#(( not allowed to wilt on her watch. ))

[gctchell]

@arachnaemboss asked: there's a bouquet of black hell-roses placed on carmilla's desk, neatly packed and with a handwritten note beholding his seal. "happy mother's day. -z."

There are not many events in the year which Carmilla considers worthy enough to take off time for (employees being a different matter entirely), but Mother's Day is always right there at the top beneath two birthdays. It's only now at this hour when she's returned home, shelling her purse to rest from the ivory coat hanger at the door marked with blessed tips in it bone, and that is when she spots the dark bouquet in her peripheral.

She scarcely needs to guess where they might have come from, but lifting the note for inquiry and finding that familiar wax seal puts her at ease all the same - more than a note from anyone else would. All the light buzzing from stimulation in the busy world beyond her company doors quiets with the lift of her smile.

Her chair swivels beneath her weight, hands bringing the black roses close to breathe in and rest against her chest amongst the glowing white loops of jewelry. She turns to face the floor length windows, gazing out as the red light of Pride grows dimmer and dimmer in the sky. The world quietly tells her it's time for the routine phone call soon. She thinks he'll enjoy hearing about the day all three of them had.. Perhaps next time, he might tag along.

[chibsandchill]

Stolen moments under silk sheets (18+)

Fandom: HOTD (House of the dragon)

Pairing: Aemond x AFAB!reader

Summary: Aemond is touch starved. That’s it. That’s the whole story. Kind of. 

Masterlist

My requests are open! 

MDNI NSFW (warnings under the page break). SFW version here!

Warnings: Including but not exclusively slivers of angst sprinkled here and there, fluff, oral sex (m & f receiving), p in v sex, creampie, obsessive behavior, obsessive thoughts, descriptions of metaphorical self-harm, very brief mentions of the dance and the events that happened (some canon divergence), Aemond is his own warning, canon typical themes, the beginning is a bit slow, grammatical and spelling errors (English is not my first language)

I am not responsible for your media consumption 

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The roses in your garden have begun to wilt. Summer is leaving, and winter claims all, but you remain untouched by the darkness that crept ever closer with each passing cycle. Your roses may have lost their vibrant colors but your face remained as bright and beautiful as ever. You thrive even in desolation – the harsh winds cannot steal the warmth from your cheeks or the spark from your eyes. 

“And you say you do not care for gardening, my love.” 

He’s almost startled by your presence, but since the war very little caught him off guard. But that look in your eyes? The overwhelming affection? That was something Aemond reckoned he would never get used to. And yet he could not get enough, you had awakened a beast inside him that fed and craved all things you. A smile did not satiate him like it used to, a night spent together felt like a fleeting moment spirited away by vengeful gods. 

Aemond hums. “Your passions are my passions.” 

You wrap your arms around his waist, resting your face on his shoulder. He felt, in that moment, as if he was standing on jelly, his knees threatening to buckle and his spine like liquid. There was not enough of you pressed against him. He felt burning hot and freezing cold at the same time, his skin crawling with want and desire, his cock half-hard already and his mind buzzing. 

“Clever.” You chuckle into the crook of his neck. Aemond shivers as your warm breath hits the sensitive skin there. 

“Did I wake you?”

His words are a whisper. Soft and with underlying guilt. You do not sleep well anymore, not without him. Too much has happened. The death of Jaehaerys proved that there is no sanctuary that cannot be breached, not a lock that cannot be broken, and not a part of you that will not suffer.  

You shake your head. 

“Liar.” 

“I was already awake. I like to…” 

“Hm? There is no judgment here.”

There was not an inch of you that he would part from – not a sliver of you he would not take, and not a piece of you he did not dream of devouring. The opposite was also true, for he craved to be taken, to be devoured and kept more than he ever dreamt of possessing. Aemond would have all of you, had woven that promise into the very fabrics of your marriage, embedded the words as if they were a spell into his vows, and oh, how sweetly you had smiled upon hearing them. He doubted you heard them for what they truly were. Are. 

“I watch you,” you confess, “when you sleep. You look so… so peaceful. The war has yet to poison that.” 

He blinks. Seconds tick by, but Aemond is too busy staving off the greedy blush from turning him red to respond. He is unable to respond, truly, even were he not practically glowing at your words. Words clump together on his tongue. 

“I should speak to the Housekeeper then,” Aemond clears his throat, “ if the room is so lacking you need to resort to staring at me. Though, perhaps I should thank her for her oversight that surely allows you to fall asleep quickly.” 

The corners of your lips fall, barely, but there is nothing about you he does not notice. There is nothing you can hide from his greedy eyes. 

“Twas a compliment, husband.”

“Perhaps a visit to the Maester is needed-”

You press a hand flat against his cheek and he falls silent. Your thumb brushes across his cheekbone to the apple of his cheek, to under his eye. There it rests, caressing him. He wants more. Your touch is only skin-deep, and it is not enough. If he could, he would press himself against your skin until all that remained of him was fading heat. Until he was but a faint whisper on the wind and his memory lived on only in you, for there was not a part of him he did not wish to give you. He would carve a place for him in you – in your heart, so that he would be close always. You would beat as one, breathe as one.  

“Yours is a beauty that the gods go to war for.”

“Perhaps once.” Aemond looks away. 

“Scars are stories of hardships overcome. They are marks of victory, do not think they make you less. They never will. Not to me.”

“Perhaps so, but I am not whole. There is a piece of me that was stolen and I can never get it back. The gods would not even glance at a man such as I for anything other than a feat of greatness.”

“And you have shown them many,” you press a short kiss against his neck. “You claimed the Queen of all Dragons,” another kiss, “you won many battles on dragonback,” another kiss, “you showed mercy to your enemies,” a series of kisses follow that claim, all inching up his neck. “You saved your brother and Sunfyre,” a kiss on his cheek, “you were crowned King by the smallfolk”, this kiss fell on the corner of his lips, “and you have been a most attentive husband.” 

A kiss straight on his lips. Aemond melts into it, pressing himself into you. You pull away too soon and he finds himself chasing after you, desperate for one more touch. 

“The gods give the toughest battles to their strongest soldiers.” You thumb the skin under his eye, “and you have won them all. Take pride in that. Gods know I do.”

“You do?” He asks. 

He did not think himself strong, or a champion of god given battles. His weaknesses tower over the oasis of strength, and so they are hidden to him. But he is not a vain man, that is not why he hates Luke for stealing his eye. 

You smile. “Of course. And I think all the beauty in the world fades compared to yours. Scars and all.”

Aemond is not sure he believes your words, but he believes you. It is a conflicting mess of jumbled thoughts mingling with the words of others. He was never the beauty of the family, his dragon was not the beauty of her kin. His life was one of hiding, of pride hidden beneath compliance, of hatred festering under blushing skin. 

“You flatter me, my love.” He says before his eyes wander back to your roses. “Yours is the only opinion worth hearing. The only one that matters.” 

You hum. “Come back to bed, Aemond.” 

“As my Queen commands.” 

The draping curtains flutter in the soft autumn wind, and from Aemond’s side of the bed he could see out across the Blackwater Bay. Sometimes when the wind is harsh and the rain plenty, Aemond is back in the skies above Storm’s End. He dreams of thousands of ways he could have saved Luke, though he does not wish he lived, not truly. In some dreams he thought of ways he could harm him further – truly punish him for what he took from Aemond that night. 

You can never have all of him. Not anymore. Though he dares not tell you that is why he cannot look at himself in mirrors. He would not show you the twisted being that hid under his skin. The one that would gouge out his other eye without hesitation were you to ask and smile as he did so. 

He could never, would never forgive Luke for what he stole from you. It is a hatred so woven into his very being that he would carry that with him even in all Seven Hells. 

“Come,” you beckon, kneeling on the bed. “If my words alone are not enough, I will prove it to you.” 

“Prove what?” 

His voice is low, filled with desires transcending earthly flesh. His is one of hunger for your very soul. 

“Come here and I will show you.” Your smile is coy, playful even. There are half-wilted petals from your roses on the bed behind you. They form no pattern, haphazardly thrown across the sheets.

He wonders when you put them there. 

Aemond comes to a stop in front of you, hands clasped behind his back, posture ramrod straight. He feels as though he is standing in front of the gods themselves, awaiting judgment. He hopes that he is enough, even if he cannot offer you all of him. There will always be a piece of him enduring the times alone. 

He does not feel worthy of you. No amount of petals carefully gathered off prickly stems will soften the harsh edges of his being. The love he grew up around was conditional, and though he was rarely struck, their words were as sharp as daggers, and left deep scars that will never heal. It left him jagged, bleeding, tearing at the seams with a beast untamed. In the image of you he tried to mend himself, with your love he patched the holes left by cruel words. He tore the flames from his breath so that his wrath could never burn you, the claws from his hands so that his touch would always be gentle. Not a piece of him was worth suffering in the absence of anything you. 

He was a dragon playing at being a lover. 

But he broke his wings for just a glimpse of you, then forced himself to fly when you desired to feel the wind against your face. You could not see the darkness oozing from the cracks of him, of your husband as you knew him. 

If it meant losing you, he would be a dragon no longer. 

He could simply be him. 

Aemond. 

But Aemond knew not who he was anymore. He knew who he was forced to become, and who war made him. But war was no longer, and yet the man rising from the ashes of his kin’s pyres remained. 

“Aemond?”

“Yes?”

“Where do you go when you get so lost in your head?” 

He does not wish to reveal to you how deep his longing for you goes. It is etched into the walls of his heart, it is a bottomless pit that calls only your name. He can never fill it. It aches and aches, and he longs and longs. His envy knows no bound, it is endless in its hunger for you. He would have all of you if he could, just as he wants you to have all of him. Every thought in your head, every feeling, every sensation. 

“Lost. I get… lost.” He confesses. The words are raw and a piece of his armor is cracked open to reveal mangled flesh of all Aemond’s that has been and will be. His recreation of himself in your image is as endless as his need to please. 

“Oh, my love,” you whisper. “Let me take care of you.”

You reach for the strings on his trousers before you pull them down. He steps out of them easy enough, though he feels awkward standing there with his tunic on. Though you did not leave him to suffer for long before you pulled his shirt off as well. You palm at his chest, touching every divot and lean muscle on his chest. It is overwhelming. He almost feels like crying. 

Your fingers massage, they scratch, they soothe and they burn his feverish skin. Your touch sets him alight. He can feel your love through every pass of your fingers over his skin. You press against the lean muscle, caress the slopes and divots of his flesh. Though you have long since memorized each other’s bodies, you touch him as if it is your first. His mind is dizzy with you, he feels as if he’s falling and drowning at the same time. The pleasure fills his throat, his lungs, and yet it also sweeps him off his feet, knocks the breath out of his chest. He wants more. He wants you to press harder, to mark him. You could press through his skin, through his muscles and ribs, and grasp his very heart, and you would still be so far away he wanted to weep.

His cock stiffens, though you keep touching him. You brush over his right nipple, then the left, then both. It is a strange sensation – one he’s not wholly against. 

Then, 

your fingers brush against his abdomen, trace the outline of his abs, then dips below. You grasp him firm in hand, and Aemond thinks he sees stars. You are so very soft, and he is so very very hard. 

The whore Aegon forced on him at his thirteenth name-day held him tightly, too tightly, then rubbed his skin raw, and still he could not force himself to come. He remained flaccid and cold in her calloused hands, even as Aegon jeered and leered from his place on the dais. 

But you showed none of her cruelty, none of the cold indifference. Just your presence took him halfway to completion, and he doubted it would take much more. Your other hand reaches below to cup his balls. That touch is less gentle, more firm. You start to twist the hand holding his cock, bringing it back and then forth in long, slow movements. You switch between firm, soft, fast, and then slower. But it is never not gentle. And you never look away from his eyes.

Though half-lidded, jaw slack and chest heavy, he stares at you. Pleasure of the flesh is second to the connection he finds in your eyes. 

His eye blinks wide open at the new sensation. Your mouth is warm and soft like silk. It is heaven made flesh, and it makes his knees tremble. You envelop him, tongue hot on his cock. You pay special attention to his head; trace the veins and the weeping slit with extra care. And, oh, is he weeping. 

Aemond needs more. 

He wraps his fingers around your hair, then gently guides you back and forth. A single shake of your head would free you from him, should you wish, but you don’t. Your tear-filled eyes plead with him for a tighter hold, and he complies. A bit. But he is soon lost to the pleasure of your mouth, and so as his eye flutter shut and he shudders, he finds himself guiding you all the way down so that your nose meets the short hairs at his base, and then back up just far enough that your lips wrap around his head. 

The reverence of a septon to the gods are nothing compared to that which he whispers your name.

Though if he finds the most pleasure from your sucking his cock or from knowing that a piece of him was inside you, he would never know. You swallow him down so easily, and with so much enthusiasm he is mournful that there is not more he can give. 

There is a knife on the chest by his feet. He wonders, would you swallow all of him as easily as his seed? If he cut himself would you lap at his wounds? 

Then, you pull away. You crawl up the bed until you fall down on the many pillows at the top of the bed. He follows without thought, kicking off his shoes and socks. His hair tie is next and his pale hair falls down his back. You are not prey, and he is not a predator, but he feels a thrill chasing after you into your marital bed. It sets his blood alight with desire. 

“That was cruel.” He says. “I was close.” 

He wasn’t. Your passions are his passion, your pleasure his pleasure. 

“Then I suppose you should get revenge.” You bite your lip. 

Your nightwear is thin. It is easily swept away from your body and thrown on the floor. 

“Yours is the beauty gods would die for.”

“It is all for you.” You tell him as you lean back against the pillows. 

His eye rove over you. Not an inch of you is not perfect, not an inch he did not love. All of you on display for him; an offering for a vengeful man. You are not unmarred by the war, and there is not a scar he does not kiss. He feels your pain as if it was his, and each wound on your body is his failure. 

“We match,” you told him once. 

He did not have the heart to tell you that this was done in your honor, to take the pain from you and deliver it upon him. He cut himself open for all the gods to see, then demanded they scar him as they did you. 

Aemond runs his hands along your form with the same careful love as you did him. His hands caress the skin on your ribs, dance around your sensitive nipples to lay flat over your heart. It pounds against your skin, calling out to him. His beats in turn. Then, he turns his attention to your breasts. You are most sensitive there. His lips wrap around a nipple, and you gasp. His hand wanders down your stomach, through the hair covering your cunt, and then he presses down on your clit. You jump into his touch, eyes widening at the sudden pleasure. 

“Aemond.” You moan. 

His mouth comes off your nipple with a wet ‘pop’ before he leans down and claims the other. He presses tight circles into your clit, alternating directions, then he moves his index finger to nudge at your entrance. His thumb stays on your clit, but the motions are lazy. He spells his name, then yours, then he stops. 

Aemond pulls away, but not for long. 

He moves down your body, about to put his lips against your cunt, when you pull at his hair. Aemond groans into your flesh. His desire for you is akin to drunkenness. He is dizzy with it, crazed with a need that can never be satisfied. Still, he presses himself against your folds, tongue darting out to lap at the wetness there. 

It trickles down the abyss of his desire, and in turn it grows. The hunger deepens, hollows out his chest. 

His thumb stays on your clit, but only for a moment before his nose replaces it. He grabs your hips and brings you closer to him. His face is all but buried in you, and yet it is not enough. Your wetness covers his lips, his chin, his cheeks. His tongue digs inside you for more, tip of his nose pressing against your clit in that way that makes your head spin. 

Time seems to stop, your pleasure endless, his chase bringing him closer and closer, and deeper. He presses a finger inside your entrance, before you give way and he thrusts it inside. He pumps it when his tongue darts away, so that you are never empty of him. 

Then, just as your hips start to shake, and your moans grow louder, you pull him away. He protests, loudly, but it falls on deaf ears. You pull him up to you, and he is reluctant to follow. Aemond feels cold and lost, but is then altogether found and warm when your hands wrap around his cock again. 

And the next moment he’s burning. 

You guide his cock inside you, and he sputters to life. His lips press down on yours, uncaring of the taste of him inside your mouth. He needs the connection, needs you. Aemond thrusts wildly against you for a few moments, his cock driving in and out of you with filthy wet sounds. 

You hold his face in your hands as you kiss, and his thrusts grow more controlled. Aemond wants it to last. Wants to drag out your connection for as long as he can, but he can feel his orgasm building already. His lower back aches with it, his toes curling against the bedsheets. He moves to slow down but the second he tries, you wrap your legs around his hips, pressing your feet against his buttocks to slam him into you. It is the same when he tries again, until he drives back with the same force as you drive him back in. 

The pace is maddening, your sounds so sweet he feels like he’s drowning. He knows not where he ends and you start, but he would have it no other way. If he pushes into you hard enough would you truly become one? In body as you are in soul? 

“Gods, Aemond,” you gasp at a particularly hard thrust.

Aemond brings his finger back down to thumb at your clit as apology, and you sing even sweeter for it. 

Time means nothing, there is only you and him. And then you’re falling over the cliff of pleasure, and he dives after you, clinging to you with bleeding fingers. Your pleasure is his pleasure, two halves of a whole finally forcing themselves together. There is not a crack in your connection, and Aemond thinks he sees stars as his vision goes white. He gasps and moans into your mouth, your pants and sounds of pleasure drowned by his need to bring himself closer to you. 

He lets himself fall upon you, cock softening inside you. His head spins still, but his heart beats like a drum in his chest at knowing that he’s once again been claimed by you. Even when he pulls himself free (reluctantly) there is still a piece of him in you. A piece that would never blossom into something more, for Aemond would not part with a single part of you, not even for himself. 

“I love you,” you pant into his ear. 

“Not as much as I love you,” he says in return. 

You laugh. “‘Tis not a competition, husband.” 

“No.” He agrees, with an easy smile. It is the truth. 

Aemond had won the war, and he had proven himself. And so he would never part from you again, even were the gods to try and force him from your side. The threads of your destiny are weaved together into one singular past, present, future. 

His beauty may be what gods fought for, 

but Aemond? 

Aemond would fight all the Gods, both old and new, 

for just one more stolen moment under silk sheets. 

[ithebookhoarder]

Hiiiiiii, Could i request an Anthony Bridgerton x wife!reader fic where Anthony married reader who is from a lower class (basically like Theo) and they end up having a fight because reader did something that would be considered out of class or simply wrong while she’s trying to learn to be a viscountess. Sorry if it didn’t make any sense English isn’t my first language 😭😭😭

All's Fair in Love and Cricket (Anthony Bridgerton x Wife!Reader)

Synopsis: After getting into a fight with your new husband you decide to settle your differences in a 'sporting' fashion, whilst reminding Anthony once and for all just who he married.

A/N: Ohhhhh boy did I enjoy this one. I'm sorry if it feels a little rushed or clunky in places, I may make some more edits at some point. I struggled with the flow of writing so much action but I loved it too much not to post it. So yeah, anxiety be damned else this would join the rest of the unposted drafts I have stashed away. I hope you enjoy it. 💕

Warnings: Anthony being a stupid idiot, class references (discrimination), reference to illness 

Masterlist

It was late summer and as the sun beat down on the green lawns of St James’ Palace the lords and ladies below began to wilt. Many a woman held her parasol above her head in a desperate attempt to remain cool, which was hard when you wore petticoats and had nothing to do but sit and watch the men play cricket for hours on end.

Even Her Majesty looked like she was struggling to make it through the afternoon's entertainment, her attendants desperately fanning her where she sat under her canopy. They looked close to melting in their ornate gowns, however they were clearly willing to endure if it allowed them to continue admiring the game - and more importantly, those playing it. It was like waving a bone in a dog’s face as they watched all the eligible young men of the court sprinting about the green, their physique and athletic talents on clear display.

No wonder the Queen had her opera glasses with her, despite her proximity to the field. 

You almost felt bad for them, watching as the men were subjected to the same treatment as the young ladies were night after night at social functions… hence the 'almost'. After all, there was a sense of satisfaction watching them preen and dance about like show ponies on display. That, and the view wasn’t exactly a terrible one when your husband was one of those playing. 

You’d have endured sitting on that blasted green a thousand times over, baking in the afternoon sun and surrounded by swooning women, just to watch Anthony Bridgerton as he captained his team. 

Being one of Anthony’s oldest and dearest friends, his competitive nature was well known to you (for which you had one too many games of Pall Mall at Aubrey Hall to thank), but it seemed to be out in full force today. You’d simply lost track of how many times he had dashed back and forth, working up somewhat of a sweat as he barked orders at his teammates in a desperate bid to ensure victory. It was no surprise to you that he had subsequently been forced to remove his jacket and roll up his sleeves, exposing his rather sculpted arms to those watching.  

As you said, there were worse ways to spend an afternoon - and normally, you’d have been smugly lapping it up, however, today you were unable to truly enjoy yourself. Not when all you wanted to do was march over to him, take that cricket bat and give him a good whack or two. Maybe that would knock some sense back into idiot… 

That was the issue with being in love with your dearest friend: those who knew you best also knew the best ways to hurt you, and Anthony’s behaviour at dinner the following evening had proven just how true a statement that was. 

It had all started after the entire family had been summoned to the townhouse for a dinner, to toast you and what had so far been a successful first Season as Viscountess Bridgerton. At first, everything had appeared normal, with the usual laughter, merriment, and ease that one would typically experience at a Bridgerton gathering. It was what had first endeared the family to you, back when you had been but a small child, living at Aubrey Hall as the only daughter of their Stable Master. 

They had never been anything other than kind to you, inviting you to play with their children, and join them in their daily lessons. They had also bought you gifts on your birthdays, invited you to join them at events, and even paid for the finest doctors when your father had fallen unwell several years ago. It was as if, to the Bridgertons, your family was their family - an attitude that they extended to the all members of the staff that kept their ancestral seat running. It didn’t matter if you were Head House Keeper, or the greenest of scullery maids. Everyone was counted and cherished, and the Bridgertons had earned utmost loyalty in return. 

The rigid rules and divisions of high society didn’t appear to exist within the wisteria covered walls, and it had been that way well into your young adult life. In fact, it had been you that had initially rejected Anthony when he first declared his love for you one day, after taking you along with him on one of your many afternoon rides. 

You’d been the one to remind him who he was and that society expected him to marry someone they deemed worthy of him and his title - and that wasn’t you. You didn’t have a penny to your name beyond the small sum you’d saved from helping with the younger Bridgerton children as a governess. You didn’t have a title or an estate or anything to bring to a marriage. 

“Except the most important thing!” Anthony had pleaded. “Love… I love you, and there is no one else for me in this life except you. Life is short, terrifyingly short. Look at my mother and father… to be without the person you love most in the world is an agony and I cannot bear it. Please. I can’t lose you. I will not spend my life without you, knowing love is within both of our reach but that we were too afraid to grasp it? If I cannot spend my life, no matter how long it may be, with you then I will have no-one. No-one. My brothers can have the title. I don’t want it. I only want you.”

He’d continued to insist that for the following 6 months, even after his family had moved to their London house for the Season. It didn’t matter how many beautiful, eligible, wealthy heiresses he was introduced to. He would entertain none of them. He would have none of them. Only you. 

It’s what he’d continued to insist until you’d eventually accepted, realising that he was right; Love was the most important thing and you both deserved to have it in your lives, come what may. 

So, you’d said yes. 

You’d become engaged and gradually made your way out into society as the new Viscountess Bridgerton, armed with the support and guidance of the Bridgertons. 

Which brought you to last night and the dinner that had been organised to mark the end of the most challenging, but rewarding, Season of your life - and the dinner had started so wonderfully. Yet, somehow it had all gone to hell in a hand basket in the mere blink of an eye thanks the well meaning, but ill timed, teasing of Colin and Benedict.

Your brothers-in-law had both decided to raise a toast to your first Season as an ‘official’ member of the family and they'd got off to a rather complimentary start, if you were being honest. However, they had somehow moved from their praise on to reminiscing about the many years and many adventures you had had since joining their family.

Whereas every anecdote had caused the rest of the family to spiral into more laughter, your husband had looked more and more infuriated. In fact, Anthony had warned them not too kindly to ‘sit down’ and ‘shut up’ about your childish behaviours, which of course had only encouraged them further. 

“Oh, hush, brother,” Benedict had quipped, raising a glass to your successful debut. “She knows we mean it all in good fun. After all, she once had a phase where she refused to wear shoes and would walk barefoot around the estate, traipsing mud everywhere! I think we’re allowed to be surprised by how far our dear darling Y/N has come.”

“It’s true - It’s a miracle,” Colin added, wiping the tears of laughter from his cheeks. “The transformation is remarkable. Who knew she would go from feral ragamuffin to lofty Lady Bridgerton.” 

Anthony’s only response had been to tighten his grip on his glass to the point it looked like it would shatter. 

Whether it was the residual stress of your busy social calendar, or something else entirely you had no idea. All you did know was that Anthony was angry, and even your gentle touch would not soothe him. 

