his hair. “Now… yes. With you, I can see it. It still scares me, but I was excited. I was. I really wanted to hold them. To teach them about science. I’ve never felt that way before. I’ve never let myself feel that way before. But it’s moot. I still have the same fears. They're worse now if anything. I don’t ever want to put you through this again.”

You put your hand on his arm. “There are other options.”

“Like adoption? Who’s going to approve an adoption when the parents are a SHIELD agent who risks her life every day and a guy with a rather spectacular rage problem?”

“We could try, Bruce. We could try. Or a sperm donor. I don’t know. But we can have both things if you’d let yourself.”

Bruce leaned back into the couch and you curled into him, almost out of habit than anything else. His arm snaked around your waist and he held you against him. “Maybe we should get some counseling. We shouldn’t be trying for anything until we’re done processing this.”

You sighed and nodded in agreement, burying your face in his chest.

“It’s okay, my big strong Agent. You can let yourself be weak sometimes.” He said.

“It doesn’t feel like it.” You sobbed. “It feels like I’m completely falling apart.”

“Then fall. I’m here to catch you.” He said.

You sat together in silence, him just holding you as you cried. He didn’t let himself. He had trouble with expressing that kind of emotion thanks to the Hulk factor. He didn’t run though. He let you be the weak one and he held you.

After some time passed FRIDAY reminded you about your procedure and the two of you went upstairs. Bruce sat with you as you changed into the surgery gown and the doctors went through what was about to happen. They counted you off to sleep and the next thing you knew you were in tears and disorientated, unsure of what just happened or where you were.

“It’s alright, honey. I’m here.” Bruce said softly as he gently nudged you to lie back down. “It’s all over.”

“It’s over?” You said, your voice raspy and small.

He leaned over and kissed your cheek. “I’m afraid so.”

You started crying again, the reality that just like that, there was no more pregnancy and there would be no baby, hitting you in the drugged out daze you were in. He moved and sat up on the bed wrapping you in his arms. “I know, honey. I’ve got you.” He said softly.

Two weeks passed where you recovered from the surgery and took the time to grieve and attempt to heal together. It wasn’t easy, though you didn’t fight. It was just a haze of sadness that clouded everything you did. Normally Bruce would disappear to the lab in times like this, and you would hit the gym for hours on end.

You both opted to stay home together without even saying it. Bruce seemed to want to take care of you. Though he wasn’t the best-equipped person for doing it. For a man who had been on the run for so many years, he wasn’t much of a cook.

All the feelings came out and were laid bare on the table. How scared you had both been. How angry at the universe. The feelings of betrayal that you had felt when he disappeared and the complete immobilizing terror that had sent him there in the first place. You didn’t fight about it. You just let yourselves be honest without judgment and it helped.

There was a lot of work to do to figure out how to really heal and the direction you both wanted to take, but it was feeling like maybe, you could do it together. He was worth the effort.

Only he was starting to look green around the edges. The stress was getting to him and without his normal retreat to the lab, he had no way of letting it go. The bigger problem was the Hulk. He wanted to know what was going on. After a lot of discussion and debate, you had agreed to go somewhere remote and Bruce would let him out so you could tell him.

Tony and Thor agreed to come with you and keep their distance. They would extract you if necessary and keep Hulk where he couldn’t hurt anyone. You didn’t think you’d need it, but it helped put Bruce’s mind at ease.

“I’m really not sure this is a good idea,” Bruce said as he slowly unbuttoned his shirt.

The two of you stood in the middle of the abandoned theme park that Tony had purchased with the express intention of it being a place Hulk could smash if the need ever occurred.

“He won't hurt me. He'll know I am grieving too.” You replied.

He shucked off his pants and sighed. “Alright, stand back.”

You took a few steps back and Bruce began breathing heavily. He doubled over as a green tinge started to spread over his skin and his muscles twisted and contorted. It was the Hulk who looked up at you confused and hurt, through iridescent green eyes.

“Hey, Big Guy,” You said, approaching him.

“Hey, tough girl.” He said looking you over. He reached out to touch your stomach. “Is baby okay?”

You shook your head, tears pricking your eyes. “No, we lost her, Big Guy. We lost the baby.”

The Hulk sunk to his knees and let out a loud, primal wail that echoed through the whole park. A flock of birds took off into the air startled by the sound. “We’re coming.” Tony’s voice said, crackling through the comms.

“No. It’s okay.” You replied quickly and moved to Hulk. He wrapped his large hand around you and buried his face against your stomach weeping openly. “I’m sorry, Big Guy. I guess I wasn’t strong enough.”

“No, tough girl. Not your fault.” He rumbled. “Hulk wanted to be dad too.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” You sunk to your knees and hugged his head running your fingers through his hair as he cried against you.

// NEXT

#bruce banner #bruce banner x reader #hulk #the hulk #hulk fanfic #fanfic #fanfiction #reader insert #angst #trigger warning #miscarriage #positive

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