In a desperate attempt to calm him, you’d pulled Anthony out onto the terrace shortly after dessert had been cleared and asked what was happening. Much to your surprise, he had turned on you, venting about how childish his brothers were and how embarrassing it was that they were discussing things unbefitting someone who was a Viscountess. 

“They’re just joking, my love. They were doing it to get a rise out of you.”

“Well, it wasn’t funny,” he’d growled, causing you to bristle. “They’re so immature. They need to grow up and realise we’re not children any more. That… that you’re my wife and joint head of this family.”

“So? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t, Anthony,” you snapped, the warning clear in your tone. “What are you trying to say?”

“Nothing, I just - it - they’re… it’s embarrassing.” 

“So, you’re embarrassed? By what? Your family? Or me? Because everything they said tonight is true. I did do those things, as did you. I may not have been born a noble lady but you knew that when you asked me to marry you. So don’t suddenly act like you're ashamed, that you are somehow better than your family - than me.”

Somehow the argument had only spiralled from there, with both of you saying things you didn’t mean, and with both of you storming off and slamming the doors behind you. 

Even now, sat on the edge of the cricket pitch, the thought made your blood boil. How dare he? How dare he act ashamed of you and the wondrous memories of your youth together? It wasn’t as if you hadn’t grown and matured since then. You had done everything within your power to be worthy of him and his family, and yet all it took was one mention of the girl you had once been to make him upset?

As if sensing your silent fury, Eloise had been glued to your side since the moment you'd left the house. Her company had been a blessing, with her numerous whispered remarks and jokes, making the day almost bearable. One remark in particular from Eloise had caused you to burst out laughing in a most undignified fashion after watching Anthony trip over one of the opposite team - the Duke of Hastings of all people. 

You still weren’t quite sure how they had been positioned on opposite teams, but you were sure there was some kind of wicked divine intervention responsible. Who else would think it a good idea to put two competitive men against one another? Your hosts, perhaps? After all, Lady Danbury and Her Majesty had organised the game and you had learned long ago not to underestimate the women - especially when they decided to conspire together. 

“How long is this delightful game again?” Eloise’s polite remark oozed with sarcasm as she leant back against the tree behind her. 

It was obvious she was bored senseless. In fact, you half suspected she would have already left had her mother not been sat on the opposite side of the green, watching her like a hawk. 

“I’m not sure,” you groaned in reply. “I lost count of who was winning about an hour ago.”

“So, we’re to be trapped here for eternity?”

“Pretty much, considering this part will not end until either Simon or Anthony lose, and we both know that neither one of them will concede defeat easily.”

Eloise rolled her eyes. “And I thought they were bad at Pall Mall-”

“-LOOK OUT!”

The cry interrupted both of you as you turned in surprise. Given the so-far sedimentary tone of the day, neither of you had expected such excitement as numerous Lords and Ladies began to hurl themselves out of the way as a stray cricket ball rocketed through the air, towards the crowd. 

“Good god!”

The exclamation seemed apt as both you and Eloise ducked, watching as the ball sailed past, causing several yelps and groans from the people around you. You were pretty sure you also spied a glass of lemonade flying through the air in all the chaos. However, your attention was drawn to the figure charging towards you to retrieve the offending item as it rolled to a stop. 

Anthony.

“Pardon me, Y/N,” he murmured, reaching down to collect the ball that now lay a small distance from your feet. You nodded in greeting, aware of the many eyes watching but you elected not to say anything, not trusting yourself not to make some snide remark.

As it was, you both had barely said more than a handful of words to each other since your argument last night.

Clearly sensing the lingering tension between you, Anthony quickly turned to address his sister instead. “Eloise.”

“Ah, brother," Eloise cheered. "Splendid play so far. Tell me, when did the object of the game become the decapitation of the ton? I would have attended far more cricket matches had I known that was the aim of the game.” 

“You can blame Simon for that one,” he replied, his taunt hidden beneath his neutral smile. “Still, good dodging back there. I thought he might have nearly caught you both.”

“Almost.”

“But alas he missed, like most of your players today,” you quipped, enjoying the way Anthony seemed to redden at the reminder of his team’s less than stellar performance. “Still, good effort. You’ve almost caught up with Her Majesty’s team. I believe that’s better than last year.”

“Well, that might have had something to do with the fact that she does have Simon,” Anthony grumbled. 

It was true, no one could out-run Simon - even if Anthony always gave it a damn good try: hence why the Queen often had him captain her team when he was in London for the season. Besides, the head of the other team was usually Lord Duval, due to his position as the Queen’s chief administrator. However, it seemed his brains and financial strength were all he had, due to the fact his social skills, and athleticism were sorely lacking. 

“Touché, and who is up next?” Eloise asked. 

“I don't actually know. The other team seem to be taking remarkably long to sort themselves out.”

Just then, almost as if on cue, three men began to hurry towards them.

A quick glance revealed that one of the gentlemen who was approaching was Colin Bridgeton, and the other the Duke of Hastings; that much you knew. The third was rather unfamiliar to you, however, you were pretty certain he’d been playing on Simon’s team. Regardless of his identity, neither he nor any of the other gentlemen now stood in front of you looked very pleased. Rather, they looked as if they had all sucked on a lemon, their frowns were so deep.

“Sorry to interrupt ladies, but I must reclaim Lord Bridgerton here for a moment. It appears Anthony will be needed to bowl again,” Simon sighed by way of explanation.

“What on earth for?”

Colin was the first to answer. “Lord Dingby is unable to bowl on account of the heat, and the Baron will not play.” His skepticism was clear as he shot the so called Baron a disapproving look. “He ’twisted his ankle’ or so he claims, thus we are down a bowler and the other team is down a player.”

You all rolled your eyes.

“So then, who will bat?” questioned Eloise curiously. “If Anthony is bowling you still require one more man to take their place on the other team?”

Wasn’t that the question of the hour. However, no one appeared to have an answer, and by the disapproving glare steadily growing on the Queen’s face, they didn’t have long to come up with one. 

“Maybe Lord Stevens?” suggested the third man hastily, staring around at the crowd. 

“No. He injured himself riding the other week,” Simon replied. “And unfortunately our hosts only saw fit to invite enough male guests as were playing. We aren’t exactly spoilt for choice regarding possible options.”

It was true. There didn’t seem to be any visible answer in sight given that those most suited to the game were already positioned on the field. 

“What about female guests though?” 

Your question hung in the air for a moment, causing everyone around you to turn in surprise. 

“Excuse me?” Anthony looked at you suspiciously as you began to rise from your seat. He was well versed enough to know when mischief was afoot. A fact that was proven right a moment later as you held your hand out towards a shocked - and excited - Colin.

He was only too happy to oblige your silent request as he placed the bat in your grip. It was rapidly becoming the most exciting event of the season and lord knows he wasn’t about to spoil the fun - especially if he got to rub salt into Anthony’s wounds at the same time. 

After all, given his display the previous evening, it was time you truly gave him something to feel embarrassed about. Losing.

“Are you sure about this?”

“Perfectly,” you smiled. “You’ve seen me when we’ve played Pall Mall. I have a decent enough swing. Besides, you said yourselves you need an extra player and there isn’t exactly anyone suited left - not anyone male, anyway.” 

“Anthony?” 

To his credit, your husband was also smiling, even if you could see the sudden tension forming behind his perfect smile. “I see no problem with it. I’m sure our hosts would prefer the game finished rather than called off because we ran out of players.” 

“Agreed. Well, it’s settled then.” Simon cheered, clapping a hand on Anthony’s shoulder as they looked back towards the field. “It seems she will be taking his go.” 

Then they noticed the rain cloud of a man next to them.

"She can’t play!” protested the third man. Everyone looked at him in silent disbelief. “This is a gentleman’s game. A Lady can not play."

“Her Majesty seems to have no objections,” Eloise commented smugly, glancing across the field. Indeed, it was true Her Majesty seemed to have no objections to the turn of events, choosing instead to exchange a wad of pound notes with the man beside her. If anything she looked exhilarated by the prospect. "Besides, I doubt a feeble female such as ourselves will pose any threat to your team, your Lordship.” 

“Well… I… Bridgerton, I still don’t think-” 

Thankfully, Anthony was all too busy gazing at you to take any notice of the pompous oaf’s objections. 

It was a look you were more than familiar with, the unspoken desire and encouragement obvious in the way his gaze softened. It was the same look he always gave you when you’d done something amazing (and most things were amazing in his eyes). It didn't matter if it was taming a particularly unruly horse, solving a maths problem that left the rest of them scratching their heads, or daring to step onto the dance floor at your first ball, knowing not another soul in that room other than him.  

It was a look that made you feel invincible. That you could do anything and everything you put your mind to as long as you had Anthony cheering you on from the sidelines... you were a team. Always.

"Anthony?" you asked, the challenge obvious - but also your sincerity. If he truly did not want you to play then you'd have marched back to your chair and sat right back down.

You'd meant it before. You loved your husband and wanted nothing more than to be the best partner you could be. Your hurt from last night had stemmed from the fear that, for a moment, that wasn't enough for him anymore.

Fortunately, it appeared you were wrong. Your husband wasn't embarrassed by you. If anything, he looked ready to kiss the ground you walked on as he leaned over and whispered in your ear, "If you can get four runs, I will personally pay you 5 pounds."

"You have a deal," you laughed. "As it is, women and ladies alike play cricket up and down the country. It’s high time we had a chance to show you boys up."

The other man began to protest again. "My Lady, my La-" 

He never got very far. You simply stopped, turning and handing him your parasol and shawl.

"Thank you," you cheered marching away.

He paused, taken aback. It didn’t help that Eloise was only too eager to firmly pull him back into your now vacant seat with a glare that could have melted ice. 

All around applause broke out as the players resumed their positions on the field. It took a moment or two for them to prepare for play but now everyone seemed to be watching intently. 

Oh well, if you were to dare to play at all then you may as well dare to achieve something from it, you mused, gripping the bat handle and aligning yourself with the wicket. Victory seemed a rather good start, especially given the fact you had no idea what Lady Whistledown would make of this turn of affairs. You’d already had a shocking enough entrance into the world of the Ton, what was one more daring display?

"Go easy, Lord Bridgerton," the referee cautioned from the side of the green. 

Anthony nodded obediently at the crowd’s titters. You could see the restraint he was demonstrating, choosing not to hurl the ball at you the way he would had you both been in the privacy of your home. Instead, it took all his will power to grip the cricket ball and resume his position on the field. 

Unfortunately, you never knew when best to desist from poking proverbial bears. That, and Anthony was too easy a target. 

"Yes, do go easy on me," you jibed. Everyone who knew you could hear the sarcasm buried in your voice as you took the bat and fluttered your eyelashes at him. "I’m only a delicate woman, but I must endeavour to ensure her Majesty’s team at least has an opportunity to best you, Lord Bridgerton. You’re only losing by what? A few wickets?" 

Oh. You were in for it now. 

Anthony’s grin was devious as he stepped back a few paces, weighing the ball in his hand till finally he charged at you, swinging his arm over in the perfect bowl. 

It was then you brought up your bat to send the ball back in a high arc. 

There was a moment of stunned silence as everyone followed the ball with their eyes. It was as if they couldn’t believe you’d actually managed to hit it. However, the shock quickly wore off as everyone remembered the point of hitting the ball in the first place. 

"GO!" came a yell from the crowd as excitement began to spread. 

So, you did.

Hitching your skirts in one hand, you began to sprint towards the other set of wickets, grinning as your partner passed you along the way. 

Of course, you would have liked to protest that you could have indeed run faster had you not been encumbered by your stays and petticoats. Your slippers were also rather terrible for any movement. What you wouldn’t have given for a pair of trousers right then. 

"Come on!" came another yell - it seemed as if everyone was forgetting their dignity in all the excitement as you tore back and forth across the grass in a mad blur. 

Had it been anyone but you, it would have been a terribly scandalous moment. Yet, your name - and the status of your betrothed - meant this was all merely seen as sport. Besides, from the way Her Majesty was whooping from her perch by the trees, it was clear where her loyalties lay.

"Come on Y/N!"

"Anthony! Run!"

"Over here!"

"Come on!"

The cries blurred into one as you finally turned at what you planned on being your final run, only to spot Anthony as he came sprinting back towards you… and the wicket.

"Oh no, you don’t," you laughed, charging onwards in a final burst of energy. 

You could hardly catch your breath as the world slowed around you. 

All that remained was you, Anthony, and the closing distance between you. 

You could see his desperation laced with delight as he watched you stagger towards the wicket… just as the ball he’d thrown hit it.

"IN!" 

The referee’s declaration initiated an eruption of noise as all around the green, men and women celebrated the spectacle they’d just witnessed, and the victory you had now ensured.  Within seconds you were swarmed, mobbed by well wishers and triumphant team mates. There were so many hugs and snatched ‘well done’s that you were quite at a loss what to do other than stand there and accept it. Thankfully, Anthony seemed to have read your mind and was at your side as soon as he was able to fight through the jubilant throng. 

The moment he reach you he took your hand in his. His expression was a mixture of awe and contrition, clearly unsure what to say to you.

"Good game," he praised. "Simon better watch out - I think Her Majesty will be asking you to captain her team next year."

"What a tremendous idea, Lord Bridgerton. I may just do that."

As if summoned by the very mention of her, a voice rang out clearly from behind you. Without even turning you knew exactly who was standing behind you, as the throng suddenly fell silent around you and parted like the Red Sea. In all the excitement you had failed to notice the Royal party making their way across the field to join in the celebrations. 

With a gulp, you turned and dropped into the most respectful curtsey you could manage without falling flat on your face. "Y - your Majesty."

The Queen chuckled. "I must thank you, Lady Bridgerton, for providing such excitement to our proceedings today. I also must thank you for the twenty pounds I just procured off of Brimbsley - that’ll teach him to bet against me."

You merely dipped your head in gratitude, unsure whether this was actually happening or not. After all, the closest the you’d ever been to monarch was your hasty presentation several months ago and that had barely earned you more than a curious glance, like you had been some exotic animal on parade at the Zoo. And now, the Queen was addressing you? A lowly Stable Master’s daughter? 

It was enough to make you feel as if this was all some kind of surreal dream. 

"Anyone who bets against your Majesty deserves to be relieved of their coin."

"True, True," she preened, gesturing for you and everyone else to rise. "I gather you have played this game before?"

"Growing up around the Bridgertons ensured I had little alternative," you confirmed, relieved when the Queen proceeded to chuckle good-naturedly. 

"I dare say you didn’t, my dear. Well, it certainly makes for a rather entertaining afternoon, as well as a victorious one. Perhaps we aught to have women playing more often." She turned her head and chose to direct her next words directly to your husband. "You’ve chosen quite the bride, Lord Bridgerton - you are to be congratulated on choosing such a spirited partner. I hope you realise how lucky you are."

"Indeed, your Majesty," Anthony replied, the earnestness clear in his eyes. "I’ve realised just how truly unique and remarkable she is… and how lucky I am that she chose to be on my team, even if not on the cricket pitch."

Another round of laughter echoed out at his declaration but you knew it was more than just a jest. In fact, by the all-too-clear pride radiating off of the eldest Bridgerton you knew what he truly meant with his honeyed praise.  

It was all the apology you could need and had you not been in such company you’d have dragged him into the bushes and shown him just how much you forgave him. Besides, your victory on the Cricket pitch was enough pay-back for both of you. 

As if sensing the amorous tension steadily rising around her, the Queen chose that moment to make a well-timed departure, in search of a refreshment. She barely gave you all a final nod before marching off to greet the rest of her guests, leaving you stood there with a rather gobsmacked expression on your face. 

"Well… that really happened," you murmured, struggling to maintain your newfound confidence now that the whole saga had come to an end. "Did I actually just do that? Did the Queen actually just … talk to me?"

"She really did," Anthony confirmed, hands grazing yours nervously, as if unsure whether or not you’d accept his touch. However, your hands accepted his readily, fingers intertwining as you squeezed his palm in an obvious attempt to ground yourself. "You truly were incredible today - I know you don’t need to hear it but, for what it’s worth, I am proud of you." 

"Thank you."

"And I truly am sorry for being such a world class fool, last night," he continued swiftly, clearly keen to make his apology whilst you were willing to receive it. "I didn’t mean to make you feel as if I was embarrassed by you. I never could be. It couldn’t be further from the truth. I was vexed with my brothers and because of several other trivial matters, but I allowed my temper to get the better of me and I handled it poorly. I lashed out at the wrong person - the one person who deserves nothing less than to be told how incredible she is, every single day. I am unworthy of you, Y/N. I know no one else in the entire world so awe inspiring and to let you think otherwise for even a moment was my failing entirely. You are brave and smart and funny and kind and beautiful-"

"Ok, Anthony. I get it."

"-and I am unworthy of someone with such skill on the cricket pitch-"

"Anthony," you squealed, trying to hide your laughter as he pulled you into his arms and smothered your face in kisses. "It’s fine. I forgive you. After all, I also lost my temper and said some things I didn’t mean. Can we just agree we’re both sorry and put this mess behind us?"

"Yes! God yes," he sighed, looking like a weight had visibly lifted from his shoulder. "Because I really do not like fighting with you. Instead, I think we should be enjoying your victory parade. Today is your triumph, after all - the Queen’s champion." 

"Hmmm, I rather like that title," you purred, gazing up at him. "But between us? I prefer being your wife, much much more."

[uravitypng]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐰 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐫𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐥𝐟

pairing: wolf hybrid denki kaminari x chubby cow hybrid reader

summary: denki kills and eats hybrids, you're his newest target... at least his target at the beginning...

word count: 3.8k words

a/n: this is actually quite messed up but i really like it, i've been writing this for ages!! i hope you like it !! please check the warnings before reading !!

content warnings: prey/predator, dubcon, smut, unprotected sex, knotting, yandere denki, stalking, manipulation, mentions of denki killing and eating people, blood (not descriptive), pet names, kidnapping (but lowkey willingly), reader is turned on by the thrill & danger, praise, degradation - mdni / 18+

cow hybrid reader and wolf hybrid denki!!! he's an actual predator and god you look so tasty. typically he goes for bunnies but you look irresistible. his yellow fluffy ears paired with a sleek tail that matches, along with a black tip end, resting against the side of his leg and a glint of a sharp tooth as he smirks disarming people who should be on high alert around him. slanted, hooded, golden eyes that scream impure desire. he's charming and friendly. just because he's a wolf hybrid it doesn't mean he's dangerous... he wouldn't hurt a fly... that's the last thought that runs through the bunnies heads who become his latest meal think at least.

denki drools when he spots you for the first time, he's seen cow hybrids before but none as beautiful and appealing as you. you're so soft and plump, dark patches litter your skin and your ears droop down the side of your face, two small horns at the top of your head just poking out of your hair too little to do any actual damage. always wearing short denim shorts and skirts with room for your small tail. overalls, dungarees and skin fitting button up shirts that leave little to the imagination. it's mouthwatering as he watches you bend down and tend to your vegetable patch. often twiddling your fingers whenever he spots you, he's been following you for days to know about it and he wonders if you can sense when he's watching you. he doesn't wait this long with other hybrids but he wants to watch you longer. he doesn't know why. he finds you fascinating.

one afternoon your hare hybrid friend visits your cottage in the middle of the forest. "i'm just saying you need to be careful all alone out here. hybrids have been going missing lately in the woods. no one has heard from alice in weeks and she lives closer to you than anyone else does."

your friend peers at you while you look away, instead focusing on your wooden table separating you two. you're not ready to look in his eyes yet, you know the concern will be evident. you glance at your lilies in a vase that are starting to wilt and your blue ceramic teapot with a homemade tea cosy covering the middle section that alice made you last christmas.

he frowns and crosses his arms, you can practically feel his annoyance and displeasure of you avoiding replying.

you take a sip of tea and finally fully digest the information, making eye contact with him. "i appreciate you looking out for me but i like it here. i don't want to move into town."

"move in with me then. i'm on just the outskirts. please, i don't want anything to happen to you." he tries to convince you but you don't budge.

"i'll be even more careful, i promise. i'll always double check the doors are locked and never go out after dark." you shut down the conversation and move on to how your sunflowers are growing quicker than normal this year. you don't want to move, you love your cottage, 'alice has probably just gone to see her family and forgot to tell everybody.'

denki watched as you bid your friend goodbye and he did not like the way you wrapped your arms around him on the doorstep, his taller body engulfing yours and he tells you to promise him you'll be safe. denki hated it. you're his prey, no one else is allowed to touch you.

alice isn't the only one that goes missing, hare doesn't taste nice. no one is allowed to touch you. his pretty heifer.

you unknowingly had denki's rapt attention, so much so that he ended up spraining his ankle on a tree trunk while observing you from the tree line. at that point he decided this little waiting game of his was done, he wanted to get it over with, now annoyed, you're not fast enough to run away from him even with his dodgy ankle and not fast enough to give him an exciting chase so he wants you gone. he does want to hear your voice close up and get you to trust him though, that's always his favourite part (even more than chasing). luring someone in the open, close enough for him to pounce.

today you ventured further in the forest than normal looking for berries to collect for the pie you're planning to make clutching a woven wicker basket tightly so you don't drop any berries, wanting to make it back home before dark just like you promised to your friend. also wanting to be home soon to start making your pie. you're planning to have an early night, you didn't get much sleep last night you swore you heard something outside but chalked it up to the wind playing tricks on you but the doubt still lingered, walking downstairs wrapped in a blanket as you triple checked you locked the doors.

even with a sprained ankle denki was still able to sneak up behind on you and surprise you, wolves aren't labelled as predators for nothing and he hasn't been following you for weeks without your awareness because of luck. "hey sweetheart," he's leaning against a tree bark and looking you up and down hungrily.

you jolt at the sudden voice and yelp turning around to look at him, startled at the handsome hybrid. you're no idiot though, you back away slowly, not taking your eyes of him. warnings from your friend blaring and running through your head. cautionary tales from neighbouring kids as children. your mother drilling into your head at a young age not to trust strangers, not to trust predators no matter how pleasant they seem. she told you stories about how many people still dehumanise hybrids, ostracising them from society. how it's rare to see none hybrids living in hybrid settlements but it still happens, love still happens, love conquers all. but predators... stay away from them. they will do anything in their power to get you alone and make you disappear. there is no such thing as love or friendship or kindness that a predator can feel towards prey, no wolf will love a bunny, no bear will befriend a cow.

"i-is there a problem sir?" you keep backing up, your back hitting the tree. you're cornered. he's faster than you and you know it, wolves are known for being good runners and you are notoriously known as a bad runner from anyone that knows you. you're not going to end up like one of those missing hybrids though, you'll find a way out of this, you're close to your house and you know not to trust a wolf. you're not going to be deceived...

"'sir'? i like that." he smirks and your face heats up. you're not going to be deceived...

"if you'll excuse me i have somewhere to be, someone is waiting for me." you try to keep your voice level and move around him.

denki slams his hand against the tree you're currently backed up against and growls, "don't think so babe," your eyes widen and he leans downs to breathe low in your ear, "why don't you talk to me instead. i get lonely and you're so pretty. i'll be better company than who ever you were planning to see." a shiver runs down your spine and before you can say anything else he crowds your space even more and presses his finger against your lips to stop you from talking again. with his other hand he's lifting your top up and stroking your waist gently.

you should resist. you should run. you don't move.

the voices of reason from your loved ones fade away as his words make you feel wanted and the way he's touching you makes you feel desired. instincts screaming at you, 'he's a wolf! this is a trap!' you ignore it. his hands on you just feel too good. you've never heard of wolves liking cows before, maybe he is just lonely because people don't trust him just because he's a wolf hybrid. you know what that's like, people assume things of you just because you're a cow hybrid.

denki smirks as he takes in your reaction, your shoulders slack and your body relaxes, 'adorable.'

you won't fight him now, you're going to be delicious.

denki digs both his hands on either side of your wide hips, keeping you in place, he doesn't want you to move and try to wriggle away. he breaths in deeply as the scent of your blood permeates the air from the way his sharp fingers from his paws are pressing into you.

you're physically frozen apart from a small quiver. a million thoughts flash through your head, 'this was always his plan, i'm going to die here.' he ignores your tremble and goes to bite you neck, tearing your jugular and killing you. his teeth grazes your skin and you unknowing gasp loudly making denki immediately freeze in his tracks because with that gasp comes a spike of a new smell and it's triggering his dick to harden.

his grip on you gets tighter and you whimper. he raises his head from your neck to look you in eyes in disbelief, "are you really turned on right now?" your mouth opens and closes, no words coming out. he swallows and his disbelief grows at your lack of a rebuttal or any answer, "i'm planning to kill you, you know?" everything is the silent and denki can hear your heartbeat loudly in your chest. "are all cows this fucking stupid?" more silence. denki lifts his head up to look at the sky and grits his teeth inhaling deeply before looking back at you. "jesus you smell so good."

he presses his leg in between your chunky thighs and you whine at the contact. denki groans and his eyes darken even more than they were. if any of his friends saw him right now they would be grossed out, it's not normal to want to fuck someone you're planning on eating. bakugou would tell him he's messed up in the head. maybe he's just horny in general, he wonders if sero is still single, sex with him is always so mindblowing. the thought of that makes him growl again...he doesn't want sero, he wants you, he needs you.

your eyes are cloudy and your blood is starting to drip down staining your skirt. denki glances at you and sees a dazed look on your face, "fuck it," he murmurs under his breath and rips off your underwear, disregarding your shocked shriek. he takes what he wants and he wants you.

he hurriedly unbuckles his belt and shoves down his jeans, pooling down at his ankles.

denki wastes no time slamming his cock into you and starts thrusting at a brutal pace. "feel so amazing, such a pretty little cow." tears run down your face as soon as he stretches you, it's painful and you've never taken someone as big as him before especially when no foreplay has happened. "too many clothes," he mumbles again and tears off your shirt, pulling your bra down and grabbing your breasts harshly, groping to his hearts content, occasionally pinching and flicking your nipples causing you to wince. your pussy warm and getting wetter, sucking him in every time he goes to pull out causing him to growl deeply. your moans get louder and the pain dulls into intense pleasure. little moos escape your mouth and it makes denki go even more feral, wanting you to keep making those sweet noises.

this whole time you haven't been speaking, you don't want to speak, you don't want to think about what will happen after this and after you had gotten used to the pace you stopped making any noises apart from a hushed sob or two. eventually one particular thrust leaves you squealing loudly mixed in with a loud moo. your head feels fuzzy, like its full of cotton wool and you're pressing your body closer to him and trying to match his pace he doesn't stop you, enjoying your neediness for him. "wan' more. need more. want you s'bad," slurring your words and hiccuping. denki is stunned by your attitude, this whole time you've been surprising him. picking up your plush thigh he wraps it around him higher and starts pushing into you harder. you scream loudly and try to hold onto his arms, losing your grasp as your body bounces on his cock. "lemme come," you beg.

"awe, you wanna come," denki teases you snickering, "think you deserve it?"

you nod your head frantically. "yeah, yeah, 'm good and pretty, jus' like you said."

he hums like he's actually considering it before answering "i never said you're good. i said you feel good. i might let you come later."

you start blabbering, fat tears streaming down your face as you beg and plead but he just smirks with a gleam in his eye. "i'll think about letting you come if you take my knot like a good girl." his pace becomes even harder than before and you feel something forming, it's enlarged, swollen, bulbous, that's getting bigger continuously smacking against you but not going in.

"knot?" you tilt your head confused. if your head was more clear you'd have an idea what it was, sometimes when you go into town you hear people talking and once you had heard about knots in passing.

"are you serious, are all cows this dumb?" he teases you and cackles.

pouting, you deny his accusation, "'m dumb, just don' know."

denki quirked an eyebrow, looking amused, "oh, when did you become so vocal?" he says playfully. "you'll find out what a knot is in a minute sweetheart."

wanting desperately to come you nod your head while your moans and ah's increase. "ssshit, gonna give it to you pretty girl," he groans and pushes his fat knot, ropes of cum spilling into and stuffing you full. a silent scream escapes your mouth and you lean against denki's lithe chest, a little moo comes out and you shake.

he growls at you telling you not to move after you start shifting and wriggling, unable to pull away from him and his knot. it's hard for you to keep still, you thought it was painful before but the larger stretch makes you feel like you're being torn apart.

as you lean against denki and pant heavily a light blush forms on his cheeks. in the back of his mind he's thinking about how he wants to wrap his arms and never let you go. he's brought back to reality as he hears your sobs and his eyebrows furrow. it shouldn't matter to him in the slightest that you're in pain, it's his plan that in the next hour you won't be breathing but he doesn't like it...

"want me to make you come now sweetheart?" he soothingly asks you. in between sobs and small cries you tell him you want to come and he lets you. "you've such a good girl. you've been such a good cow. so obedient. cute little heifers get to come."

being plugged full of his cum and his cock still hard and throbbing in you, he grabs hold of your pillowy thighs and spreads them further apart, lifting one up to perch it around his slim waist after slipping down his leg previously from hard thrusts shaking your body. his other hand going down, unknowingly he retracts his sharp nails to make sure he doesn't hurt you at all, and presses against your clit, making figures of eight, at the same time grinding into you and gyrating his hips.

denki can't stop his groans as he feels you clenching around him. he speeds up, wanting to feel you come around him and his knot.

you arch your back and your eyesight goes starry, you moan as you climax and denki helps you ride out your orgasm. denki groans again feeling you come undone. cunt now puffy and swollen. the pain begins to dull after such an intense orgasm but you still clutch onto denki's top tightly. he sees that you're still in pain and frowns, caressing your soft skin in a second attempt to calm you down and relax you.

there's so many thoughts running through his head right now as he holds you, thinking about how beautiful you are and how you make his heart skip a beat. he thinks about your cute patchy skin and supple body that feels so heavenly. thinking about the judgemental comments from people if they saw what just happened, and people could, neither of you tried to muffle your voices and you're out in the open. thinks about if he's starting to change his mind about you... thinking about what he was planning... it would be a waste of a couple weeks of watching you but he's thinking about how if anything did happen to you he'd be gutted. he thinks about how if he saw another hybrid try to hurt you he'd be furious. he'd make them pay. he would want to protect you, keep you safe. make sure you're his... 'safe? mine? what am i going on about. i don't think i'll go into the forest again for awhile... i'll stick with bunnies from now on...'

he's jolted from his thoughts as you copy him, tenderly tracing circles along his hip. denki intakes air as he feels the tender touch, almost lovingly, it nearly makes him cry with how you're touching him. your mind is completely blank and your face displaying bliss from the aftermath of sex. you're so pliant right now, he could just take you, no one would notice, you'd just be another hybrid that's gone missing in the woods. you wouldn't even fight him.

denki starts talking quietly, making it very clear what he says is for your ears only which makes it all the more sweeter and he tells you that you're beautiful and asks about the berries you were carrying and which berry is your favourite. he whispers to you about how he sprained his ankle earlier and little stories and anecdotes stuff like how he was once electrocuted when he was a toddler holding an umbrella in a thunder storm and how he lived surrounded by non-hybrids a lot of his life but he's still wary of how they might have turned on him at the drop of a hat, he carries that anxiety with him even now, hidden but still there. he lived there before he found his safe haven, his friends he met, hybrids like him, he called them like-minded and you weren't really sure what he was referring to.

you hum listening to his stories and press your body against his even more due to getting cold from the lack of clothes you were wearing and the sun that's staring to go down.

after a while of more of his stories you ask, "can we kiss?"

"huh?"

"we haven't kissed this whole time and i think we should."

he bursts out laughing and accuses you for only wanting to kiss him because of his teeth which you vehemently deny causing him to laugh more. "alright sweetheart, i'll give you what you want." tilting your head up he kisses you delicately before evolving into something more hungry, his tail swishing softly and languidly behind him as he licks into your mouth, tongues intertwining, and teasingly trails your bottom lip with his teeth.

his knot begins to soften and he knows soon he'll have to pull out. he holds onto you tighter not wanting to let you go and that's when he's made up his mind. he's not going to let you go. you have no choice.

you whine and he hisses under his breath as he takes his cock out and watches his cum drip down your thighs, wanting to get you both home as quick as possible so he can go down on you and feast on your combined taste. denki holds onto your waist to keep you from falling over, your knees wobbly from standing in that position for so long. "i've decided what i'm going to do with you." you gulp and try to stay calm, at least you've had great sex before dying. "i'm keeping you." he grins at you.

"w-wait what?" you ask confused.

"i thought i was gonna to eat you." he explains and you nod your head gathering that was your demise. "but now i want you as my cute little girlfriend."

you're stunned, genuinely speechless. "i have questions... can i ask questions?" you request timidly.

'cute,' denki thinks before smirking and teases you replying, "maybe later, first lets get home."

you aren't refusing to leave with him, it's not even because you're worried it's your only option, it's that you want to leave with him. you know how wrong that is, on multiple levels, but somehow you want to trust him and put your faith in him. you want to think he sees you differently than before or differently to others. you see him differently too, not just during sex but afterwards too, all those words exchanged and chaste touches, you want more. it's wrong... but that doesn't mean you don't go willingly with him.

if you knew what denki did to your friends you wouldn't be compliant. if you knew the extent of what he's done you'd prefer to die and be with your friends but denki will make sure you never find out, he'll never let you out of his sight.

denki licks his lips and you panic worried that even this last minute was a ploy to get you to completely let down your guard but he stares at your bare chest. before you can have a reaction to his stare he shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders, fixing the rest of your clothes the best he can, his hands hovering in between your breasts. "don't want anyone looking at what's mine."

he holds onto your hand and walks in front of you in the direction of his house. "i'm kaminari by the way. you can call me denki. you can also stick with 'sir' if you want." he smirks and turns to look at you causing your eyes to widen as he mentions the use of sir. "this entire time i never told you my name sweetheart, i can't believe i didn't tell you or you ask about it."

"that never crossed my mind, i was more concerned about being eaten." you say seriously and denki chuckles.

"understandable sweetheart. i told you mine so it's your turn. what's my pretty girlfriend called?"

[reminiscingtonight]

And The Things You'd Do

Lia Wälti x Russo!Reader (Alessia Russo & Russo!Reader + Kyra Cooney-Cross & Russo!Reader)

Word Count: 1.4k

The Thing About Families (Part One) // That's How You Know It's Home (Part Three)

[WOSO Masterlist]

It’s the shuffling of feet that draws your attention. 

You’re off stretching on the side of the field. Having just come back from injury, you’ve been approved for some light training and warm-ups while the other girls do their own drills. You’ve been doing alright all by your lonesome, so you’re surprised to see the Australian girl approaching. 

You’re quick to narrow your eyes at the sheepish look on her face.

“What is it?”

Kyra turns and you instantly see the problem. She tries to wiggle her arm, one sleeve somehow caught underneath her pinnie. “I’m stuck.”

Sighing, you jerk your head at her. “C’mere.”

The young girl brightens up at your command, dutifully rushing to your side before allowing you to free her from her self-made prison. 

“Go on,” you chuckle when she finally pops free. 

Kyra lets out a whoop before sprinting back towards the other girls.

You’re smiling fondly at her departing figure when you hear a familiar drawl.

“Thought you were getting sick of her.”

You roll your eyes. “Please. I had to grow up with you, Gio, and Luca. Kyra’s a breeze compared to you lot.”

Alessia lets out an offended squawk. “You take that back!”

You raise an eyebrow at her raised arm and Alessia freezes. She gives you a grin, quickly recycling her plans to give you a noogie. “Sorry. Point taken.”

“What can I say? She grew on me.”

Alessia huffs, dragging a toe in the grass as the two of you slowly make your way back to the others. “The taste of coffee can grow on you. Being relegated to passenger-side-car-DJ can grow on you. Annoying Australians cannot grow on you!”

“Relax, rat. I’m not replacing you with her. Think of Kyra as your unofficial niece.”

Alessia pulls a face at your words.

You shake your head. “Take it up with Lia. I’m pretty sure she’s ready to duel Mini for guardianship.”

---

So maybe you should’ve thought things through. 

When the ref whips out her red card, pointing for you to get off the field, you realize you might have gone a little too far. 

In your defense, it really wasn’t your fault.

The first yellow you get on purpose. 

No one messes with your baby sister. 

When Alessia is blatantly fouled and the referee lets play go on without a single care that the blonde is clutching her ankle in pain, it only seems right that you bulldoze through the player at fault. 

She milks the muck out of it and you’re rolling your eyes at the yellow card pointed your way, confidently swaggering your way back across the field to where Alessia’s still on the ground. 

Alessia winces when the trainer presses a little too hard on the joint, fingers nearly crushing yours that you’ve graciously lent her for support. 

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“Didn’t have to do what?”

Alessia tries to look stern but all you can see is the little girl who would follow you everywhere just because she could. You know she’s trying to be strong but you’d recognize the tearful look on her face from a mile away.

Lia doesn’t find the humor in your act of retribution, rightfully chastising you into the locker room at halftime.

“It’s not my fault! Look what she did to Less! She’ll lucky if she only needs to be in the boot for two weeks!”

It isn’t until Kim gives you one of her disapproving glares that you wilt. 

“Sorry Kim,” you mumble, scuffing your shoes on the ground. “Won’t happen again.”

It happens again.

There’s only ten minutes left in the match when you feed the ball into your midfield and time seems to come to a standstill. 

You watch on with a twisted horror as Kyra leaps up to receive your ball. She barely gets a touch on it before she’s caught on the wrong side of a flying elbow, crumpling to the ground.

The whistle blows and you can practically hear the blood pumping in your ears. One second you’re rushing across the field to be by Kyra’s side. The next you’re pivoting midstride, catching sight of the smirk on the offending player’s face. 

No one’s close enough to stop you from shoving her over. 

“You think that’s funny? Throwing your elbow into her face? Let’s see if you think it’s funny when I do it to you!” 

Steph catches you by the waist and hauls you back before anyone can test how serious you are. 

You’re still yelling and spitting when the ref stalks over, hand already digging into her pocket. 

There are boos and jeers when the inevitable comes and you throw a hand up in disgust. 

“Go on then, you gonna card her for drawing blood too?”

It’s clear your teammates don’t know what to do. 

Getting a yellow card is rare enough for you. But getting two and then being thrown out of a game? Practically unheard of in the years you’ve been at the club.

You ignore the look on their faces as you stomp all the way off the pitch and straight for the med room. You see Leah quirk her eyebrow, ready to give you an earful but you just push past, knowing full well that you’re going to get your ass handed to you later.

Alessia blinks up in surprise at the sound of the door opening.

She’s sat on top of an examining table, ankle propped on a pillow and wrapped in ice.

It only takes a second for her to realize what’s wrong with the picture. Alessia glances at the clock on the wall before her eyes flicker back to your fuming face. “What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything,” you mutter. You poke at the ice, ignoring the way Alessia hisses and slaps your shoulder. “How’s the foot? Are we going to need to amputate?”

Alessia rolls her eyes. “My foot is fine. Now what is this I hear of you getting a red card?” 

You glare at her phone, the sound of another message coming in, no doubt your mother telling Alessia about what you’ve done.

“Tell ma to stop snitching. That girl got exactly what she deserved for elbowing Kyra In the face.”

“Kyra got what?” Alessia gasps, eyes going wide.

Before you can repeat, the door opens behind you.

The two of you turn to see a sullen looking Kyra.

“Hi.” 

You don’t think you’ve ever heard Kyra so quiet before.

“Oh wow, you look miserable.” You’re not sure if Alessia thinks this is hilarious or sad, but you’d definitely say the latter.

Kyra did look miserable. Her nose is already becoming discolored, swelling and bruises become more prominent.

“C’mere,” you huff, pressing an icepack against her nose when she gets close enough to you.

Kyra hisses and tries to jerk back but you just follow with the ice.

“The sooner you stop moving the sooner your 15 minutes of icing will be done.”

You don’t even make it to the 15 before the door slams open again for the third time. 

“What did I say about getting unnecessary cards?!”

“Unnecessary?” you gwak. “Look at the kid! What part of me defending her was unnecessary?”

You backtrack. “Look at both of the kids.” You gesture wildly between Alessia and Kyra. 

Lia rolls her eyes but follows your fingers nonetheless. 

“Ma’s never going to let Less leave our house ever again, and Mini will probably drop by to kidnap Kyra and revoke our Australian baby access!”

“I’m not a baby--”

“Ma can’t stop me from moving out--”

You and Lia whip around to glare at Alessia. “You’re not moving out.”

Alessia frowns. “Whatever.” She crosses her arms. “Kyra’s a baby.”

The younger girl gasps in defiance before whimpering at the pain that radiates through her nose.

Lia looks a little exasperated when she turns back to you.

“Please. No more red cards.”

“No more red cards,” you echo. 

When Lia grabs hold of your hand, leading you back to be chewed out by your captains, you turn to get one last glance at the two troublemakers.

Alessia and Kyra are already looking your way, shooting you two thumbs up.

You shake your head.

Oh the things you do for family.

[silverseaming]

Summer drifts in on a warm wind, the heat climbing so subtly at first that it was hard to notice. By the middle of the harvest, though, the rays beat down with such intensity that man, beast and flower wilt beneath them. Only the wheat is uncowed, tall and golden as a sticky breeze runs ripples through the fields. It’s almost bearable in the morning — beautiful, even — when the sun only peeks over the mountaintops, glazing the crops orange as the sunrise. The stalks are still heavy with dew, Chestnut’s feathering shining with the moisture.

At midday, however, it is decidedly not beautiful. Despite setting out at dawn and having the help of the Mellors and Gillis boys, the need to harvest while the dry weather lasts means Kit can’t avoid the worst of the heat. By now his shirt sticks to his back, calluses throbbing on his palms. Even the faithful Chestnut has abandoned him to amble down to the creek, not that he can blame her. Each pile of straw tossed increases his longing for the sweet relief of cool water. It’s hard work, yes, but it must be done. This harvest, just like their first harvest, cannot be allowed to fail. Not when he’s risked so much for this, not when they need this, need— well, not even only the money. The success, the small joy of all the crops being gathered in, a bounty in one area of their lives, when others have been painfully barren. And enough to buy a Johnson self-raking reaper, he thinks, as he fiddles with the latest knot of twine. At least then Chestnut would have to pull her weight, rather than leaving everything to Kit and his scythe.

Just when he can’t take any longer, sustenance arrives in the form of Meg and Daisy, laden with freshly baked bread, jams, lemonade, and all sorts of other delights. This little ritual has quickly become Kit’s favourite part of the day — not just because of the welcome meal they bring, but for the view of watching them walk over the field, the moment before Daisy’s sticky hands grab at his where they come close enough for him to see their smiles. It makes something tighten in his chest. Gratitude. Guilt. The two never seem too far apart these days. Looking at Daisy it’s easy to forget, simply lose himself in her innocent happiness. But there are moments of sadness he catches in Meg’s eyes that bring up a whole new guilt, the old crashing harder in its wake. It’s all for them. That’s what he tells himself. It’s better Meg doesn’t worry. Not now. “Thank you, love.” Kit says, pulling Meg a little closer. “It’s no trouble,” Meg smiles, “And this way Daisy gets to be out in the fields with Pa, without driving me to distraction.” “Well, you two are my saviours all the same.”

[wingedjellyfishflight]

Babying the Boys

You are waiting for the team when they get back from their training exercise. "Welcome back, boys. Dinner is in fifteen. Movie tonight is Inglorious Bastards. Your favorite, König, mein Sonnenschein." You smile up at him brightly and miss the eye rolls of the new recruit.

The men troop inside, hurrying through cleaning up so they can eat while the food is hot. The new recruit makes a joke about you laying it on thick with the babying. Soap laughs as he rinses off.

"She is always babying König, you mean. He is her favorite." König just smirks to himself as he dresses and heads to dinner. He saves a seat next to him, making the new recruit budge up to make room. You tut over the bruises on König's arm and belabor the bandaged up gash on his hand, insisting that he take it easy and cutting up his steak for him. He barely protests, allowing you to have your way. No one can see it, but he has the biggest smile on his face.

Watching you moon over König pushes the recruit over the edge. "Would you stop fussing over him?! He is a hardened killer, not some wilting flower! You are ruining his reputation with your babying!" The outburst makes you jump and yank your hands to yourself with a blush, gaze fixed on your plate.

"Sorry, König. I will just-" you squeeze your eyes shut in embarrassment.

"You will sit here and allow me to bask in your care, Kleine. You," he turns to look at the recruit, "will sit over there until you learn manners, which I will teach you tomorrow." The recruit gulps and quickly crosses the room to the far table, cowering under König's harsh glare. It takes most of the following week for you to come back out of your shell, and the entire team punishes the new recruit until you do.

"Do you think I have regained my status yet, recruit? Another set of burpees might do it."

"Mein Schnucki is still sad. You will run until she is no longer sad."

"Do you think we have all lost our reputation, choob? You will run the course again and again until we are tired."

When the recruit is so exhausted, they can barely chew at the end of the week, you sit across from them at dinner, having considered the issue all day. "I baby the team because no one can be a hardened target all the time. Yes, sometimes it is probably too much. But you boys need something soft and caring to come home to here at the base. Someone who takes care of you and remembers your favorite movie or meal." You pause and slide a small jar to them. "Rub this on your muscles after you shower. Let me know when you run low. I make a batch almost every week for the team." With that, you move back to your normal seat, cozied up between König and Ghost who take turns through dinner trying to sneak food off your plate like mischievous school boys and you pretend not to notice until they try to steal your dessert.

[itsabouttimex2]

so what’s your thoughts on season 5 (PS you can find S5 on YouTube dub ) , any thoughts, any yandere hcs ?

Yandere Headcanons

Nüwa, Li Jing, Xiangliu

Nüwa doesn’t necessarily wish to stifle her dear child, but… you’re staying. Even if it breaks your heart beyond measure to be locked up in a dull little realm with no other souls to interact… well, so be it. Your mother has more than enough love for you, doesn’t she? Why should she need to cut you loose when you’re the safest you could be by her godly side?

She can be more than enough for you, after all.

Nüwa’s absolute favorite thing to do is wrap you up in her tail for naps, keeping you nice and cozy as she dotes on your slumbering form. She could easily spend hours pressing kisses to your cheeks and forehead, or rubbing your back with her gentle palm.

If you’re a naga like her, expect an endless amount of tail-based affection. Polishing, washing, intertwining… it never ends.

There’s definitely a lot of coddling that borders on infantilizing, like trying to feed you by spoon, reading you to sleep, or holding you in a cradle position and insisting upon frequent naps. Calling her out on it will lead her to back off, sure… but Nüwa will start to play several of the more manipulative cards in her arsenal in the hope that you’ll retract your statements and apologize, and go back to being her “good little baby”.

She’s not even trying to be weird, here- she just doesn’t really understand anything about you. After all, she’s spent aeons separated from her creations, Nüwa doesn’t really comprehend mortal mindsets.

All she understands is “Baby!Y/N was happier and more obedient than Current!Y/N”, and shifts her methods to try and get you back to that behavior- without understanding that babies and teens/adults are going to have fundamentally different reactions to having a spoon of banana mush jammed into their face.

Though, if your discomfort expressed goes beyond mild embarrassment and into genuine distress, she’ll happily drop the worst aspects of the smothering- Nüwa really does want her darling child to be happy, after all.

Although stern and demanding, Li Jing is genuinely very adoring of you. His love is more “low-key” than most yanderes, but still present. He can tamp it down by focusing on his work in the Celestial Realm, trying to neglect you… but it never lasts.

Your father’s affection for you is almost always subtle, performed softly and discreetly. Rather than overtly obsessive and flashy displays, his love takes a quieter, more restrained form. This low-key affection is demonstrated in the form of “small” touches. Fixing your hair. Dusting your clothes. Righting accessories. Little scraps of skinship that allow him to maintain a somewhat loving demeanor without tarnishing his reputation among the court.

He’s strict with your appearance and especially with your clothing, firmly dictating how you dress. Nothing low-cut or even mildly revealing is allowed, of course. Expect lots of fancy ceremonial garbs that swallow you up entirely.

Gifts usually comprise of sanctioned books or tools for “appropriate” hobbies, such as sewing, sculpting, or knitting. Anything that’s time-consuming without being too dangerous. About the “worst” hobby you’re allowing is alchemist, because it’s useful to the court and you’ll be working with Lao Tzu. Maybe you could blacksmith, if you’ve proven yourself mature and obedient.

You will be watched at all times, under the eyes of Li Jing himself or one of your three elder brothers, kept under lock and key.

Though, when you start to visibly wilt and deteriorate from pressure and stress, Jinzha and Muzha will cut you some slack and allow you a little bit of freedom- potentially even spiriting you down to the Mortal Realm for a day of exploration and relaxation. These trips are saved for worse days so you don’t get too used to them, but both of your brothers adore the way you cheer up at something like a simple bowl of fresh noodles from a street vendor.

(Ne Zha is not allowed to come, because he’s so desperate for his father’s love that he updates Jing on what everyone does. Snitch.)

I don’t think it’s very likely to Xiangliu to have a bio kid, but let’s play with the idea here-

It’s implied, to a mild degree, that our Nine-Headed Demon faces some level of desire to be accepted for who he is and what he wants. He lashes out when referred to as a monster, sympathizes with MK’s near lack of control over his fate, advocates for people making their own decisions…

Xiangliu conformed once, returned to order and away from chaos. And he was called a monster and rejected for it.

So there is literally zero percent chance that he’ll risk it happening again with, of all things, his own child.

He plays up the “loving papa” angle hard, essentially welding you to his side from the very moment of birth. Carrying you on his hip, swaddling you in his cape… anything to cradle the precious life bestowed upon him. As you grow older, he actively uses the manifestations of his chaos energies to create “soft” restraints.

Orange-tinged straps of black all bound around you, snugly conforming to the build of your frame, each lash pulsing with aching primordial unrest…

And it’s all to make one of these:

And it might seem silly of him to do (and it is, a little) but it also eases you into a life where chaos is everywhere and everything. You won’t question it for even a second, the constant snaking of wispy tendrils, the throb of a primal power, the sheer wrongness of being steeped in chaos as a bedtime ritual, or having it mixed into your drinks and food each meal…

But it happens anyways, and it’s been happening since the very day of your birth.

So you won’t ever question it.

After all, doesn’t your papa know best?

[spikedfearn]

I Said Just a Little Bit, Then I Got a Taste of It

Chapter III

bjorn x fem!reader

summary: After being transferred to another sector of Jackson's Star you reluctantly befriend a ragtag group of people with the exception of one cocky asshole who knows just how to get under your skin.

On the surface, you hate each other, but after experiencing a particularly harrowing event together, the two of you grow closer than anyone else could ever imagine.

warnings: secret friends with benefits, enemies to lovers, angst, alcohol/drug use, explicit sexual themes, non-linear narrative, side rainkay, trauma bonding, near death experience, brief mention of child abuse, more tags to be added

a/n: haha don't hate me but I split the chapter up again! that means there's no smut in this chapter either but it was getting long and the place I chose to leave off felt like a natural end. that being said this chapter is entirely you x bjorn-centric and there is a lot of pay off!

tags: @asvtrials @urfavhanna @orangebeauty (comment if you wanna be notified when a new chapter drops)

wc: 4.4k

Masterlist Next Chapter

Bjorn is the fucking worst. 

A marginal part of you just assumed that maybe he was an angry drunk following your little exchange in the bar but no—he's just angry.

Despite your previous apprehension you begin to accept Kay’s invites to join her and the others whenever they get together, which is a lot. You know you're treading in dangerous territory, allowing yourself to get close to them, but you're powerless to stop it, unable to recall the last time you had this much fun, almost too much, feels a little wrong, like it should be illegal. 

The only downside is dealing with Kay’s asshole cousin Bjorn, like stepping on a dull thumbtack you can't dislodge when you see him joking around with Tyler, his eyes narrowing as soon as he notices you approach, like he has some score to settle. 

You don't let it get you, not immediately, not letting him run you off out of spite, just as petty as he is. 

You can only hold your tongue for so long however, before reacting explosively to whatever insult is thrown your way, giving him exactly what he wants. 

The others stop trying to intervene after so long, when they realize neither of you are willing to back down, deciding to just roll their eyes and ignore your immature back and forth, splintering off to start a new conversation of their own.

It's another one of those nights, the tension between the two of you thick, thicker than the smoke coming from the bonfire, gathered in the quarry again. It's a regular hangout spot for them, liking the exclusivity of its location, far from the hustle and bustle of the streets alive at night, when the majority of the colonists who’re assigned to work in the mines aren't slaving away underground. 

You and Bjorn have been taking digs at each other all night—what else is new?—cycling between something passive aggressive and flippant, or overt and direct, depending on how irritated whatever he says makes you. 

“Always so hot and bothered, ain'tcha’ sweetheart? If ya’ shut up and c’mere I can give ya’ a real mouthful,” he smirks, grabbing himself through the loose crotch of his frayed cargo pants.

Disgust pinches the bridge of your nose, nice and tight, hissing back, “ugh, you're such a pig. I’m thoroughly convinced the shitty apple didn't fall far from the shitty tree,” words soaked in venom, the aftertaste of acid burning the lining of your esophagus. 

It's like pulling the pin on a grenade, watching the way everyone reacts, a collective gasp shredding through the calm. Your revulsion is replaced by one of confusion, head cocking to the side as your posture wilts, losing all strength in your shoulders. You don't get why, not when you've said far, far, worse to one another, made a little game of it even. 

You don't see the usual anger or arrogance you've become accustomed to. Instead he looks hurt. Wounded. Blinking twice as fast like he's trying to stop his eyes from watering only to catch himself, schooling his face into something neutral, something mean.

Bracing yourself for the fallout, Bjorn does something completely unexpected—he leaves. Doesn't scream or swear or snark back, just silently turns and retreats, gravel loudly crunching beneath the black worn-in soles of his stormer boots, not sparing a single glance your way while he does.

“Not cool dude,” Navarro chides in your direction, slinging the strap of the backpack she bought the beer in over her shoulder before jogging off in hot pursuit of her brother, “Bjorn, wait up man!”

It's enough to kill the whole vibe, everyone awkwardly parting ways not long after. You return to your apartment sooner than predicted, playing the scene over and over in your head as you try and decipher what could've triggered that response, like he was on the verge of tears. And the others, with the exception of Andy, all seemed floored, clearly clued in on some context you're missing. 

But the thing is, why should you even care? For Bjorn and his infantile way of coping with whatever he's dealing with? When he's not once shown you the same consideration in return? You shouldn't. 

At least—that's what you tell yourself as you strip down to your underwear and crawl into the familiar warmth of your bed, cocooning your body in your blankets as the exhaustion and sleeping pills kick in, lulling you into a restless sleep. 

A sharp knock on the front door startles you awake, eyes bouncing off the walls of your cramped room before they're drawn sideways, finding the analog clock sitting on your bedside table. 

It's late in the afternoon, not nearly as late as you usually allow yourself to sleep on days off, still, that's not what's currently puzzling your still-waking brain.

There's a followup knock, reminding you why you're awake in the first place, begrudgingly removing yourself from the comfort of your sheets while you try and figure out who'd be visiting you right now, pulling on yesterday's jeans left crumpled on the floor by your bed. 

Maybe it's Kay stopping by to check on you. She looked like she wanted to say something last night, after Tyler smothered the bonfire and everyone had left but ultimately never did, choosing to run and catch up with Rain, weaving their fingers together once she did.

You swear though, if it’s just some corpo from the council coming to assign you mandatory overtime you might just take the automatic jail sentence.  

It ends up being neither. To your surprise it’s Tyler, fist raised like he’s getting ready to knock again, immediately taking one step down on the concrete steps leading up to your doorway to give you some room, cheeks a little red. 

“Sorry, didn’t meanta’ wake you,’” Tyler greets, probably taking note of your unkempt appearance, from your tangled hair to the rapid flutter of your lashes, trying to blink the sleep out of them. 

“Could—would you mind if we had a chat?” He amends, adding on, “it’ll only take a sec,” after the fact, the porch light above your head just bright enough to illuminate the hope on his face. Well, this is new. 

You’ve grown to like Tyler and the company he provides, always thoughtful and in high spirits, regardless if he just clocked out of a sixteen hour shift or not, hands shaking and wrapped in dirty gauze from the wounds he sustained. 

That being said, you’ve never met up just the two of you, only ever spending time in facilitated group settings outside of the mines. 

Nonetheless you move aside, a nonverbal queue to come in that he readily accepts, maneuvering around you to step into the tiny kitchenette adjacent to your bedroom. You watch as he gazes around, taking in the surroundings like all the apartments the colonists reside in don't look exactly the same. Albeit yours is pretty bare, not seeing a point in decorating when you could be transferred again at a moment's notice.

“So,” you say, shattering the quiet, leaning back against the laminate counter, arms folded out in front of you with one foot crossed over the other, right heel lifted off the tile floor, “what did you wanna talk about?”

There’s little doubt in your head as to what it's pertaining to, suspicion shortly confirmed by the sheepish look in Tyler's eyes when he meets yours again,“it's about Bjorn.” 

“I figured as much,” you sigh, waiting for him to go on, his hand coming up to anxiously rub over the back of his neck.

“Right, so. Is’not my place to share but Bjorn has a lot of baggage there—with his family. It's a super sore subject for ‘im,’ so when you said that it kinda dug all that shit up.”

Tyler continues, cutting you off before you have a chance to interrupt, “And I know you didn’t mean it, that you don't owe ‘im anything, and you certainly don't hafta’ listen to me but would you please just. Talk to ‘im?’

You can tell Tyler means well, that he wants to smooth things over between the two of you and, while you’d never readily admit it aloud, you do feel a little bad for Bjorn. Bjorn. Sunlight must be shining through the perpetual polluted cloud cover from up above.

It’s just, you know what it’s like, dealing with the aftermath of familial trauma, trying to navigate a world that’s taken so much and given nothing back. Learned to bare your teeth rather than your soul, the only guaranteed method to alleviate the emotional damage life on Jackson’s Star brings.

Maybe Kay is right. Maybe you and Bjorn are alike.

And maybe Tyler is too, about talking to Bjorn, maybe it's time you two talk it out, try and find common ground so the others don't have to play referee anymore. 

“Fine,” you agree,“I’ll talk to him.” 

All the tension in Tyler's shoulders melts away, a relieved sigh deflating his chest, like he had been steeling himself for a potential refusal. 

“Lovely, that's—thank you. Really.” Tyler beams, drawing you into an unexpected hug, a quick, thankful little squeeze despite your arms still being crossed.

Tyler pulls away so you can face each other again, “I know he can be a total fuckin’ wanker but he's one a’ the only people Kay and I got left. And Kay’s got you now and—you don't have to like ‘im. Hell I don't half the time, but if you could just try and tolerate each other maybe?” 

A giggle bubbles up out of you, offering a reluctant nod in return, “sure, I can try. No promises though.” 

“S’okay. I don't expect Bjorn to listen anyways but if I can at least get you on board, things should be smooth sailin’ yanno?” 

You doubt it'll be that easy, that Bjorn will even be receptive to talking but you're willing to honor Tyler's request and try, for him, Kay and the others. 

Once Tyler leaves, you decide it's better to just rip the bandaid off and go looking for Bjorn, who's apparently putting in overtime, something he's prone to doing whenever he needs to blow off some steam according to his older cousin. 

You clock in and check out a drill, the only way low-level colonists gain entry down here, lugging it through one of the series of carved paths towards the sound of shrill cogging you hear echoing off the walls just up ahead in the distance. 

Bjorn isn't hard to find. He's the only one laboring on his day off, the only one in this section of the mines at least, save for the lone guard stationed at the mouth of the tunnel, paying you little mind as you pass. 

The drill head Bjorn's wielding bores into the hard rock, heavy handed from the anger he's trying to work through, sparks flying off as a result. 

Your stomach swoops low when he looks at you, anticipating some kind of reaction, his muscles sagging just a little but, like the guard, he goes back to working, drilling a little harder than before. You can tell this conversation will be like pulling teeth. 

“Bjorn,” you call, trying to be heard over the sound of grating metal, pulling your goggles up and your mask down, letting it hang around your neck. “Bjorn!” 

The lean lines in his forearms built over time flex harder, highlighted by the sweat gathering there, gloved fingers constricting around the worn handle of the power tool as he readjusts his grip. Even through the face shield you can tell he's gritting his teeth, grinding them just as hard as the drill against the rock, the muscles in his neck straining from the way his jaw is set so incredibly tight.

“Bjorn!” You repeat, growing frustrated, taking the risk of losing a finger or two by pushing at Bjorn's shoulder, “can you please just—look at me?”

He’s quick to snatch your wrist, startling you, strong enough to keep the drill upheld with his other arm while he thumbs the off switch. 

“Wha’ in the bloody fuck d’ya want?!” He snarls, eyes narrowed and brows pinched, twisting your arm to hold it down in between you, mindful not to actually hurt you.

“M’sorry,” you mumble, avoiding the angry scowl he's wearing, now the one unable to make eye contact.

“Wha’ tha’ fuck was tha’?!”

Your throat feels rougher than sandpaper, finding it harder to swallow than the pills you pop every night. “I said I'm—sorry.”

The laugh he gives in response sounds hollow, bitter, “oh thas’ bleedin’ rich comin’ from you. Come ta’ say sorry so you can sleep a little easier tonight, have ya?’ Well I don't want ur fuckin’ pity.”

Your head whips up at that, doing your best to keep composed, despite your fight or flight urging you to combat his animosity with your own. 

“I didn't come to apologize to make myself feel better, that's not who I am. Whether we get along or not doesn't matter. I realized I crossed a line and you deserve better than that. That's why I came to say sorry.” 

His face softens just a bit, just long enough for you to notice before his expression hardens again, lips parting to say something more but he never gets the chance to, interrupted by a low ominous groan that shakes the entire roof of the tunnel you're standing in. Shit, that doesn't sound good.  

You share a look of dread then, before either of you can react, a crevasse three feet wide fractures up the entire length of the rock right above your heads as the deafening roar of a cave-in drowns out every other noise.

The only thing you feel is Bjorn’s calloused hand still holding onto your wrist roughly yanking you into his body right as everything collapses around you.

The first thing you register is the fact you're still alive. Aching all over and windpipe tight from inhaling the harsh toxins released into the air all at once, but—alive.

The next is the ringing in your ears, a high frequency whine that sounds like a mortar shell just went off by your head, leaving you disoriented, possibly concussed.

And the last is the solid body of muscle you're lying on top of, the same one that just saved you from biting it several moments ago. 

He's sprawled out on his back, the rapid wide-eyed blinking and quick rise and fall of his chest trying to draw air back into his lungs an indication he's in much the same condition as you, goggles cracked and his face shield missing. 

Your breath catches when you notice how close the two of you are, so close you can see the dirt clinging to his goatee and the dried cracks of his chapped lips, breath smelling like rolling tobacco and polar ice gum. As much as you hate it, you can't help but think how attractive the view is.

He seems to regain his focus, looking down to lock gazes with yours, realizing the position you're in. His eyes roving over your face as if he's appraising you, as if he's checking you out. 

“Ahem,” you clear your throat, the severely dim lighting disguising the blush bleeding into your cheeks, rolling off and away from him, hoping he didn't feel the rapidity of your heart beating against your sternum like a battering ram. “Thanks.” 

Once the kicked-up soot and debris has settled a bit you take in everything around you—what's left of it. Both your headlamps are busted, both of which you discard along with the goggles and gloves, drills buried somewhere underneath the rubble you just were, the entrance to the tunnel you're in decimated to a cataclysmic degree, the only way in or out. You guys are trapped. 

“Ah fuck,” Bjorn swears, grasping the utterly abysmal situation you’ve both found yourselves in. “This is bad.”

“Thank you for your valuable insight. Where would I be without your brilliant observation skills,” you snark, the two of you sitting up to face each other, backs against either side of the walls that are still intact, knees drawn up to your chests to give each other a little more leg room.

“Shoulda just let ya’ get crushed by them rocks,” he huffs, “woulda saved me tha’ headache. And tha’ oxygen.” 

He's right about the oxygen. In an enclosed space like this with no ventilation, you're both in short supply, aware you'll run out of it soon enough. Even if the collapse didn't initially kill you, the suffocation inevitably will. 

“I seriously can't believe I'm gonna die down here with you of all people.”

“Ah yah,’ cuz this is how I wanted ta’ spend ma’ last moments before I kicked the bucket,” he rolls his eyes, untying the simple knot of his red bandana, which is grimier than usual due to the ash and sediment lingering in the air, setting it on the ground beside him. 

Bjorn pulls a rolled joint out of the breast pocket of his shirt, lighting up as soon as it's in his mouth. You almost tell him to put it out so you can preserve the limited oxygen you have but ultimately you elect to stay quiet. What's it matter anyway? Dying sooner might just be a mercy. 

“How much ya’ wanna bet some synth fuck’s up there right now tellin’ tha' council we're not worth tha' time or trouble?”

“You really have it out for synthetics, don't you?” 

You were aware he didn't like Andy, an opinion he made known every time Rain brought him to group hangouts but you didn't realize it ran that deep, never connecting the dots between his insults and the prejudice he clearly harbors. 

He chuckles, smoke billowing out of his mouth as he does so, a pungent cloud of weed looming over you, “ever tha' observant one, aren't cha babes?” 

“Fuck you,” you bristle, arms loosely wrapping around your shins, fingers lacing together just below the kneecaps. Although, to be fair you did more or less say the same thing to him not even five minutes ago. 

“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” the few oil lamps the cave-in didn't snuff out highlighting the wink he throws your way. “And if ya’ must know—yeah, I do. Every fuckin' last one of ‘em.” 

Deciding to tread carefully you simply ask, “why?” exercising a level of caution you normally never do.

Silence drags between you, expecting Bjorn to ignore your probably invasive question when, to your surprise he replies, answering with a painful degree of honesty that nearly blindsides you, “my mum. She worked in tha’ mines like most o’ us had to. When I was eight, there wuz a collapse much like this one. ‘Cept she was one o’ three miners on one side o’ the tunnel while there were ten in tha’ otha. A synth convinced tha’ council her life wuzn’t worth theirs. So—they let her die. Scared. Confused. Probably hopin’ for rescue. She always told me ta' keep tha' light on fo’er when she'd tuck me inta bed before her shift every night so she could find’er way back ta’ me.” 

He yanks out two sets of dog tags tucked underneath his shirt by the chain, one of them his and the other presumably his mother's, just like the ones you’re wearing, the corporation’s way of identifying bodies of miners lost, his thumb running over the engraving etched into one of the nameplates. 

Sympathy swells inside of you listening to him, “that's horrible.” 

You had assumed Bjorn's past was traumatic based on the little information Tyler was willing to share but you never expected it to hit so close to home.

“I get it,” you murmur, head tipping back to stare at the chiseled rock and remaining support beams to hold back any stray tears that might threaten to fall, clenching at your dirty pant legs a little tighter.

“My mom. She was pregnant and forced to work down in the mines until the shit she was inhaling induced her prematurely. Guess toxic fumes are bad for a pregnancy,” you roll your eyes, biting off a sarcastic, watery chuckle. “She ended up dying during childbirth.” 

There's a pause, your words hanging heavy in the air. You've never shared that with anyone who didn't already know. Word traveled fast around each sector, gossip the only news worth spreading, people talking about the girl orphaned by a reckless mother who should've known better. Fuck, it makes you sick just thinking about it.

When Bjorn speaks it's soft, comforting. “Thas’ horrible. So thas’ why you been volunteerin’ for Kay.” 

“Yep,” you confirm, popping the p, head rolling forward to lock eyes again, watching him put out the remnants of his joint on the wall next to him before flicking the butt into the pile of debris. 

“And ur dad?” he asks, the bend of his elbows resting on either one of his knees, leaving his forearms to dangle. 

“Never knew him,” you shrug, becoming detached at the very mention of him, like you’re discussing a stranger, which in a way you are, “he left right after knocking my mom up. Didn't want the added responsibility of raising a kid.”

“Fuck, I wish my old man woulda just dipped out from tha’ start. Woulda been the only decent thing he ever did for us,” Bjorn spits, words dripping with vitriol, clearly holding a hatred reserved for his father only. 

“What happened to him?” No longer trying to tiptoe around the questions that pop into your head since you're both over sharing. Since you're both dead anyway. 

“He’s still around but he's not around if ya know whadd’i mean. After my mom died he started boozin’ heavily to deal widit. When he wasn't in the mines he was out gettin’ piss drunk. Stupid prick gave fuck all about me and Navarro.” 

There's a growl that rumbles deep in his lower register, rotating his arms so they're pointed wrist-up towards the ceiling. You follow his line of sight, seeing scars littered across his skin, raised and round and purple from healing. Cigarette burns. 

“Bjorn…” you trail off, a level of sadness you haven't felt in a long time settling deep in your skin, “That's—what the fuck. Did Jackson’s, did they do anything about it?” 

“They don't give a rat's arse, yanno that,” he scowls, but not at you, turning his arms back down, “s’long as I'm alright enough to work they'll overlook a black eye or busted up lip. They can all fuckin’ eat shit far as I'm concerned.”

“I'm so fucking sorry about earlier. I really, truly am,” You stress, even more genuine than the initial apology you offered, feeling like a total bitch for what you said to him in the quarry. 

He waves you off, combing his fingers through his sweaty, clumped bangs to separate them, “s’alright babes. Already forgiven.” 

You never thought you'd say it but you're actually glad Tyler convinced you to talk things out with Bjorn, even if it inevitably did lead to your approaching demise. If, by some miracle, you both survive, maybe you can be friends. At the very least, friendly. 

“Can't believe I'm gonna die a bloody virgin,” Bjorn groans, head falling back against the rock. 

“Really?” You laugh, a full-body chuckle that has you coughing into a loosely curled fist immediately after, your lungs burning from all the shit you've breathed in, “that's your concern?”

“Uh yah! What else do I hafta' be worried about? Dying? That shit’s imminent at this point, hate ta’ break it ta’ ya’ darling.” 

He has a point. Besides, maybe focusing on a smaller problem will diminish some of the fear about the larger one at hand. 

“You're right,” you concede, though you can't help but be surprised by the revelation, with the way Bjorn carries himself he seemed like the type to sleep around with anyone willing to let him, “that does suck.” 

“Oh? So you're not one then?” he asks, raising an eyebrow that disappears under his hair, curiosity piqued. 

“No. Made a few mistakes back in my old sector, had a few one night stands. Nothing serious,” you shrug, indifferent. None of them ever meant something to you anyhow, just a brief period of time when you used alcohol to cope, when you just wanted to feel someone's arms around you. 

“Course—I don't hafta’ die a virgin.” 

His eyes openly roam over you, from your face down to what he can see of your body with the position you're sitting in, tongue parting his lips to slowly lick over them. You feel your stomach flutter, like you'd just swallowed a congregation of butterflies. Okay, he's definitely checking you out now. 

Are you seriously suggesting I sleep with you?” You ask in disbelief, the question entirely rhetorical considering you're the only other person here and he's eyeing you like a prime cut of steak, “what are you, high?”

“Clearly babes. That's beside tha’ point. Wouldn't be tha’ worst thing in the world, now would it?” 

“It might be,” you retort, “so was this just your plan all along? Get in my pants?” 

“Ah yah, I collapsed the mine so you'd drop your knickers for me, fucking come off it. And come with me, why don't ya?’” He smirks, doing that signature cocky head tilt of his.

That's not what you meant. Moreso wondering if that was his goal from the start, the tension between you seeming sexual in retrospect. You spear your bottom lip between your teeth, actually considering the offer, always finding Bjorn annoyingly, stupidly, attractive. Maybe you're the one that's high.

“I—” 

As if on queue you hear a familiar rumble, just like the one that trapped you here to begin with, rubble and soot raining down on top of you and Bjorn, looking up just as the ceiling bows.

Bjorn is quicker to react than you are, lunging at you right as one of the wooden support beams gives way and topples sideways, taking another chunk of the mine with it, the both of you avoiding another close call as the tunnel around you continues to shrink and shrink. 

This time he ends up on top of you, the full weight of his body pressing down onto yours, his gaze drawing away from the roof to meet yours again, the intensity of his stare causing heat to pool low in your core.  

Then he kisses you—and you let him. 

[moonchildstyles]

retrouvailles

élan part six: y/n goes on a date, harry finds out a secret, and something shifts.

wordcount: 15.5k+

—————

"Y'think I did alright?" 

(Y/N) swore her cheeks were going to ache for the rest of the day with the way her wide smile stretched over her lips. 

"I think you did really well," she told him, her voice laced with warm amusement though she was far from teasing. 

She was being honest, really. Hearing Harry speak in the small amount of conversational French he knew to her new nail tech as well as the receptionist of the salon she'd found today, was one of the sweetest things she'd ever seen. While his accent was improving, she cherished the flourish he still gave to his e's and the care he gave to his consonants. 

"'M getting better, huh," he pressed, sounding a little too proud. 

"Your accent definitely is," she mused, spotting the entrance to their building not too far ahead from where they were strolling down the pedestrian walk. 

"Good," Harry responded simply, the edge of a dimple pressed into his cheek, "I've been practicing." 

Somehow it was possible, but (Y/N)'s smile widened. "I've heard." 

He wasn't exactly the most quiet as he recited simple words she'd taught to him after he thought she fell asleep. He preferred to sneak out onto the balcony, and practice with the light of the Tower shimmering in the distance. She liked hearing his voice like that, just a hair muffled through the door and his improper French. 

It didn't take long before Harry was holding open the door for her to head inside their apartment building. No one other than the doorman was occupying the small space. (Y/N) offered a fleeting smile in his direction, her attention captured by the grandiose display on the desk counter. 

In a crystalline vase, cut expertly to allow waves of rainbow light to glimmer over the warm eggshell walls, was an oversized bouquet of roses. The petals were deep spirals of velveteen red, deep dark in the center before going crimson on the edges. They had unfurled perfectly, not a single speck of discoloration or wilting. The stems were a healthy forest green, strong with clipped thorns as they held the large blooms in place. Interspersed between the roses were glossy leaves of emerald greenery and stark white puffs of baby's breath. It was full and large, stuffed and heavy with more immaculate roses than (Y/N) thought could exist in the world. How the vase wasn't toppling over from the sheer size, she wasn't sure. 

They were gorgeous—pristine. (Y/N) even slowed her steps some to caress her eyes over the blooms for a moment longer. 

Nonetheless, their synced steps eventually landed her at the doors of the lift. Harry, at her side with his own attention pressing forward, entered the code for the lift to take them upwards. 

Just as she took her eyes away from the bouquet, the doorman suddenly shouted through the lobby in accented English, "Wait!" 

(Y/N)'s steps faltered, the elevator doors having parted open. She glanced over her shoulder, feeling his shout being directed to her though she couldn't imagine why. 

The doorman looked at her with wide eyes, his brows raised. "Mademoiselle?" 

"Oui? Comment puis-je t'aider?" she trilled, watching as he stepped closer with her to catch up. 

From the corner of her eye, Harry's security instincts kicked in, stepping closer to her as a form of barricade. 

Eyeing Harry, the doorman slowed feet away, keeping that space between as (Y/N) peered around the broad of Harry's shoulder. 

"Les roses," he started, gesturing towards the towering bouquet, "Elles sont pour vous, mademoiselle."

"Pour moi?" she pressed, her brows pinching. 

"Pour toi. Ils vous ont été déposés il y a une heure."

"Oh," she sounded, allowing her gaze to wander back to the glamorous roses behind him, "Merci."

Taking it upon himself, Harry took the flowers from the counter, keeping himself between (Y/N) and the doorman as he moved. Offering nothing more than a quiet thank you, (Y/N) helped him into the waiting elevator, Harry having held the doors open in case he had to usher her through. 

Once alone in the lift, (Y/N) couldn't help but to run a finger over the blooms. Harry watched intently, observing and cataloguing as if he had something to be suspicious over. Truthfully, she couldn't completely blame him. She couldn't think of anyone who would send flowers to this address for her, especially something this grandiose. 

In the back of her mind, a niggling panic arose. This wouldn't be that admirer of hers, right? 

Silence followed them into their apartment, (Y/N) speaking up as she held the door open for him to slip through with the tottering vase. "Is there a card or anything you can see?" 

"Yes." Harry's voice was clipped as he answered. Nothing more was offered. 

She waited for him to set the bouquet down before she searched through the stems, finding the small card amongst the greenery. The slip was heavy, made from embossed cardstock—definitely more than what a regular florist would offer. 

Flicking it open, the writing inside was a shimmering black, inky and definite. The writing was elegant, scrolling and scripting, handwritten with a lilting hand. 

       Even before meeting you in person, I know these roses pale in comparison to your beauty. See you soon. x

        Elliot 

Every beautiful thing about the note was cancelled out when she read that name. 

That was the man who was tasked to take her out for dinner in a few days, her father's friend. 

"Oh," she sounded. 

Harry was silent at her side. He must have been able to spot the details when she couldn't.

"They're so pretty," she said, folding the card away, almost pouting at the roses, "I'm sad he had to be the one to send them." 

A beat passed before Harry spoke again, "I don't trust them."

Canting her head, she tried to see what he saw in the flowers. "What do you mean? They're gorgeous." 

His arms coming cross around his chest, Harry stayed firm in his stance. "I don't like it. He shouldn't know your address before he's even met you. Taking the time to find a florist in Paris, finding something this extravagant, I don't know. I don't trust them." 

"I mean," she started, tipping her head in the other direction, "I'm sure they're fine though, right?" 

"I don't know," he answered shortly, "I'm going to have to think about it. We might have to get rid of them." 

Peeking from the corner of her eye, she saw the pinched expression marring his features. He almost seemed offended to be looking at the roses. 

Her features dropped some at the idea of throwing out the bouquet. "Oh. I like roses, though." 

Harry's face pinched further at her words. 

—————

Blinking the sleep out of her eyes, (Y/N) forced herself out of her room, letting a shiver run up her spine at the cold floor under her feet. Through her bleary gaze, the first thing she saw was the streak of red that was the bouquet of roses sitting on the kitchen counter. 

It took a couple of blinks before she realized that the flowers on the counter were very much not the same as the bouquet she received yesterday.

This bundle was significantly smaller, only a dozen compared to the fifty or so blooms from the day before, only small clusters of baby's breath added in. The same vase was being utilized for this bouquet, the white ribbon that tied the stems together still included and now dipped in the water filling the vase. The red was brighter, a couple of the flowers not quite as open as the ones she'd seen before, the greens on the lighter side. 

Propped against the vase was a slip of pink paper taken from a notepad (Y/N) usually wrote their grocery list on. 

She didn't lift her eyes from the bouquet as she approached, the morning light seemingly making the blooms glow. Reaching for the note, her features softened, rounding and curving into a quiet smile. 

      Good morning. I know these roses aren't as nice as the others, but I hope you think they're just as pretty.

        Harry

His letters were blocky and absolute, none of the flourish the other man had left on the note. She definitely liked these much more than the flowers she received before. 

Brushing her fingers over the soft petals, she attempted to bite back the wide grin that threatened to take over her face. With the note in hand, she spun on her toes, searching for Harry as if she missed him in the space. 

Spotting him through the windows of the balcony doors, she didn't waste any time before she was crossing the living room to join him in the morning air. 

Knocking on the glass, she stepped onto the balcony as Harry looked at her over the rim of his coffee cup.

"Morning," he murmured, eyes glancing towards the note clutched in her hand. 

"Good morning," she chirped, shifting her weight on her feet with that fluttering feeling lingering in her tummy. 

"Y'alright?" he asked, noticing the way she couldn't seem to stay still.  

Looking at Harry now, all she saw was the man that picked out those flowers waiting for her inside. He picked her a bouquet that was worlds better than the grandiose arrangement she saw the day before, if only because it came from him. She liked his note much better, too. 

"I am," she said through her beaming smile, "Thank you for the flowers." 

Harry minutely perked up though his features stayed straight-laced. The grip on his mug tightened, his eyes brightening that much. "Yeah? Y'like them?" 

"I love them."

For the first time since she'd met him, (Y/N) watched as a small smile landed on Harry's lips. The glances of dimples she gained and the ghostly smiles that disappeared before she had a chance to truly take them in were all blown away with the way he allowed that small grin to mold his features. He gazed up at her with that smile on his lips for a moment before he cast his eyes out towards the Parisian cityscape. He brought his free hand up to knuckle at the tip of his nose, his smile partially hidden behind his hand. 

"Good." 

—————

(Y/N) read, and reread, and reread her father's coaching text at least five times before the message began to sink in. 

The first couple of messages were the usual host of guidelines, imploring her to not drink, to stay on her best behavior, to act lady-like (code for: don't try to sleep with him, because she was a whore, of course), ect. She rolled her eyes at first, reading those rules like they were supposed to be pasted to the fridge for a kindergartener to follow. It wasn't until the final message came through that her attention shifted to something serious. 

Dad

      And, Harry is to stay back tonight. He's already a distraction to the media, and shouldn't be there when you're meant to be on a date with someone who is able to handle you just fine. 

The plan all week had been for Harry to accompany her, be right at her side through the whole night no matter what. Not only because he didn't particularly trust her father's circle of friends after the 132 Gala, but also at (Y/N)'s request. That plan had been the only reason she hadn't fought tooth and nail to get out of this stupid date—the whole reason she hadn't done something equally as idiotic to get her father to cancel the plans in favor of punishing her. 

Just thirty minutes ago, sitting in front of her vanity to get ready to go out with another man, Harry had been on her mind. She wondered if he would like the red lipstick she slicked over her mouth, or if he would think it was too much. She wondered if he would like the bounce of her hair or if he would think it was too big. She wondered if he would think of those roses he bought for her when he saw the red of her dress. 

Now, none of that even mattered—if it had mattered at all in the first place, anyway. 

Harry was going to drop her off, and leave her to her date. 

The idea had (Y/N) deflating where she sat on her bed, her shoulders holding a defeated slope. 

She didn't want to get up, she didn't want to face this night. Tempted, she half-typed out a text feigning food poisoning to her father, a quick fix to get out of this whole thing. 

But, she knew better. Delaying this would only cause her more grief. Her father might even follow through and fly out to Paris himself to keep an eye on her. 

Falling back against her mattress, bouncing against the springs without a care for her hair, she heaved a sigh. She was going to have to leave her room and paint her face with a famous smile, but afterwards, she could forget it all happened. It would be over and she could return to her Parisian bubble that consisted of pilates, nail appointments, the farmer's market, and Harry. 

She just needed to get through tonight. 

Steeling her resolve, (Y/N) reacted to her father's text with a thumbs up and shook him out of her head. With her heels strapped to her feet and phone thrown into the bag hanging off of her wrist, she pushed the double doors to her room open and stepped out into the living room. 

Sitting on the couch, waiting with phone in hand, was Harry. He glanced at her over the top of his screen only for his scrolling to pause, eyes widening through the frame of his lashes. (Y/N) saw the trail his gaze made over her form, skipping through the curves she fit into her rose-red dress, the minute slit on the side that allowed the fabric to flare around her thighs. Her accessories came in complementing hues, pearls in her ears with glimmering gold shining against the red. 

A beat passed before he seemed to become aware of himself once more, clearing his throat as he made a move to put his phone away. 

"Y'look... really good," he started, his voice strained as he stood to the full of his height, his gaze dropping down to his feet, "Are y'ready to go?" 

"Thank you," she answered, decidedly less chipper than she would have expected after hearing his compliment. Her father's text was taking up too much space in her head for anything sweet to slip inside. "My father texted me while I was getting ready." 

"Yeah?" he asked, beginning to inch towards the door though (Y/N) lagged behind. "What'd he say?"

Following him in minute steps, (Y/N) swallowed. "Has he talked to you today?" 

"No," he answered shortly, pressing open the door for her to meet him at the threshold, his gaze heavy on her as she obviously stalled. "Why?" 

"He—Harry—" she struggled to find the words, hoping it didn't come out as pathetically defeated as she felt, "He said you're not allowed to come with me tonight." 

Harry stopped. His steps halted, his expression going blank as he looked at her. 

"What do you mean?" 

"He thinks you're a distraction for the media. If you were in any more pictures with me, especially when I'm supposed to be on a date with someone else, that would only cause more drama." 

Slowly, Harry closed the door to her apartment, sealing them inside for a moment longer. His hand flexed around the doorknob. 

"He thinks that?" Harry pressed after a beat, his tone sharp. 

(Y/N) silently nodded her head for confirmation. 

It only took a moment longer of that silence before Harry was undoing the work of shutting the door. Determined as ever, he pulled it open, beckoning her to follow after him as he stepped into the hall.

"I don't care. 'M going with you." His words were absolute like cement, unwavering and unmoving. "'M not leaving you with some man who you've never met before, and couldn't even bother to call y'before tonight—yet, he got your address to send 'flowers'." 

"Harry," she called, following him out into the hall, "I—We can't." 

He didn't budge, standing beside the elevator, the down arrow lit up showing the lift had already been requested. "I don't care, (Y/N). 'M not leaving you alone—your dad can get fucked." 

Her steps stuttered as she moved to catch up with him. Never had she heard him be so explicitly mad at her father—or explicit, at all really. No one ever really became angry at her father the way she did, let alone express it so bluntly. No one had ever seen the things that she had when it came to him. 

Nonetheless, (Y/N) still couldn't let him sabotage himself. 

It was just like he said earlier in the week. Her father's wrath wasn't worth wriggling out of a few hours of discomfort—for she or Harry. 

"Harry, no," she tried again, staying where she was when he tried to herd her into the requested lift. The sparkling panelling in the back of the elevator acted as a mirror, showcasing her and Harry in its reflection. "I can't let you do that. You'd lose your job, then you really would have to l-leave me here." 

She hadn't expected the way her tongue tripped over the word leave. She hoped Harry hadn't noticed. 

Harry's jaw squeezed, a hand coming up to knuckle at the tip of his nose as his gaze fell to the floor. "'S not fair," he murmured, "I can't leave y'there."

"I can't let you do anything else, though," she reasoned with him, dropping her voice to match the volume of his own, "My father would be so angry with us. He wouldn't let you stay here with me." 

While that explanation was the truth, she had a feeling Harry would never be the one that was in proper trouble with her father. It would somehow make its way around to be her fault; that she had poisoned Harry's mind. That could be the only reasoning as to why he would comply with (Y/N)'s wishes over her father's. But, he didn't need to know all of that. He just needed to stay put, that was all she asked. 

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his gaze flicking up in a glance at her. "(Y/N)," he murmured, the syllables of her name cradled in his voice. 

"I know, but I promise I'll be fine. And, if I'm not, I'll call you right away. After this is all over, you can take me home, and we can try to watch a Julia Child episode again." A careful smile touched at the corners of her mouth then, hoping that lighthearted act would rub off on him. "I'll try not to fall asleep this time, either." 

While his mood didn't seem to be particularly lifted at her plan, it was enough to get the hinges in his jaw moving again and the stark set of his shoulders loosening. Only after a lingering pause did she hear the grumble of his voice once more. 

"Okay." Picking up his chin, he matched her eye contact head-on. "You promise me you'll tell me if you're uncomfortable?" 

She knew what he was asking her, the night of the Gala flashing through her head, too. 

"I promise." 

With a single nod of his head, he flattened his hand between her shoulder blades and herded her into the lift.  

—————

Harry maneuvered the car through the now familiar streets of Paris, taking her to the expensive location her date had requested. 

Elliot, she thought with an internal cringe. She was going to have to actually call him by his name, instead of referring to him as some guy. 

With the Eiffel Tower glimmering only a few miles away, (Y/N) wasn't surprised to see the restaurant that had been chosen for the night. (It was a terrible tourist trap, nothing particularly special that could justify the price other than the view of the Tower from the patio). It was just the kind of expensive nonsense her father loved to partake in when he visited, the same seemed to go for his friend. 

The car was still running as Harry did nothing more than step on the breaks as a means for parking. All he needed was to hear her word and they could be out of there in a split second. 

"I'll be back at nine to get you. No later," he cemented, his lips a thin line as he laid his sharp gaze on the eatery. 

"Yes, no later," she parroted, pitching her voice into something lighter in hopes of tricking him into a better mood the same way she'd done for herself. "I'll see you soon, okay?" 

"Okay." 

With her hand on the door, (Y/N) hesitated. She didn't want to leave him now, especially not when he was so obviously on edge. She didn't know how to ease him other than promising again and again that she would get into contact if she needed him. 

She just wanted him to know that she was far away from this date, too. That if it were up to her, this wouldn't be going at all, that she was miles away in their apartment. 

Without overthinking it, she pushed the door open with the most prominent thought in her head slipping through her lips: "I wish I was doing this with you, tonight." 

(Y/N) could feel Harry's eyes on her as she climbed out of the car, leaving before he had much of a chance to offer any response. 

—————

This man—Elliot—is her father. 

He is almost an exact replica of her father inside and out, this man just has a better hairline and faker teeth. 

The similarities started the second it appeared he didn't know how to stop talking, going on and on about himself. He didn't know how to pair wine, despite boasting about the vineyard he supposedly owned here in the French countryside. ((Y/N) had to keep herself from wincing when he suggested starting the night off with foie gras and a deep red wine). He loved France, and wine, and charity, he'd said. 

So, he was a liar, too. Just like her father. 

No wonder he thought this would work out—that she would like him. Her father loved himself so much he couldn't imagine this date not being perfect with the similarities he shared with Elliot. 

(Y/N) hid her frown behind her wine glass, listening as he made a fool of himself and the foundations he ran. (Supposedly, of course. With the way he spoke of them, they sounded more like cash grabs than anything real, a set of others running the operation while he was nothing more than the figurehead and beneficiary). He didn't even notice just how disconnected she was from this conversation, though she couldn't be surprised. To notice anything at all would require him to stop thinking about himself for longer than a breath.

"See! I knew you'd like that wine," Elliot boasted, looking pleased with himself as he ran a hand through his graying hair, "Your father said you were a drinker, so I had a feeling you'd enjoy this." 

A part of her bubbled close to overflowing, wanting to spit at him that she actually hated the wine—it was too prickly and bitter, and overall just shit—but she tamped it down. It was enough to get her father red in the face if he found she was drinking against his rules, she didn't need to add on the fact that she blew up in this man's face over it. Nothing quite like a drunken rage to get her on the front page of a tabloid tomorrow. 

Instead, she offered a sickly sweet smile after taking in a large gulp of the horrendous wine. "Yep," she falsely beamed, "That's me!" 

He didn't even blink at the bitter tone to her voice, the scathing sticky sweetness that laid underneath her words. 

Her savior came in the form of a scattered waiter approaching the table, his footsteps echoing a bit too loud in the otherwise empty restaurant. (Another small flex on Elliot's part—he'd bought out the entire eatery for the night, leaving them alone with nothing but the limited waitstaff and kitchen workers in the back). 

Their waiter—whose name she wished she caught before Elliot had rudely cut him off in favor of ordering terrible wine—offered a painted smile, a bit too perfect to be authentic as he all but tripped over himself for a flawless service. In accented English, as her date didn't know any kind of real French, he asked, "Are you ready to order your mains this evening?" 

Before (Y/N) could do anything but smile, Elliot was chomping at the bit, speaking in broken French as if to impress her. 

He boasted that he would be ordering for the both of him, that he knew what she wanted. The waiter looked on with wide eyes, taking down the order in his little notepad. (Y/N) looked on unimpressed, listening as Elliot ordered himself a steak, commanding it to be cooked way too much, with a sauce that was much too rich for the white wine he was supposedly planning on pairing it with. She dreaded to hear what he thought she would like, especially with the way he flitted his dark eyes to her with bouncing brows, as if she could be anything other than enticed through this interaction.

In another move that was so terribly like her father, Elliot ordered her a chopped salad. Dressing on the side, as well. 

(Y/N) had to rein herself in, keeping a bubbling peal of laughter from leaking out. If not for the fact this was really happening to her in this moment, she would have loved to hear a story like this in a comedy routine. 

"That will be right up, sir. Thank you," the waiter praised, giving a small bow of his head before he turned to scurry away once more. (Y/N) envied him for his ability to eke out of the room. 

Though, before he could make it too far away, (Y/N) stopped him with a gentle hand on his forearm. She extended backwards in her seat, catching his attention. 

"Miss?" he murmured, "Did I miss something?" 

"Oui désolé. Il n'a pas commandé correctement pour moi," she answered, noting the way his eyes widened at hearing the fluent French slip from her mouth. 

Pulling out his leather notepad, he nodded his head, "Oh, mes excuses. Que puis-je mettre à la place?" 

"Pas de soucis, merci," (Y/N) smiled, hoping to ease some of his nerves and make it abundantly clear that she knew she was too good for the man sitting across from her, "J'aurai le penne au salmon à la crème Parmesan, s'il te plaît." 

The waiter nodded, looking a touch more comfortable as he spoke to only her, writing down the new order after putting a definitive strike through the previous. With a promise to return to check on them shortly, he disappeared into the reprieve that was the kitchen, leaving (Y/N) to suffer on her own. 

"I didn't know you knew French," Elliot said from across the table, forcing her attention back to him. There was a pinch to his brow, tightening his already Botoxed features. "What did you say to him?"

"Hm? Oh," (Y/N) sounded, feigning confusion as if she had no idea what she'd just done, "I ordered for myself. I think he thought the side salad you got was for me." 

Clueless to the fact that she was amusing herself at his expense, his furrow deepened. "It was for you." 

"No, thank you," she said, sticky sweet and unbearably kind, "I actually really love the pasta from here. A salad isn't enough for me." 

Elliot tripped his eyes down her form, glazing over the red dress she picked with Harry in mind. "You couldn't listen to me for tonight?" 

"Oh," she canted her head, blinking her eyes owlishly, "I didn't know the salad meant something to you. Just a misunderstanding then, I guess." 

It was eerie the way he looked exactly like her father as he took in a deep sigh, as if he had reason to be disappointed in her. Freud would be too happy seeing as how her father set her up with a man just like himself. 

"It's alright, sweetie. Keep that in mind for next time, though. I've got you now—you don't need to worry about reading the menu and ordering for yourself anymore." 

In an attempt to keep herself rooted to her spot and not stomping outside the door, (Y/N) tightened her grip on her wine glass. She wouldn't have been surprised if the stem broke under her palm. 

"I definitely will," she laughed, feeling a hair away from delirious at this point. 

Pleased with himself, Elliot sat back. "I feel like I've been talking about myself all night," he laughed, shaking his head as if his arrogance was a silly oversight, "I've been meaning to ask about something I read." 

(Y/N) had to keep her eye from twitching. "Really? What was it?"

"That boy you've been pictured with," he started, his voice much too loud for the quiet space. (Y/N) had to consciously make an effort to keep her jaw from clenching as he referred to Harry as a boy. "Your dad said he was your security, but I wanted to ask about him myself." 

Buying herself some time with a calculated sip of her wine, she swallowed down the acrid taste before asking, "What do you want to know?" 

"Is he your boyfriend? Or whatever you kids call it now," Elliot bluntly pressed, "I read you cheated on Mr. Moore's son with him. Is there any truth to that?"

"No," was her immediate answer, "He's just my security guard." 

In the back of her mind she knew those words didn't fit correctly in her mouth. 

Elliot raised a challenging brow. "That's the truth?" 

Forcing herself to do nothing more than grow stoic at his idiotic pressing, (Y/N) met his eyes directly without wavering. "I know the stories can be convincing, but this is what I'm telling you. It's the truth." 

This was her version of biting back, dropping that tabloid bunny facade with placating smiles and the willingness to accommodate to be whatever person the one in front of her wanted. She couldn't outright slap him, so she'd have to settle for not being the naive butterfly he wanted. 

Giving a slow nod, (Y/N) watched as her date ran through what she'd told him. He didn't seem to even understand that she was pushing back on him, his ego too large to see much else. "Okay," he settled, "Well, if this continues between us, I want to make it clear that I would prefer him to leave Paris." 

(Y/N) sat dumbfounded for a beat. 

Elliot continued on, "He's not needed if I'm here with you. I also believe he's taking advantage of his position in getting to touch and 'protect' you. You don't need him around." 

Through gritted teeth, (Y/N) asked, "You think so?" 

"Mhm," Elliot hummed, a bit too proud, "He's taking advantage of you as far as I can see. He takes from you since you can't overpower him—it's a hard thing to notice when you're the woman being taken, but it's obvious to others." 

Swallowing, (Y/N) forced her jaw to unclench and a deep breath down her lungs. 

She was livid. Truthfully, she couldn't care less what this man thought of her in any way—another way he was similar to his father—or if he chose to demean her for the rest of the night. But, when it came to Harry, the only innocent person in this whole stupid mess who'd done nothing but protect her to the best of his ability, that was where she was going to draw the line. 

This night was over. 

"Right," she answered stiffly, forcing her features into something kind and unwitting, "Do you mind if I run to the ladies room really quickly?" 

Already pushing out her chair before he had a chance to say a word, (Y/N) only half listened when he told her to hurry back, he didn't mind waiting for her. 

With her bag on her wrist and phone in hand, she typed out a message in quick strokes. 

      please come get me

Firing it off to Harry took all but a second, long enough for her to reach the kitchen, 

While it felt impossibly rude to step inside, she had to put her plan into place before Elliot realized she hadn't headed towards the bathroom at all. 

A member of the kitchen staff stopped in their tracks when they saw her, a bright streak of red in the middle of the otherwise stainless steel and clean white of the kitchen. 

"Mademoiselle? Vous cherchez les toilettes?" 

"Non, j'avais en fait une demande, s'il vous plaît." she started, keeping herself on the fringes of the space as to not touch something she wasn't meant to.

The staff member cast his gaze around for a moment, the rest of the kitchen slowing to a standstill when they noticed her. Only the sizzling of a pair of pans remained, the space hot from the running ovens and foaming butter. 

"Comment puis-je t'aider?" he asked after a moment, no one objecting to the idea of her newly timed request.

"Y a-t-il un moyen pour que tu emmènes mes pâtes avec moi ? En plus d'ajouter pavé de saumon à la plancha pour que je le prenne également ? Je sais que c'est la dernière minute, mais j'ai changé de plan." 

"To-go?" he answered in accented English. 

"Oui," she cemented, time ticking the longer she had to explain herself, "Je dois aller aux toilettes, mais je peux les récupérer en sortant par l'arrière, si ça te va."

It was then that—what she assumed was—the kitchen manager spoke up, her hair tied up under a pristine white hat. "Oui. Nous pouvons préparer cela pour vous en dix minutes, mademoiselle." 

"Merci," (Y/N) chirped, backing out of the kitchen before she could become any more of a distraction. 

Next order of business came in the form of tracking down her waiter, who was tucked in an alcove around the bar, the single ticket for their table hanging from the processing computer. After the shock of spotting her in the backroom wore off, (Y/N) settled the tab—including the fish entree she just added—with a swipe of her father's credit card. A hefty tip was left for the staff, in hopes of making up for the absolute waste of time everyone involved had gone through for the night. 

Checking the time on her phone as she scurried to the staff restroom (with permission from the waiter), (Y/N) didn't doubt that Elliot was either too absorbed in himself to notice she was still missing or he was beginning to realize she was taking too long for this to be an innocent trip to the ladies room. Nonetheless, she only had a handful of minutes left before her order would be ready, and Harry had to be on his way by now. 

As if he was living inside her head, the second she closed the door behind her, a call came through her phone with Harry's contact written boldly up top. 

"Hello?" 

"Are you okay?" he fired off, ignoring her greeting, "Did something happen?" 

"I'm fine, I'm fine," she eased, leaning against the bathroom door, "I'm a little annoyed and was almost bored to death, but I'm okay. I knew this was going to be a bad night, H, but it's been terrible, honestly." 

"I'm outside, okay? I parked out back, but you'll see me," he rushed off, his voice a low rumble through the speaker. 

(Y/N) reared back. "You're already here?" 

"Yes." 

A beat passed in the quiet of the bathroom. "Did you come from the apartment?" 

"No." She could hear a sigh come from the other line. "I didn't go back—I stayed here." 

"Oh," (Y/N) sounded, having no right to feel a small smile bloom on her features at his admission. "I'll be out in a second. I need to grab something really quick." 

"Okay. I'll see you in a minute." 

Hanging up first, (Y/N) doubted he would unwind until she was sitting in that car with him, away from the annoying bug that was Elliot. 

Scurrying through the restaurant in hopes of staying unnoticed by her date, she thanked the kitchen staff once more for the impromptu request she made before grabbing her orders and pushing through the back entrance.

The night was dark, only bits of warm light coming from the Eiffel Tower in the distance, tourists roaming the streets with roses in the wind. Searching for Harry's car, it only took (Y/N) a couple of steps around the building to spot the black sedan with its lights on bright. 

Her steps quickened, heels clacking over the concrete as she eagerly met him. The doors were unlocked and ready for her to climb in. 

"Look what I got for us!" she bubbled, fitting herself in the passenger seat with the boxed meals in her lap. 

With his features only lit up by the dash lights and whatever was able to seep through the tinted windows, a furrow darkened Harry's brow. His gaze lingered on her face before dropping to her lap as she buckled up. 

"Is... Is that your dinner?" 

"It's our dinner!" she chirped, "I got you something while I was there." Finally cataloguing what exactly she had run out with, her grin only widened. "I think they gave me his too, actually." 

At that, a huff of laughter left Harry's lips, the tension in the car melting as he shifted into drive. (Y/N) watched as his features softened in the low light, dimples present and eyes softening. 

"He doesn't know you left, does he?" 

"Nope," she trilled, "He'll figure it out soon though, I'm sure." 

Harry only laughed again, eyes trained on the road though she didn't miss the way he glanced at her from the corner of his eye. 

"That bad?" 

"Oh, yeah," (Y/N) heaved, shaking her head. "My father is going to be so mad, but I don't even care anymore." 

(Y/N) could feel her muscles unwinding the farther they made it from the restaurant, dropping her head back to lean on the stiff rest. She genuinely didn't care if her father woke her up with degrading messages or a promise to visit her penthouse. She wasn’t going to sit by while Elliot degraded Harry for the sake of looking like an alpha. 

The familiar route back to the apartment whizzed outside the windows until a bright idea blinked in (Y/N)'s head.

"Wait," she chattered, sitting up straight in her spot, "Turn around. I have an idea." 

—————

The Eiffel Tower shimmered in front of them, warm dinner in their laps with a sturdy bench under. 

The lights of the attraction were reflected back on Harry's wondrous eyes, his food left to cool in his lap as he was too distracted with the sight in front of him. (Y/N) was the same though her gaze was on him.

"Worth it, right?" 

Harry didn't hesitate to pull his eyes from the Tower, casting his gaze to her with a lingering trace over her features. He paused on her lips for a heartbeat before he matched her eyes once more, the familiar beginnings of a lopsided smile touching the corner of his mouth. 

"Definitely." 

—————

(Y/N) barely bat an eyelash when she saw the heavy envelope as the only piece of mail in her box. She politely thanked the doorman before taking it back up to her apartment, already dismissing its contents despite the curiosity bubbling in her fingertips. She wondered what kind of photos would be inside. 

The media apparently hadn't caught a hold of any kind of story about her date. It'd been three days and there was nothing being posted online other than a random blog post claiming to have seen her dressed in red climbing into a black car. Nothing mentioned a romantic candlelit night, or a scorned billionaire cursing her name for embarrassing him. The only reason she knew her father was aware any of what transpired that night was because of a text he'd shuttled off to Harry, cementing that (Y/N) wasn't to go anywhere without him. (Quite the punishment, she'd joked). 

Otherwise, there was nothing out there about the incident, nowhere for this person to collect photos and scratch out a narrative. She also would have remembered seeing someone with a heavy camera in the empty restaurant, but she couldn’t recall a single moment a lens had been pointed in her direction, including the meal she and Harry indulged in by the Tower. 

Safely inside her apartment, the water running as Harry took his morning shower, (Y/N) took a risk and opened the flap to quell her curiosity. Inside glossy photos awaited.

While she never particularly enjoyed seeing photos of herself in this context, usually fluctuating between fear and indifference, she'd never been so unnerved as this moment. Given, she didn't typically open the letters sent to her, so she didn't have much to compare it to, but she had a feeling this was the worst that had even been sent her way.

Shining in the morning light, were photos of her from the moment she stepped out of her apartment to the time Harry took her home. She was a gleaming scarlet streak in every photo, some shots having been zoomed in on her body, on her legs, on her lips. This person caught her entering the restaurant, Harry conveniently cut out before the view shifted. Through the window, she had been caught with her glass of wine, blankly looking ahead at Elliot as he spoke of himself. This person had even caught her devising and executing her plan, the camera having craned and peered around every corner and every fixture to get even a small sliver of her form. This person followed her to the spot Harry picked her up, to where they sat at the Eiffel Tower with their dinner. Those shots were decidedly blurrier, taken from a larger distance, but it was still clearly the pair of them gazing at each other before gazing towards the Tower. 

Harry's face had been scribbled on in one shot, the same way Marc's had been in the package previous. 

She didn't dare to look at the words written on the back, already collecting what kind of narrative this person would force this time around. They seemingly were turning on Harry now, instead of just ignoring him. 

Leaving that single photo where it laid, with both she and Harry gazing skyward towards the point of the Tower, (Y/N) didn't have it in her to leaf through the rest of the stack. 

Suddenly, having missed the sound of the water cutting and the silence that followed, she heard Harry's bedroom door open, the swoosh of the air as he entered the common space. She scrambled to pack the photos back into the envelope, trying her best to not sprint towards her bedroom. Her hands shook as she gathered everything to her chest, the photos a messy pile she hid with her back facing the hallway Harry was emerging from. 

"Morning," he greeted her, his voice that low grumble it always was in the morning. 

"Good morning," she chirped out, her steps hastening that much more as she slipped inside her bedroom, the door open just a crack. 

"Did y'still want to go to the farmer's market today?" Harry called, his voice carrying as she lingered in the living room.

"Sure!" she trilled, wrenching open her vanity drawer, "Or—um—I was thinking we could finally visit the Lourve today, or whatever. I'm fine with anything!" 

Harry didn't respond then, (Y/N) only hearing her bubbling heartbeat pounding against her chest. Why did she think it would be easy to hide the letters under a pile of palettes? 

It took a handful more seconds before she had everything safely tucked away, the drawer being pushed shut before she sat back on her heels and breathed. That was a little too close, she decided. 

No more opening the letters if she could help it—especially while Harry lived with her. 

Peeking out of her bedroom decidedly more relaxed than when she went in, she swept a hand through her hair. "Did you have anywhere you wanted to go, though?" 

Harry stood with his back to her, his shoulders tensed and head bowed as he looked towards his feet. He didn't lift his head as she spoke, keeping her behind him.

A beat passed, still no acknowledgement. 

"Harry?" she called, stepping out from her bedroom entirely. 

Harry turned slowly then, revealing he was looking at a slip of paper in his hand, his brows in a furrow and lips set thin. 

Sunlight coming through the windows glinted off of the glossy coating of the page in his hand. Her heart dropped. 

"What is this?" 

Swallowing around her tongue, she tried her best to slip into a role she hoped would fool him. "What do you mean?" she asked, voice light despite the heavy pit in her stomach. 

Chancing a look at her for the first time since she left her room, Harry's eyes were sharp, a warning expression she hadn't seen since he pulled her from the pilates studio in New York. 

He held the photo up for her to see, showcasing a shot of her escaping through the back of the restaurant with a giddy smile and stolen dinner. 

"Who took this?" 

Her facade crumbled that much, sinking and sinking like her heart in her chest. 

"Um—I—I don't..." 

"(Y/N)," he warned, his voice low and lethal. He wasn't Harry at the moment, this was the man tasked with her safety who'd just found a secret that changed everything. 

"I don't know," she rushed out, deflating as she kept her eyes low so as to not match his own, "I don't know who took it." 

"Then, why do you have it?" 

"Someone sent it to me." 

A tick hugged the hinge of Harry's jaw, his grip on the page tightening. "What do you mean?" 

(Y/N) floundered then. Her mouth gaped with words she knew she wasn't going to say, the air sucked out of her lungs. Nothing wanted to roll off of her tongue—nothing would.

"(Y/N)," Harry sternly interrupted her swimming thoughts. His sharp tone matched his eyes. 

A shallow breath prickled in her lungs. 

She'd never had to speak on this before. There was only one other time she had gained the courage to confront the fact that someone was stalking her, sending photos and letters and expressing devout affection and depraved ideals about her. There was only once she had voiced these fears before, and it had been shot down immediately by her father. She was told to let it go and be grateful; she was meant to be happy that she had a fan, someone to admire her. 

She didn't want to be called crazy again. 

Because she wasn't, right? This was something anyone would be scared over, right? 

Taking her shaky hands into a bundle at her middle, (Y/N) tried to find the words. 

"I don't know who sent it to me, but it came with a letter and other pictures."

Harry stowed over her words for a lingering moment, (Y/N)'s shuttered gaze keeping her from gauging his reaction. For the first time ever, she didn't want to know what he was thinking. 

"Someone sent you pictures of you we don't remember being taken, and a letter," he reiterated, his voice a deadpan rumble as the story came together. 

She'd never heard these events spaced in someone else's voice. 

"Yes." When he didn't immediately say anything (Y/N) felt her blood pressure spike. "Harry," she tried, his name heavy on her tongue, "I-I wanted to tell you, I promise. I was going to, but my father—he... I thought you wouldn't..." 

Harry paced the room silently. He took his time before settling heavily on the middle cushion of the couch, the discreet photo of her being clutched in his grip. 

"Tell me now, then," he commanded, gaze fixed on the photograph, "I don't care what your dad said or what you thought before, this is something I need to know about." 

Her fingers were a fiddling mess as she stood still in the middle of the room. "I don't know where to start," she whispered. 

Fracturing his line of sight from the picture, Harry cast his gaze out the windows, taking in the skyline they'd called home for the better part of two months. His free hand landed heavily in his hair, nails grazing his scalp. 

"Start wherever—anywhere. I don't care, I jus' need to know." 

(Y/N) sucked in a shaky breath. She'd never felt so lost before. 

How was she supposed to wrap up years worth of ominous letters and unwanted photographs? How was she supposed to put it all in a story that didn't require them sitting here for hours and for (Y/N) to dissolve into tears more than a handful of times? 

"Is this the first one you've gotten?" Harry pressed, taking her silence for the need of guidance. 

"No." 

A heavy sigh lifted his shoulders. He finally craned his neck back to the living room with her, though he picked only a spot in the room to focus on. He didn't dare catch her eye, yet.

"When did they start?" 

Prattling around the timeline, (Y/N) tucked her bottom lip between her teeth. "A couple of years ago, I think?" 

Though his features stayed completely stoic, she knew there was something in her answer that had his shoulders tensing and nose flaring. 

"This person has been taking photos of you and sending them for two years?" 

"Kind of," (Y/N) reasoned, deigning herself to sink into one of the arm chairs beside the couch, her back stiff despite the inviting cushions, "I think sometimes they take pictures they find online since a lot of them match up, but sometimes it's like this one. I used to think they were selling stories and pictures to publications and posting them, but some of the stuff they sent started getting really weird a year ago." She took in a breath, thinking about the one piece of information that she hadn't the courage to read since the first time. "They send letters, too. About me." 

"Do you have them? The letters." 

"Only the couple that have been sent here." 

Harry's voice was low, seething, as he spoke, "Let me see them." 

Hesitating where she sat, (Y/N) stayed stiff in her position. She didn't want to grab the letters, honestly. She didn't want anyone to see them if she didn't even have the courage to fold them open. 

A niggling thought in the back of her head had her staying put: What if she was overreacting? What if Harry read these letters and saw what her father saw? That she was nothing but a paranoid, ungrateful girl. She wasn't sure if she could survive something like that. 

"(Y/N)," Harry started, his voice bringing her back to the surface of her swimming thoughts, "I'm asking as someone who's supposed to keep you safe. Please let me see these things." 

Her voice was quiet as she agreed with an okay. Her footsteps were the only thing that could be heard as she padded over the floor, going to her bedroom with the burning drawer being her destination. Rifling through the pile of palettes and trio envelopes hiding underneath. She collected them as if they were burning, her fingers gingerly grasping them. 

She blindly handed over the envelopes, sinking back into her seat as she felt her heart in her throat. As much as she didn't want to watch, she couldn't tear her eyes off of Harry as he paged through the photos. She barely registered the slideshow of photos as he leafed through them, already having seen the blurry shots and odd angles, the lengths this person went to just to capture a sliver of her body. 

"Have you read the letters before?" Harry asked, his voice low and calculating. 

"I did once," she explained, "But, after that, I never did again." 

Harry didn't waste a moment before he pulled out the letters, the blurry photographs now nothing more than a kaleidoscope of her face across the coffee table. She made a point to shift her eyes to him then, unwilling to really see the breadth of this person's admiration for her. 

(Y/N) looked on as he reached for the most recent letter first, his gaze quickly scanning over the page before he forced himself to grab for this next. The whole time, she watched as Harry reacted to whatever was typed on the page, the way his muscles bunched and his features flattened into something severe and angular. The way he pinched the paper became more aggressive, something tight flexing into his fingers. 

She chewed on her bottom lip, her curiosity peaking. "Wh-What do they say?"

It took a moment before he tore his glazed eyes from the page, flicking to meet hers through the fan of his lashes. "Do you really want to know?" 

Weighing her options, (Y/N) wasn't sure, really. "Maybe?" 

Harry shook his head, folding up the page before dropping it atop the others. "They... pay attention to you a lot. There's a version of you they like, and really care about. It's all they talk about." 

"What do you mean?" She worried her fingers in her lap, the edges of her acrylics being worn dull. 

Swallowing, Harry tried to keep a straight face as he looked over the evidence sitting in front of him.

"They really like you, and have decided they know who you are because of that," he tipped his head, taking in a sigh with his hands clenching and unclenching. "They're... This person isn’t right, (Y/N)." 

Her heart sunk at his words. The rising sun outside lighting the city while she felt the darkest she had in a long time. 

"It's that bad?" 

He didn't offer an answer, the pages in front of him now feeling like poison permeating through the room. 

The silence that sat between them felt like a third roommate, heavy and unforgiving. 

"Harry?" (Y/N) murmured, quiet compared to the silence, "What do we do?" 

A heavy hand was passed through Harry's curls, nails catching his scalp with his fingers messing the swirls. "I don't—," he breathed, shaking his head, "Fuck—I don't know." 

(Y/N) finally saw something cracking in him—that stoic facade that veiled whatever was bubbling on the inside beginning to slip. The uncomfortable feeling of having no definite way to get out of this situation rained down on him. She saw the way he peered out the windows of the apartment as if he would catch someone right then. She wouldn't put it past him to scour the whole place, hoping to ferret out anyone who could have slipped under their noses for so long. 

"Fuck," Harry murmured under his breath, the curse heavy on his tongue. His knee began to bounce where he sat. 

Swallowing around her dry throat, she didn't know what to say, what to tell him. While there was a part of her that felt vindicated knowing that he wouldn't react like this over nothing. This threat was real and not just something she made up in her head and used as a reason to be dramatic. 

The other part of her felt guilt over keeping this secret from him. He wouldn't have been blindsided if she had just followed her gut and told him from day one everything that was going on behind closed doors. Maybe he wouldn't have taken the job then (the idea stabbed at the soft parts of (Y/N)'s heart), but he wouldn't have been struggling as he was now. 

"Harry, I—I didn't mean to, I'm sorry," she tried, unsure of what she was saying or feeling but wanting to give him something. 

He waved her off, shaking his head with his unfocused gaze on the floor. "Why didn’t your dad want me to know?" 

"He said it was a waste of your time to worry about it," she explained, feeling embarrassed despite the fact she had nothing to do with her father's decisions, "W-When I told him about it, he said I needed to be grateful, that I needed to be happy that someone admired me enough to follow me and everything. He told me I needed fans like that since I wasn't very popular anyway." 

(Y/N) couldn't look away as Harry curled in on himself the longer she spoke. The knuckles of his clenched hands were a burning white, his shoulders heavy and broad. 

"I fucking hate your dad," he mumbled after a beat, his voice a seething breath, "So much." 

She looked at him with wide eyes for a moment. Then, she couldn't help the huff of laughter that pushed between her lips. 

She'd never heard anyone say that before—at least anyone that wasn't herself. It was relieving in a delirious kind of way. 

Because she fucking hated him, too. 

Harry looked up at her, something quizzical in his gaze. 

"Sorry, sorry," she got out in-between giggles, "I've just never heard anyone say that before about him—usually I'm the only one that sees him this way. It's—I don't know why I'm laughing, but." 

There was no room to continue with the way laughter began to pour out of her, eyes tearing at the feeling in her chest. The feeling that there was more than just herself on her side. 

A lopsided smile worked its way onto his lips as he watched her. "I've seen enough to know I hate him, don't worry." He shook his head, dimples thumbed into his cheeks. "I only keep this job for you." 

Despite the delirium fueled amusement coating the room, (Y/N) almost melted at the genuine way he spoke to her—spoke about her. He meant what he was telling her, without a doubt. 

"I really didn't mean to keep this from you," she told him once she settled down, a deep breathing inflating her lungs, "Before everything, I thought you were on his side, so I didn't want to waste our time. I don't think my father even wanted you to really be my security guard at first, so." 

"That's why y'said what y'said the first time I went to your place," Harry pieced together, gaze warm on her skin. When she only nodded her head, his gaze dropped down the column of her throat. "At first, I can't lie, I believed the things he told me and what I'd read about you," he acted ashamed to admit as much, "But, that was because I didn't know you. It didn't take very long to realize that you are very different from what everyone said.

"I hope you know that. If more people took the time to know you and used more than a fraction of their brain" he continued, conviction running under his words, "no one would believe those stories. The people who do know you, know that you're worth more than any of it." 

Maybe now wasn't the time, with a coffee table full of deranged letters and creepy photos of herself, but (Y/N) couldn't help the flutter of her heart in her chest. Harry, even if he was giving her a hard truth, was never anything less than genuine. He believed every word he was saying to her, and that made her want to believe it, too.

"Thank you," she smiled at him, the curl of her lips small and shy. 

Harry allowed his gaze to linger on her for a few moments more before he must have remembered the gravity of the situation as she did. He forced his eyes to land back on the matter at hand: the letters and photos dedicated to her. 

"'M going to take care of this, okay?" he murmured, all amusement draining from his tone, "'M going to do everything I can to figure this out and make this person stop, (Y/N). 'M going to keep y'safe." 

"I know you will," she answered in a heartbeat. There was no question in her mind about his ambition. 

(Y/N) allowed her gaze to wash over him as he focused on the photographs. She doubted Harry knew, but he was becoming her safe place. She trusted him more than she trusted almost anyone—more than Francesca even. A pressure in her chest developed the longer she sat with the realization. 

"Harry?" 

"Hm?" 

Suddenly her posture was stiff once more, bottom lip chewed swollen between her teeth. "Could—Or, I guess, would you mind—Can I hug you?" 

The mossy green of Harry's eyes, flecks of sunflower yellow, blinked up at her. She saw every minute expression on his features before they softened and curved into a gentle smile. 

"C'mere," he told her, leaning back against the cushion with his arms open. 

It was on instinct the way she moved, bundling herself into his arms with her legs curled up underneath herself. She was a ball against Harry's chest, his arms a forgiving loop around her body. His palms spanned the planes of her back, one between her shoulder blade and the other lower as he warmed her skin through the sleep shirt she was still wearing. With her head tucked into his neck, she felt him relax around her with his nose grazing the top of her head. 

She felt safe in his arms—forgiven, and trusted. He believed her more than anyone she'd ever known before. 

"I've got you, okay?" 

(Y/N) squeezed herself tighter to him.

—————

Taking her hand out of the UV lamp, (Y/N) settled a gentle palm on Harry's arm. 

"It's okay, H," she murmured, "You can relax." 

He was startled at her touch, his mechanical scanning of the nail parlour ceasing for a moment. 

"Sorry?" he muttered in response.

He'd been like this every time they stepped out of the house since he was clued in on the letters and photos. At the farmer's market, he was suddenly suspicious of anyone who dared to bump into her, any vendor who haggled with her for a moment too long, anyone who so much as looked at her with interest in their gaze. He had mistaken small black bags for high quality cameras, his eye constantly peering out for a lens pointed in her direction. Her pilates class was just a level below that intensity given that she wouldn't allow him to follow her into the studio, forcing him to wait outside with bated breath for her return. 

(When she had joked that she would keep an eye out for someone with a movie camera and a shirt with a photo on her face, he hadn't exactly laughed, but she thought it was funny).

It seemed the nail parlour was no different. The familiar techs and other staff who had begun greeting her after her second regular visit were now suspects in Harry's mind. No one was to grow too close to her, only her given tech when it was time for her appointment. Everyone else had to pass the wall that was her bodyguard before they had any hopes of even breathing in her direction.

"I was just saying that I'm okay, you can relax," she reiterated, squeezing his arm with her fresh set of nails glimmering in the light. 

"I know," he deadpanned, going back to surveilling the scene, "'M jus' doing my job." 

She tried to be gentle as she spoke to him, remembering the way she felt the first time she saw those envelopes of her photos. She had grown paranoid as well, double checking every street, every blurry face, every lingering interaction. She was nowhere near as comfortable with the information as she was now, and that paranoia was where Harry was currently living. 

"If you hadn't noticed them before," she reasoned, voice forgiving as her nail tech made the final touches on the set of cherries painted on her fingertip, "I don't think that's going to change now, and that's okay." 

Harry shook his head, a stray curl grazing his forehead. "I wasn't looking before. I am now." His words were definitive, the same way he spoke to her at her apartment with the photos strewn across the coffee table. "'M not going to let this keep happening, (Y/N)." 

(Y/N) didn't know what to say. 

It was still an odd feeling to have someone worry over her—someone who cared to the degree Harry was declaring. She didn't know what to do, how to act, under these conditions. It had always been her and her alone that carried these kinds of burdens. 

Reaching under the table, Harry settled his hand on her knee, the warm skin of his palm felt through the rips in her jeans. He gave a squeeze. "Let me take care of this. I've got it." 

Her nail tech tapped her hand too soon to inspect the paint before going under the light, forcing her gaze to stray from Harry's and the way his eyes glimmered over her features. Just before she looked away, she swore she saw his pupils dilate, honing in on the shape of her lips. 

—————

It took close to two weeks for the photos of her on her date with Elliot to surface, the angles and shots already familiar to her eyes. They were exact matches to that of the ones that were now carefully stowed in Harry's room. 

(Y/N) didn't exactly care about this specific leak, having expected it two weeks prior, anyway. Her father had to have known about all of the details of the ditch anyway, and if he hadn't said something already, he wasn't going to. She had nothing to worry about when it came to this story making its way to the press. 

Except for the string of international paparazzi that now seemed to make it their mission to follow her everywhere she went. 

She couldn't blame them, really. There was nothing that made ad revenue or sold magazines more than a tumultuous love life, so the hope of catching her on a date—a high profile one at that—was too enticing for many photographers to let go of. Whatever paid the bills, she guessed. 

That was why she wasn't particularly surprised to look over her shoulder and see a string of loitering paparazzi waiting outside the restaurant she had Harry had escaped to for dinner. She even recognized one from back home. 

She didn't try to cover her tracks too often while in Paris, just for the fact she was more unknown here than in New York, but that didn't always mean she went unnoticed. The idea of working through the small string brought her back to her drunken stumbling from the club. She hoped it wouldn't be anything like that. 

(Y/N) hadn't realized how long she'd been distracted by the peering cameras until she felt Harry's hand land on her own. Whipping her head around she found he had abandoned his crostini topped with melty brie to focus his attention on her. His eye contact was unwavering. 

"'S gonna okay, alright?" he soothed her, "'S only a few. Nothing we can't handle." 

"I know," she answered, curling her hand under his, "I just... Now that I've actually looked at some of the pictures being sent to me, I don't like seeing so many cameras on me like this. I don't like that they're taking pictures of you, either." 

Harry sat patiently listening to her, only pulling his hand away from hers to prop his chin up on a white-knuckled fist. Something always ignited in him when she mentioned the gifts from her admirer. His gaze skittered outside the eatery, silently taking in the faces of those smoking and loitering on the sidewalk. 

"You think it could be any of them?" 

The thought hadn't really crossed her mind. She figured it would be a good disguise, to blend in with people who would of course be carrying around cameras and would be looking for her on nights like these, but that didn't explain why she'd never seen a paparazzo-esque person trailing her when no one else was. 

"I don't know," she answered honestly, a small shrug lifting her shoulders, "The picture quality is always pretty good, so I guess it could be someone like that, but I guess I always kind of figured it's easier to follow me unnoticed if they were using their phone camera." 

Humming his acknowledgment, Harry didn't pull his eyes from her awaiting fans. While she didn't know everything about what his expressions meant or what was going on in his head, she recognized this moment. The gears were turning the longer he stayed quiet, a plan being laced together. 

"Do y'want to see if we can go out the back?" 

Considering the option for a moment, she ultimately turned it down with a shake of her head. "We'd still have to pop through the front to get to the car, anyway." 

"I can go alone and bring the car around for you?" Harry offered, trying to meander a way around the inevitable. 

"They know your face now, you know," she looked at him sullenly across the table. That was something she felt the most guilty over, taking away his privacy and splashing his face across the internet and whatever magazines chose to print him. While he wasn't always the target of the shots, he was a person of interest now. 

A beat passed, Harry returning his eyes to her with something softening behind the moss. "You really want to go through them?" 

"I don't think we have much of a choice," she laughed, the sound lacking humor. 

Harry looked at her with his features melting and curving into something soft—understanding. "We'll make it out jus' fine, alright?" 

The smile that tugged the corners of her lips was genuine. She didn't doubt him for a heartbeat. "I know." 

—————

After settling the tab with discarded plates full of the crumbs of brie-heavy crostinis, their dinner of appetizers being left behind, (Y/N) braced herself for the trek outside. 

"Ready?" Harry asked, looking to her intently as she cinched her jacket around her waist. 

"I think so," she nodded. It was now or never, no point in hiding out and sipping wine until they became bored around midnight. 

"I'll be with you," he murmured, just as he attached himself to her side, the waitstaff eyeing them. 

(Y/N) offered a quiet smile of thanks, feeling a bit exposed knowing they were watching so intently. She couldn't blame them—they had garnered quite a bit of attention tonight, it was practically a given.

Approaching the door together, she didn't think twice before she fisted her hand in Harry's coat, ensuring he stayed close to her as she dropped her chin to face the ground. Harry took that as his cue to wrap an arm around her waist, protectively leashing her to him. 

Pushing open the door with a stiff hand, Harry led them to the handful of waiting photographers. It was when she saw the pulsing lights bleaching the corners of her vision did she begin to regret her choice of putting her head down. This position could easily be spun into one of annoyance, and rudeness. That she thought she was too good to even look at these people. 

"(Y/N), (Y/N)!" a pair of the photographers began to shout as they followed she and Harry toward their car. 

(Y/N) kept her head down, ignoring the calls to her attention. She didn't need to give them anything, all she needed to do was follow Harry's guiding steps to get her out as safely as possible. 

"Okay?" Harry murmured, bending down to press his lips to her ear, drowning out the noise of her name and shuttering of cameras. The flashes went on faster at his intimate touch though he didn't let it stop him from soothing. 

Nodding her head, she could feel a small smile touch Harry's lips against her skin. 

"Almost there," he informed in a gentle tone, "Jus' gotta go slow so they don't try to chase us or get too close." 

"Thank you," she mumbled, fist in his coat unfurling until she pressed her palm against the line of his waist. 

"I've got you," was his simple answer back. 

She didn't have a moment to find comfort in Harry's words before an accented voice was shouting once more, unsatisfied with her ignorance. 

"(Y/N), are you a cheater?! Does your boyfriend know you went on a date with that old man?!" the photographer provoked, spewing out any word he could think of that might draw a reaction from her. 

(Truly, the one reaction he may garner is one of (Y/N) bursting into laughter after the declaration of Elliot being that old man. She couldn't have said it better herself).

While she detested the running rumor of the summer that she was a cheating, wicked woman, she wasn't going to let it get under her skin. She'd proven time and time again that Harry was her security official and nothing more, and there was no way this person would accept another dismissal of the theory. It was better to keep quiet and allow them to print about her deafening silence over the accusations. 

"(Y/N), we want to know the truth! Did you have another affair?!" The photographer pushed after only silence was offered, his camera now being shoved into her space as he gravitated a little too close. 

The rest of the string—including the familiar New York paparazzo—had seemingly taken a step back, photographing the new show that was emerging with their aggressive colleague. 

Harry pressed forward, quickening their pace in hopes of breaking away from them faster. He was stopped only when the man jostled (Y/N) at his side, his camera being shoved under her face as if he could catch a shot despite her evasiveness. That had her stumbling backwards, Harry steadying her as best he could before he was stepping up. 

"Give her some space, man. Back up," he sternly commanded, his arm a tightrope around her waist. Flashbulbs were going crazy over the interaction, catching (Y/N)'s blunder and the standoff that was appearing between the two men. 

Seemingly disregarding Harry's warning, the paparazzo tried again, sidestepping the wall that was Harry's blocking form. Maybe, he didn't understand, (Y/N) reasoned. English wasn't always the easiest language to understand even if you could speak it, especially given Harry's accent. 

"S'il vous plaît, laissez-moi un peu d'espace," she piped up, hoping the translation would blot out the grey area. Sometimes these people needed to be told before they remembered basic personal space standards and manners. 

This time, when he pushed through, once again asking (Y/N) if it was true that she's slept with all of her father's friends, that it was clear there was no language barrier pushing him to be disrespectful.

They were this close to the car, just steps away from allowing (Y/N) into safety and speeding away. Of course it could never be that easy.

Harry let go of her only for him to step in front of her completely, blocking the photographer from achieving any kind of shot. 

"Step back," he ordered, his voice a deep grumble as he enunciated every syllable, "Give her some space." 

The way the paparazzo reacted seemed less about getting pictures of (Y/N) and more about standing up to Harry. He scrambled around, reaching his camera over the breadth of Harry's shoulders as if to prove he could get what he wanted despite any kind of intervention. 

Inching slowly towards their car, Harry did his best to pave the way for (Y/N) to follow and slip away. Nothing seemed to deter the other man, however. 

"Step back," Harry ordered again, placing the palm of his hand flat against the other man's chest. 

While it wasn't necessarily a push, the force Harry gave behind his palm was enough to get the other man stumbling back. French profanities left the paparazzo's mouth as he tripped over his own feet.

This was Harry's opportunity as he reached around and grabbed (Y/N). She was quickly steered towards the unlocked car, Harry pushing her inside the second the door was opened wide enough to head in. 

Everything moved quickly then, the other paparazzi seemingly focusing on Harry and the way he conducted himself against the other man. He rounded the front of the vehicle and threw himself inside, the flash of cameras and a distant angry voice following his moves. 

Harry didn't waste a second before he peeled away from the curb, setting them away from the chaos. (Y/N) barely had the capacity to buckle herself in with shaky hands. 

That was worse than she expected, honestly. Never had the Parisian photographers been so blatantly disrespectful, shoving cameras in her face and asking ridiculous questions. 

This was the most physical Harry's ever been forced to be in front of her, most people heeding his size and station in favor of actually challenging him. 

"Are you okay?" she asked, the world whizzing past them with Harry's foot pressed deeply against the gas pedal. 

His knuckles were white around the steering wheel. 

"He wasn't listening." 

(Y/N) swallowed, spying the cutting angle of his jaw and the blaze in his dark eyes. Maybe she should have taken him up on his offer of bringing the car around for her. She could have avoided this whole thing if she wasn't so stubborn. 

"I wasn't sure if he could understand you at first," she shakily recounted, "but I told him to back off in French, too. I don't know why he didn't listen. He didn't hurt you or anything, right?" 

"'M alright," he answered, shaking his head with his lips rolling between his teeth, "I jus'... I don't like how people talk to you, (Y/N)." 

He flexed his hands around the wheel, the leather squeezing under his grip. She didn't know how to soothe him, what advice she could give. "You just can't listen," she told him, sharing the only thing she'd learned on her own through the years. 

A beat passed, nothing more than the feel of the tires grazing over the asphalt sounding through the cab. Harry twisted and turned, moving like an expert through the streets.

"I don't know how you do it," he told her, voice quiet and losing that edge he'd had gained outside the restaurant, "'S like there's a new lie every day—it makes me so angry. These people don't even know you and all they do is call y'names and think the worst of y'every chance they have. Why don't y'say anything?" 

It wasn't accusatory the way he asked her, even if he was frustrated. He was just one of those people who couldn't imagine what it was like to allow abuse from others without biting back. She wished she could be like that. 

"I guess I'm used to it," (Y/N) shrugged, feeling the backs of her eyes beginning to burn, "People have been taking pictures of me and saying things since I was in high school, so I don't think it bothers me like it's supposed to. I've learned it's a lot easier to let people think what they want because no matter what kind of apology or correction I make, it's never going to be seen or believed as much as whatever was said about me in the first place. I just have to be okay with it, and let what people say go." 

By the time she finished, she felt those tears well up in her eyes, stinging and hot. Every blink she gave trying to hold them back only jostled the pool, blurring her vision. 

"I don't like that you're used to this, (Y/N)," Harry answered, his voice feeling a level of mourning she understood. 

A joyless smile molded her lips into something uneven. She shrugged. "Me neither, but what can you do, right?" 

Tonight would spur something new in the media, photos no doubt being caught of Harry's altercation with the paparazzo and (Y/N) fully expected someone to have been able to secure a photo of her with these tears in her eyes. She could already imagine the kinds of narratives that would be built around these moments, the kind of things people would believe about them both now. 

But, what could she do, right? 

Silently, Harry unhooked a hand from around the steering wheel and gently laid his palm on her knee. The split in her long skirt allowed his skin to press against her own, fingers curling around the cuff of her knee in a comforting squeeze. He didn't have to say anything to let her know that he was there, he was here for her and he trusted and believed her more than anyone she'd ever met before. 

He didn't have to say it for (Y/N) to know that he really did care for her, even outside of what his job called for. 

Wiggling her fingers under his palm, (Y/N) hugged her hand to his. Her fingers filled in the gaps between his own, painted fingernails glinting in the city lights. 

Harry held her hand the whole drive home.

—————

As expected, two days after the altercation in front of the restaurant, a fat envelope full of photos and a letter she wouldn't read, arrived at the Paris penthouse. 

The media had already spread their own photos about, including shots of her tearing up on the car ride home, leaving her curious as to what the admirer was going to show her that she hadn't already seen. 

It was an odd feeling to not immediately go and ferret away the letter, to hide any evidence of the fact that his life wasn't completely normal. 

But, Harry needed to see this. If he was so willing to give her such trust and believe her without question, she was going to have to give him something back. 

"Is that another letter?" Harry asked from where he had emerged from his bedroom, the entrance to the hallway now full of his broad shoulders and scowling face. 

"Yeah," (Y/N) sighed, chest heavy. 

Moving towards her, Harry asked her carefully, "Can I see it?" 

She wordlessly handed it over. She didn't want to see the content anyway, especially seeing as the other was beginning to turn on Harry. She didn't want to see what kind of marking they left on the photos of him. 

It was a quiet ordeal, watching Harry pluck apart the envelope and peer inside. He scanned the photographs, seemingly the most upset when he reached shots of her crying in the car beside him. It was when he reached the letter that something shifted in his demeanor. 

He was always calm and collected, calculating each step and each reaction. But, she saw cracks then as he read the contents of the folded page. His cheeks were red, bottom lip cuffed between his teeth with nose flaring. He looked moments away from shredding the page apart himself. 

She was sure he would have if he hadn't instead indelicately folded it before slamming it on the kitchen counter. 

"We're not doing this anymore," he cemented, voice sharp and unforgiving, "You are not doing this anymore—putting up with this shit anymore." 

Leaning over the pile in front of him, he dropped his head into his hands, his fingers creating angry trails in his hair. 

"Harry," she started, her voice cushioning the sharp blow of his own tone, "I know it's hard, but I don't know if there's anything we can do about this. We don't know anything about who's doing this." 

"I don't know what to do," he grumbled, his hands tightening against his scalp, "But, I'm not letting this person take advantage of you and say these awful things about you any more. 'S not okay." 

She didn't know how to tell him that there wasn't anything that could be done to help her, honestly. That there was no way she could conceivably stop this person until they messed up and gave her some kind of information to get a restraining order filed. Until then, there wasn't anything that could stop them. 

"I know it's a lot," she tried, downplaying the same thing that used to give her nightmares when it first began, "But nothing really serious has happened, yet, at least. It's just another person taking photos of me, really." 

 "I don't like it!" Harry suddenly burst, whipping his head up to match her eyes with his own fiery gaze, "You shouldn't have to go through this! I don't understand why everyone thinks it's okay to degrade you, and mock you, and invade your privacy all because your shitty dad lets them! I don't fucking like it, (Y/N)!" 

In a final standoff with the rage bubbling inside, Harry swept his hand heavily over the counter, collecting every piece of evidence and splaying it across the floor. She was sure he wanted to do more, do anything to let off the steam billowing inside him, but there wasn't anything he could do without leaving damage on their home. 

Everything stilled then, the mess on the floor and Harry's breathing heavy in his chest. (Y/N) stood in the stark calm of the kitchen, watching with wide eyes and her hands a fumbling nest. She watched as he looked down at the mess of photographs and the despicable letter that set him off. 

"I don't know how to fix it." His voice was gentle like a whisper, matching the breeze that filtered through the city outside the window. 

Carefully creeping over the floor, bare feet padding over the tiled kitchen, she met Harry around the cooked counter. He didn't look up at her, even when she collected him into her arms and nestled him into a hug. 

"You don't have to fix it, H," she told him, mumbling against his skin as he slowly unfroze around her, "I don't know if this is something that can be fixed. It's just a part of my life at this point, and I don't want you to be upset over it." 

"I want you to be safe," he told her, voice thin when he succumbed to her hold and buried his nose into her hair and wrapped his arms around her just as fiercely. 

She could feel the hard planes of his chest pressed against her own soft curves, Harry fitting himself around her. Every breath he took was matched by her, his nose skimming the top of her head in a soothing pattern as if the motion were for himself only. He was furled like a tight rose, keeping a bumblebee safe from whatever was lurking outside the petals. 

"With you, I am." 

That had Harry pulling away from her then, his eyes matching hers with dilated pulls and a slack jaw. 

"You feel safe with me?" he asked, keeping his hold on her tight so as to not let her stray too far away. 

"Of course, I do," she smiled at him, her hands pressing into his back, "You're the only person that's ever actually been there for me. Like, you actually care." 

While her tone was lighthearted, encouraging, Harry was erring on the serious side. He didn't match her smile, his features left in softened curves and slacked muscles.

Every detail, every expression, every fine point of her was catalogued with his eyes. (Y/N) wasn't even sure if he was really breathing as he did this, the world having stood still the longer he gazed at her. 

When he finally met her eyes once more, the slightly pinch marred his brow, his eyes down turning into something gentle. 

"I do care about you." He swallowed, raspberry lips wet by his tongue. "I don't know when, but I don't think anything I've been doing has been because of my job for a while now." 

Heart hammering in her chest, she felt breathless looking up at him. She still saw that same beauty she spotted in her father's office all that time ago; the mole by his mouth, the sandy stubble on his cheeks, the spotting of freckles on his nose, the cut set of his jaw, the whirlwind of green in his eyes. There was something softer lingering now, something she never could have imagined landing on the face of her security guard. 

She found similarities in this moment to the way he had gazed so wondrously at the Eiffel Tower glimmering at night. He looked at her like she was one of the greatest creations in the world, deserving of romance and praise and commemoration.

"Really?" she breathed.

The way he nodded at her started out small, his gaze dipping to her lips before something frantic kicked in. "Really," he asserted, his hand on her back traveling up her spine and over the base of her neck, "Can I—Can I kiss you?" 

(Y/N)'s answer came in the form of her nose bumping his, mouth placed just off center, hands clutching at the soft fabric of his top. Harry seemed taken aback for a moment, stunned into stillness before he came to life under her kiss. 

The hand that had been traced up her back to the base of her neck turned into a steadying hold, allowing him to support her as he towered above. She tipped her head back as he slotted his lips between her own, kissing her top lip delicately despite the ravenous way he held her. The soft sound of sighs, lips parting and meeting again, filled the room. The very tip of Harry's nose grazed the apple of her cheek as he tipped his head, deepening their kiss with a taste of his tongue over hers. If not for the fact her eyes were already closed, she could imagine the kind of blissed expression she would show off for him. 

Pressing her back towards the kitchen counter, (Y/N) followed Harry's guidance, never pulling her lips away from his own. It wasn't rough the way he grabbed her, placing her on the ledge, only eager excitement flooding his movement. (Y/N) understood completely, immediately reaching for him once more after she was steadied and safe on the counter. 

Her thighs parted to let him stand between, his hands pressing against the round of her hips as he took advantage of his spot. It was (Y/N)'s turn then to clasp her hands around the back of his neck, feeling the baby hairs and heat of his skin. She sighed into his kiss.

She hadn't kissed anyone sober in so long, let alone someone she deeply cared about and who she knew cared about her as well. This put everything she'd experienced to shame. 

Harry put everyone else to shame. 

Happiness flooded her system. 

(Y/N) smiled against his lips, her hands going rogue in his hair as she slipped her fingers between the curls. Harry matched her with a clinging hold on her hips, a grin blooming on his features. He pulled away only when their mouths couldn't actually press together through the breadth of their smiles. 

"Happy?" he asked her, grinning lips just a breath away from her own with his nose nudging delicate against hers.

"Uh-huh," she sighed, chancing her eyes open just a sliver, just enough to see what he looked like when he'd just been kissed by her. Her hands in his hair roamed until they settled a warm hug around his neck. "You make me so happy." 

Harry drew away from her before she was enveloped in his hug once more. His face was in her neck, his arms a cushioned cage around her middle. She swore she could feel his heart beating in time with her own, both racing. 

The kind of silence that only fit when you'd just been kissed in the middle of Paris descended over the flat. This silence full of mushy feelings, lip prints, and synced breathing. 

"Even if I can't fix everything, 'm going to take care of you." His words melted across the column of her neck, the brush of his lips feeling more intimate than when he had helped her undress after the Gala. "I want to make you happy, sweet girl." 

Her eyes fluttered closed as he tucked her chin against her shoulder, cheeks stretched wide from her grin. "I know you will." 

Harry hugged her tighter. 

—————

retrouvailles is an untranslatable French word that describes the feeling of re-meeting someone, the joy of seeing someone you missed even if you didn't know you missed them before

eeeeek!!!!! thank you all so much for reading this part was def fun! sorry for any mistakes and please let me know if you have anything fun to share about the story!

[nataliasquote]

This Is Me Trying | n romanoff

Summary: Inspired by ‘this is me trying’ by Taylor Swift

Warnings: angst, break up, slight toxic relationship, alcoholism, glass smashing, no happy ending sorry

wc: 2.3k

note: happy TTPD countdown day :) thought it would be a good idea to post a Taylor fic before all I think and talk about for the next few days is TTPD 🤍

-⧗-

Some relationships are simply not meant to be. No matter how hard you force it, or swear that it will get better, the foundations were cracked from the beginning and no amount of work will ever truly fix them.

And as Natasha stood in the pouring rain, the wilting bouquet of flowers hanging limply by her side as you shut the door in her face, her resolve threatened to crumple like the cellophane in her palm.

She was convinced you were the love of her life. Days with you used to feel breathless and electric, a stark contrast to the strained atmosphere between the two of you now.

Natasha had tried everything. She gave her notice in at work, not just retreating to desk work but quitting all together, just for you. It was what you wanted, you’d made that clear. Your nerves couldn’t handle Natasha in that field for a day longer.

But that wasn’t enough; nothing ever would be. No matter what Natasha did, you were never going to work out. She quit her life for you, and somehow the rift expanded at twice the rate. Constant arguments and fights inevitably lead to an explosion of words that led to you storming out, the slam of the door rattling the windows in their frames.

You walked out that day and took a piece of her heart with you, leaving a broken redhead on her knees in the echoing apartment. Natasha began her free fall, not having work to consume every moment she had anymore.

How did Shield’s top agent drop so far behind that she was passed out on the couch mid afternoon, a bottle of vodka just out of reach of her fingers as her arm hung off the couch. Her hair was greasy, scraped back into a messy ponytail and her skin was blotchy as a result of her neglect.

When she wasn’t asleep, she watched her phone with her knees pulled up to her chest. It sat on the other side of the couch, the screen blank, and she almost bore holes into the glass from how hard she stared. Just willing a message to come through. A reply to the fifteen texts she’d sent you. One for every day you’d been gone, pouring what was left of her heart into an apology and promising to do better.

She thought she was the problem, her clouded judgment not allowing her to see that you weren’t all that innocent either. She never blamed you for being paranoid, working as a nurse in the busiest ER in the state had your nerves frayed anyway. Nevermind always being scared that you’d see your girlfriend on one of those gurneys, her name being added to a list of patients you’d lost under your care.

Fear made you cold and you took it out on Natasha. Did she deserve it? Absolutely not, but your words were out before you could stop them. The hot headedness between you both always clashed and on the nights you couldn’t solve it with heavy make up sex, at least one of you would be yelling whilst the other sat with their head in their hands.

Natasha didn’t know what she was doing when it came to love, you were her first and by the looks of it, her last. She was too hard on herself, and it hurt you to listen to the way she berated herself after a failed mission. But whenever her mind was set, there was no changing it. Harsh or soft, your words did nothing to change her destructive mindset and it was beginning to get to you. You wanted your home to be light, a place filled with love that you could return to after a horrible day. But instead it was dependent on how Natasha felt and whether you were going to be walking on eggshells that night or not.

But there was only so much creeping around you could do before your patience snapped. You didn’t mean to shout but it all happened so fast and suddenly there was glass everywhere and the last thing you knew you had grabbed your scarf and fled. Hands shaking on the wheel as you pulled up to a red light, pressing decline as Natasha’s name flashed up on your phone for the third time.

Twenty missed calls. Fifteen texts. Natasha was close to smashing her phone against the wall too. Her nose ran as she sat there, chin on her arm. Ears barely even registering the sound of the doorknob twisting or keys rattling in the door. She just wanted that message to appear, or even a phone call.

What she’d do to hear your voice again.

Heavy but tentative footsteps sounded down the hall before they stopped in the doorway of the living room. Natasha only looked up when a cough caught her attention, and the brunette in the doorway was certainly not who she was expecting to see.

“Y/n has gone to stay with her brother,” the woman began, her arms folded, unimpressed with the state of her friend. “Bucky told me everything that happened. Oh, and you look like shit.”

“Thanks, ‘Ria,” Natasha grumbled sarcastically, her voice low and monotonous. Maria walked over and grabbed her arm, surprisingly met with very little resistance as she pulled the redhead up off the couch and shoved her in the direction of the bathroom.

“I’m gonna clean up in here, you need to shower, and then we’ll talk.” Natasha went to protest but abruptly shut her mouth at Maria’s raised brow. “I’m moving past the fact that you haven’t called in about three months, so go, sort yourself out Nat. This isn’t like you.”

As the redhead trudged off to the bathroom, Maria collected up the empty bottles, shaking her head at the amount she found. How the same woman who had set records in Shield’s history and had the most prolific skill set she knew, had now drank herself into such a mess, Maria had no idea. Bucky hadn’t said much on your state but she doubted you were thriving either.

Once the living room was straightened out and all the bottles hidden away, Natasha emerged from the bathroom looking slightly better. She relayed the details from two weeks ago and Maria’s face fell at how Natasha barely kept it together. Her chapped lips trembled and her nails itched at the scars across her hands as she spoke, eyes looking everywhere but her friend.

“I still love her and it’s fucking terrifying,” Natasha cried, sinking her head into her hands as she hunched over her knees. “I’m not cut out for this love stuff, but I want it with her and now I’ve lost her. She won’t call, text, nothing, I’ve never felt so lost. I don’t even know what to do!”

“Nat, just breathe for a second or you’re gonna have a panic attack,” Maria interjected, leaning forward in her chair slightly ready to assist if needed. But Natasha just slumped back against the misshapen cushion and sighed heavily, zoning out on a bottle of whisky beside the tv.

“I’m trying, Maria. I’m really trying but she doesn’t want anything to do with me. What am I doing wrong?”

Maria shook her head and moved onto the end of Natasha’s couch. “You’re not doing anything wrong Nat, I promise. Ok, so the drinking was a shitty move, but at least you’re trying.” Her words seemingly fell on deaf ears but Natasha had heard her. And they resonated hard.

At least I’m trying… right?

“When was the last time you left the house?”

“I can’t,” Natasha croaked, her teeth chewing on her lip again. “I can’t go anywhere because all I see is her. It’s really fucking hard when every tiny thing is a reminder of her and what I’ve lost. Even the films, for god’s sake! I can’t even numb myself with tv because she’s somehow always there!” She gestured at the blank tv screen and came face to face with her disheveled reflection staring back from the black screen. “I’m sorry I missed your birthday, I tried-“

“It’s okay, birthdays happen every year. You’ll be there for the next one.” She gave Natasha a warm smile, and for the first time in weeks, Natasha felt her lips curl up slightly too. “I’m going to order takeout, and then you and I are going to watch a Bond film, no protesting. Give her time.” Maria spotted the phone on the table in front of her. “I’m also confiscating this or you’ll drive yourself insane.”

Natasha was too tired to protest, so she nodded blindly and let Maria drag her around. She didn’t admit it, but letting her mind drift away from Y/n for an evening was refreshing. Maybe she could do this. If she tried hard enough, life could be good again. She could work through it, toughen it out like she used to do.

After all, this was her trying…

But the same couldn’t be said for Natasha a week later. She’d woken up late and anxious, after a nightmare involving Y/n had shaken her to the core. She waited out the day with sweating palms but as the clock struck seven she couldn’t wait any longer. The weather was horrendous and heavy raindrops ricocheted off her windscreen as she drove to the grocery store, her eyes hazy in the streetlights.

Grabbing the first bouquet of flowers she saw, Natasha walked down the alcohol aisle to get to the checkout. But her eyes fell on a familiar bottle of brown liquid and she froze, almost dropping the flowers onto the floor.

The first bottle of whisky you’d ever bought her as a gift, the same one that was on the tv stand, now stared back at her on the shelf, the reduced sticker glaring bright. Without a second thought, Natasha grabbed it off the shelf and scanned it at the self service, her chest heaving as she fumbled with coins to pay.

The rain hadn’t eased up and her thin hoodie did nothing to stop the water from soaking into her skin. Her purchases lay abandoned on the passenger seat, the place you normally sat, as she weaved through the streets towards your brother’s house. She knew the way for emergencies and a single thanksgiving dinner.

But she didn’t get out of the car straight away, like she’d envisioned. The engine cut off and she sat in the dark vehicle, eyes trained on the front door like she willed you to come out and greet her. All the courage had suddenly fled from her body and she felt like curling up on herself like a scared child.

With a grunt, she grabbed the flowers, leaving the bottle discarded on the seat, and crunched across the stone driveway to the front porch, knuckles confidently knocking on the damp wooden door. Faint rustling could be heard and Natasha thought as though her heart would fall out of her chest and drop onto the ‘Welcome’ mat like a cat’s peace offering of a mangled bird.

The door opened. Natasha’s legs almost gave way when she finally saw your face, paler and a little thinner than it was before. She watched you take her appearance in, the soaked bouquet of flowers slightly crushed from their journey. Her mouth opened and closed, no words offering themselves up for her to use.

“I, um-“

“What are you doing here, Natasha?” You asked, voice cold. She wasn’t used to you talking like this to her, even if that’s how the last month of your relationship had been. She remembered the happier times and clung on to them for dear life.

“I just…” she trailed off, feeling so ridiculously hopeless. Maybe she didn’t quite know what to say, now that she was actually here. “I miss you- us. Look, I just wanted you to know that I’m trying, I really am, and I can do better. I want to make it up to you, please Y/n.” She held out the bouquet, feeling more like a teenage boy getting rejected by his crush.

Y/n’s conflict was so evident in her eyes, but she could feel her brother’s presence only meters away and she knew what he’d say if he invited Natasha inside.

It was too soon, and as much as she wanted nothing more than to run into her redhead’s arms, the smash of a plate still echoed in her mind and she couldn’t go through that again. Not yet anyway…

“I can’t, Nat, I’m sorry. I know you’re trying, I am too, but I can’t do this again.” Natasha’s eyes threatened to fill up with tears as she gulped. “Not yet. I’ll call you when I’m ready and we can talk. I’m really sorry.”

You didn’t mean it, but you had to shut the door before she saw your tears fall. It barely fell into the lock before you sank to the ground, shoulder against the door as tears streamed down your face. Seeing her face hit you harder than ever before and you wanted to run into her arms, feel her and smell her around you as you promised everything was going to be alright.

But it wasn’t.

And as Natasha trudged back to her car and leaned against the locked door and the rain beat down on her fragile body, she let out the most heart wrenching sob. The flowers dropped onto the soaking asphalt as she pulled her arms tightly around her body, trying to mirror the comfort that your hugs used to provide. She didn’t even care that she’d probably get sick from the rain, nothing mattered anymore.

Nothing mattered but you, and your name fell from her lips as she cried, tears mixing with the raindrops. She didn’t know you were crying out for her in Bucky’s arms only meters away, wanting another chance.

You wanted to try again, all for her.

[chibsandchill]

Stolen moments under silk sheets (SFW version)

Fandom: HOTD (House of the dragon)

Pairing: Aemond x AFAB!reader

Summary: Aemond is touch starved. That’s it. That’s the whole story. Kind of. 

Masterlist

My requests are open! 

NSFW version here!

Warnings: Including but not exclusively slivers of angst sprinkled here and there, fluff, obsessive behavior, obsessive thoughts, descriptions of metaphorical self-harm, very brief mentions of the dance and the events that happened (some canon divergence), Aemond is his own warning, canon typical themes, the beginning is a bit slow, grammatical and spelling errors (English is not my first language)

I am not responsible for your media consumption 

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

The roses in your garden have begun to wilt. Summer is leaving, and winter claims all, but you remain untouched by the darkness that crept ever closer with each passing cycle. Your roses may have lost their vibrant colors but your face remained as bright and beautiful as ever. You thrive even in desolation – the harsh winds cannot steal the warmth from your cheeks or the spark from your eyes. 

“And you say you do not care for gardening, my love.” 

He’s almost startled by your presence, but since the war very little caught him off guard. But that look in your eyes? The overwhelming affection? That was something Aemond reckoned he would never get used to. And yet he could not get enough, you had awakened a beast inside him that fed and craved all things you. A smile did not satiate him like it used to, a night spent together felt like a fleeting moment spirited away by vengeful gods. 

Aemond hums. “Your passions are my passions.” 

You wrap your arms around his waist, resting your face on his shoulder. He felt, in that moment, as if he was standing on jelly, his knees threatening to buckle and his spine like liquid. There was not enough of you pressed against him. He felt burning hot and freezing cold at the same time, his skin crawling with want and desire. 

“Clever.” You chuckle into the crook of his neck. Aemond shivers as your warm breath hits the sensitive skin there. 

“Did I wake you?”

His words are a whisper. Soft and with underlying guilt. You do not sleep well anymore, not without him. Too much has happened. The death of Jaehaerys proved that there is no sanctuary that cannot be breached, not a lock that cannot be broken, and not a part of you that will not suffer.  

You shake your head. 

“Liar.” 

“I was already awake. I like to…” 

“Hm? There is no judgment here.”

There was not an inch of you that he would part from – not a sliver of you he would not take, and not a piece of you he did not dream of devouring. The opposite was also true, for he craved to be taken, to be devoured and kept more than he ever dreamt of possessing. Aemond would have all of you, had woven that promise into the very fabrics of your marriage, embedded the words as if they were a spell into his vows, and oh, how sweetly you had smiled upon hearing them. He doubted you heard them for what they truly were. Are. 

“I watch you,” you confess, “when you sleep. You look so… so peaceful. The war has yet to poison that.” 

He blinks. Seconds tick by, but Aemond is too busy staving off the greedy blush from turning him red to respond. He is unable to respond, truly, even were he not practically glowing at your words. Words clump together on his tongue. 

“I should speak to the Housekeeper then,” Aemond clears his throat, “ if the room is so lacking you need to resort to staring at me. Though, perhaps I should thank her for her oversight that surely allows you to fall asleep quickly.” 

The corners of your lips fall, barely, but there is nothing about you he does not notice. There is nothing you can hide from his greedy eyes. 

“Twas a compliment, husband.”

“Perhaps a visit to the Maester is needed-”

You press a hand flat against his cheek and he falls silent. Your thumb brushes across his cheekbone to the apple of his cheek, to under his eye. There it rests, caressing him. He wants more. Your touch is only skin-deep, and it is not enough. If he could, he would press himself against your skin until all that remained of him was fading heat. Until he was but a faint whisper on the wind and his memory lived on only in you, for there was not a part of him he did not wish to give you. He would carve a place for him in you – in your heart, so that he would be close always. You would beat as one, breathe as one.  

“Yours is a beauty that the gods go to war for.”

“Perhaps once.” Aemond looks away. 

“Scars are stories of hardships overcome. They are marks of victory, do not think they make you less. They never will. Not to me.”

“Perhaps so, but I am not whole. There is a piece of me that was stolen and I can never get it back. The gods would not even glance at a man such as I for anything other than a feat of greatness.”

“And you have shown them many,” you press a short kiss against his neck. “You claimed the Queen of all Dragons,” another kiss, “you won many battles on dragonback,” another kiss, “you showed mercy to your enemies,” a series of kisses follow that claim, all inching up his neck. “You saved your brother and Sunfyre,” a kiss on his cheek, “you were crowned King by the smallfolk”, this kiss fell on the corner of his lips, “and you have been a most attentive husband.” 

A kiss straight on his lips. Aemond melts into it, pressing himself into you. You pull away too soon and he finds himself chasing after you, desperate for one more touch. 

“The gods give the toughest battles to their strongest soldiers.” You thumb the skin under his eye, “and you have won them all. Take pride in that. Gods know I do.”

“You do?” He asks. 

He did not think himself strong, or a champion of god given battles. His weaknesses tower over the oasis of strength, and so they are hidden to him. But he is not a vain man, that is not why he hates Luke for stealing his eye. 

You smile. “Of course. And I think all the beauty in the world fades compared to yours. Scars and all.”

Aemond is not sure he believes your words, but he believes you. It is a conflicting mess of jumbled thoughts mingling with the words of others. He was never the beauty of the family, his dragon was not the beauty of her kin. His life was one of hiding, of pride hidden beneath compliance, of hatred festering under blushing skin. 

“You flatter me, my love.” He says before his eyes wander back to your roses. “Yours is the only opinion worth hearing. The only one that matters.” 

You hum. “Come back to bed, Aemond.” 

“As my Queen commands.” 

The draping curtains flutter in the soft autumn wind, and from Aemond’s side of the bed he could see out across the Blackwater Bay. Sometimes when the wind is harsh and the rain plenty, Aemond is back in the skies above Storm’s End. He dreams of thousands of ways he could have saved Luke, though he does not wish he lived, not truly. In some dreams he thought of ways he could harm him further – truly punish him for what he took from Aemond that night. 

You can never have all of him. Not anymore. Though he dares not tell you that is why he cannot look at himself in mirrors. He would not show you the twisted being that hid under his skin. The one that would gouge out his other eye without hesitation were you to ask and smile as he did so. 

He could never, would never forgive Luke for what he stole from you. It is a hatred so woven into his very being that he would carry that with him even in all Seven Hells. 

“Come,” you beckon, kneeling on the bed. “If my words alone are not enough, I will prove it to you.” 

“Prove what?” 

His voice is low, filled with desires transcending earthly flesh. His is one of hunger for your very soul. 

“Come here and I will show you.” Your smile is coy, playful even. There are half-wilted petals from your roses on the bed behind you. They form no pattern, haphazardly thrown across the sheets.

He wonders when you put them there. 

Aemond comes to a stop in front of you, hands clasped behind his back, posture ramrod straight. He feels as though he is standing in front of the gods themselves, awaiting judgment. He hopes that he is enough, even if he cannot offer you all of him. There will always be a piece of him enduring the times alone. 

He does not feel worthy of you. No amount of petals carefully gathered off prickly stems will soften the harsh edges of his being. The love he grew up around was conditional, and though he was rarely struck, their words were as sharp as daggers, and left deep scars that will never heal. It left him jagged, bleeding, tearing at the seams with a beast untamed. In the image of you he tried to mend himself, with your love he patched the holes left by cruel words. He tore the flames from his breath so that his wrath could never burn you, the claws from his hands so that his touch would always be gentle. Not a piece of him was worth suffering in the absence of anything you. 

He was a dragon playing at being a lover. 

But he broke his wings for just a glimpse of you, then forced himself to fly when you desired to feel the wind against your face. You could not see the darkness oozing from the cracks of him, of your husband as you knew him. 

If it meant losing you, he would be a dragon no longer. 

He could simply be him. 

Aemond. 

But Aemond knew not who he was anymore. He knew who he was forced to become, and who war made him. But war was no longer, and yet the man rising from the ashes of his kin’s pyres remained. 

“Aemond?”

“Yes?”

“Where do you go when you get so lost in your head?” 

He does not wish to reveal to you how deep his longing for you goes. It is etched into the walls of his heart, it is a bottomless pit that calls only your name. He can never fill it. It aches and aches, and he longs and longs. His envy knows no bound, it is endless in its hunger for you. He would have all of you if he could, just as he wants you to have all of him. Every thought in your head, every feeling, every sensation. 

“Lost. I get… lost.” He confesses. The words are raw and a piece of his armor is cracked open to reveal mangled flesh of all Aemond’s that has been and will be. His recreation of himself in your image is as endless as his need to please. 

“Oh, my love,” you whisper. “Let me take care of you.”

You reach towards him, pressing your hands flat against his pecs. His heart beats like a drum against your touch, as if calling out for you. Your fingers massage, they scratch, they soothe and they burn his feverish skin. You palm at his chest, touching every divot and lean muscle on his chest. It is overwhelming. He almost feels like crying. Your touch sets him alight and Aemond thinks he sees stars. You are so very soft. He can feel your love through every pass of your fingers over his skin. Though half-lidded, jaw slack and chest heavy, he stares at you. Pleasure of the flesh is second to the connection he finds in your eyes. The reverence of a septon to the gods are nothing compared to that which he whispers your name. You are a goddess to him. 

You press against the lean muscle, caress the slopes and divots of his flesh. Though you have long since memorized each other’s bodies, you touch him as if it is your first. His mind is dizzy with you, he feels as if he’s falling and drowning at the same time. The pleasure fills his throat, his lungs, and yet it also sweeps him off his feet, knocks the breath out of his chest. He wants more. He wants you to press harder, to mark him. You could press through his skin, through his muscles and ribs, and grasp his very heart, and you would still be so far away he wanted to weep. 

Then, you pull away. You crawl up the bed until you fall down on the many pillows at the top of the bed. He follows without thought, kicking off his shoes and socks. His hair tie is next and his pale hair falls down his back. You are not prey, and he is not a predator, but he feels a thrill chasing after you into your marital bed. It sets his blood alight.

“Yours is the beauty gods would die for.”

His eyes rove over you. Not an inch of you is not perfect, not an inch he did not love. All of you on display for him; an offering for a vengeful man. You are not unmarred by the war, and there is not a scar he does not kiss. He feels your pain as if it was his, and each wound on your body is his failure. 

“We match,” you told him once. 

He did not have the heart to tell you that this was done in your honor, to take the pain from you and deliver it upon him. He cut himself open for all the gods to see, then demanded they scar him as they did you. 

Aemond runs his hands along your form with the same careful love as you did him. His hands caress the skin on your ribs, before laying flat over your heart. It pounds against your skin, calling out to him. His beats in turn. 

It trickles down the abyss of his desire, and in turn it grows. The hunger deepens, hollows out his chest. 

Aemond falls down next to you, pulling you into his arms. Your head rests in the crook of his neck. 

“I love you,” you whisper into his ear. 

“Not as much as I love you,” he says in return. 

You laugh. “‘Tis not a competition, husband.” 

“No.” He agrees, with an easy smile. It is the truth. 

Aemond had won the war, and he had proven himself. And so he would never part from you again, even were the gods to try and force him from your side. The threads of your destiny are weaved together into one singular past, present, future. 

His beauty may be what gods fought for, 

but Aemond? 

Aemond would fight all the Gods, both old and new, 

for just one more stolen moment under silk sheets. 

[rafeyscurtainbangs]

Please Please Please - Rafe Cameron Short Story (Part 6 of 6 Final Chapter and Epilogue)

Bonus smut chapter is complete - making final edits now 💕

+18 Minor DNI

Older MobDealer!Rafe x Female Reader

⭐ NEW DROP ⭐

+18 Minor DNI

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

🪄 Warnings contain spoilers: blood, cheating, swearing, name-calling, threats, soft!rafe, mentions of killing partner, kissing, general violence, guns, fighting, ownership kink, mention of drugs, stabbing, murder, major character trauma, pet names.

📖 Loosely based on the song and music video Please Please Please by Sabrina Carpenter 💕

✨ “You are. You think I’m gonna believe that line of shit. ‘Bout her lyin’ to me? About you beating the livin’ shit out of her to throw me off? ✨

Reader’s POV:

You roll into the parking lot, unable to fight back your smile. The week was long, but the phone conversations with Rafe held you over just enough. The jail in Charleston wasn’t as lax as Kildare County. Understandably, Rafe did not want to push his limits, leaving the phone conversations shorter than you’d hoped they’d be. Until Rafe was out and everything was taken care of, he didn’t want you to leave the penthouse, which meant no face-to-face visits, leaving you craving him even.

Rafe ensured you were taken care of: additional security, groceries sent over, dinner brought by every night, fresh-cut flowers when he thought the old ones had wilted. Rafe had the G-Wagon scrubbed and triple-checked for any additional trackers placed or bugs planted.

He paid a hefty fee to have the cops delete a single recorded call between the two of you. Rafe wanted to know what happened the night he had gotten taken away by the officers. He wanted to know what Tony had said in the voicemail, and what happened between the restaurant and the penthouse. Everything was awful, but the voicemail conjured up the most fury. Rafe dissected each word, dragging Tony; your ex’s vile words just added fuel to the fire, like he needed any more. Rafe was very conscious with his words, careful not to incriminate himself further, emphasizing the importance of the business meeting, and that he was looking forward to it even more now.

Of course, given the situation, you couldn’t ask about Tony. His well-being wasn’t the concern, just curiosity. Where was he? Where did Barry take him? It’s been seven days… He must be well-hidden, or his boys would have found him by now. There’s no way he’s dead… Rafe would never allow Barry to take that pleasure away from him.

A conversation— it’s never a conversation with these men, even more satirical after watching how the first one unfolded. If Tony had been there, this would have been over. Maybe this is how it was supposed to happen. I’m sure Rafe has a few things he wants to say to Tony before he pulls the trigger. There are so many things I want to say to him. I wish I could have been strong enough to take the call at the bar. His words have done nothing but haunt me. But maybe I was meant to hear it too… Any fraction of guilt I had about my choices were eliminated in an instant.

The door of the jail fans open, just like it did the week before; Rafe all smiles once again. He bites his lip as he walks to you, taking you in like it's the very first time. Rafe shakes his head in awe as he looks down at you, clearing the space between as you do the same. You jump into his arms, hugging him tightly, burying yourself in his neck. He kisses wherever he can, mumbling against your soft skin about how you're the prettiest thing he's ever seen and feelings mutual. Seeing the beautiful man before you, paired with all the lovely things he did brings nothing but tears and emotion. “I love you, Rafe. I love you so much,” you snivel.

“Mmm…” He hums happily, taking his turn kissing up the column of your neck to your ear. “I love you, princess.”

You pull back and smile, eyes locked. His ocean eyes shimmer with happy tears as well. Rafe’s gaze falls to your lips, his focus like a magnet pulling you in. Your arms wrap loosely around his neck as he cradles you in his embrace. Rafe backs you against the car, deepening the exchange. Your tongue swirls with his, lips moving in perfect harmony. He smiles along your mouth, nuzzling his nose against yours. “Damn, I missed my girl.”

Rafe grips the steering wheel, the other hand resting on your bare thigh. His gold chain twinkles on his athletic chest, poking slightly out of his black fitted polo. It had taken everything in your power not to pull him into the back seat after watching him change out of the button-down he walked in with, still sprinkled with blood from the club. He looks at you with a smirk, catching you gawking, loving every second of your attention. “It’ll be a short meeting. Aight? Think you can wait?” He teases, making your cheeks warm up as you fight back a dizzy laugh.

“Honestly, I don’t think I can.” You take his hand in yours, lifting it, kissing his fingers one by one. “I still have to thank you, baby.”

Rafe releases a lusty laugh, relaxing in his leather seat a little more. “Trust me, princess. I have not forgotten. I've thought about it every night. But, a ‘thank you’ is not necessary… I love takin’ care of you, and I always will.” The car speeds past the town’s welcome sign, barreling toward the Atlantic.

“Where are we going?” You ask.

“You’re droppin’ me off at the beach house, baby. You can head over to Tanneyhill. I’ll meet you there when I’m done, and we can get out of here. How does that sound?” He smiles. You clear the lump in your throat, trying to focus on the question Rafe is asking, but your mind is fixated on the rest of his words. Rafe wants me to leave? “Baby?” he asks gently. 

“I’m dropping you off…” You question uneasily. “Don’t you want me to come with you? Don’t you need me close by?”

The muscles in Rafe’s arms flex as he tightens his hand around the steering wheel, shaking his head ‘no’ as he narrows his sights on the road. “I don’t want you to see this, princess,” he responds levelly, his eyes landing on yours.

“Couldn’t Barry take care of him?” You invite without thinking. Rafe’s brows knit tightly, a puzzled look pulling on his beautiful face.

“No… Why, baby?” He asks, trying his best to keep his compass on the road ahead.

“I don’t know,” you answer hastily. “I just don’t - I don’t know.” Your stomach sinks, uneasiness setting in. After everything that Tony has done and said, he’s better off dead, but thinking about him dying at the hands of Rafe mere minutes from now had your heart racing. I can't help but think about the fact that he bamboozled Rafe not once but twice. He would have walked into an ambush at the strip club without me there… He had no clue the drugs were planted in the Mercedes. “I don’t know!”

“What don’t you know, exactly?” He asks as he pulls up to the beach house, sailing into the driveway, pulling between a vintage BMW and the white van that Tony got taken away in. Rafe turns toward you, demanding your attention. “Are you having second thoughts about this?” He questions, his words dripping with accusation.

“No!” You gasp. “I - I just. I don’t know, Rafe. I’m just freaking out. Okay?” You whimper as tears start to cloud your vision, your anxiety about the situation making your mind muddled.

“Do you want him to live?” He asks. It’s hard to place his tone; Rafe at the junctions between perplexed and agitated, his frustration with you clear in his body language alone.

“Of course I don’t. I want this to be over with,” you blubber.

”So do I, princess. And we talked about this before. It’s not going to be me and you if he’s here. Do you want it to be me and you-”

”Yes!” You cry out before he can even finish his sentence.

“Don’t think about it then, Aight? Let me handle business. This is why I don’t want you in there. I don’t want this on your conscience. I want to handle this for you. And we will never talk about this again. Okay?” You nod in silent agreement, but he shakes his head ‘no’. “Words, baby.”

“Okay,” you whisper.

Rafe leans in, kissing you softly. You cup his cheeks in your hands, running your thumbs along the stubble that’s grown on his face since confinement. “I’m sorry for doubting you, Rafe, but things keep goin’ wrong. Tony keeps getting in the way. I don’t want him to hurt you. I don’t wanna lose you.”

He melts into your touch, looking at you with adoring eyes. “You’re not gonna lose me. And he’s not gonna hurt me. All right? He’s strapped to a chair. He has been for a week. This is just a matter of me lookin’ him in the eyes and letting him know that he will never get to hurt you again. Yeah?”

“Okay, baby,” you breathe as Rafe catches your tears with his thumbs.

“I love you, y/n. It’s all going to be okay.”

“Okay… I love you too, baby.”

“I know you do,” he whispers. “Once I close this door, I want you to drive. Understand?” He asks as he opens up the navigation on your phone, pulling up the address to his home in Figure Eight. “Remember what happened last time I told you to leave but you stayed an extra two minutes. You gotta listen to me,” he asserts.

“I’ll listen.”

“Promise?”

“I swear,” you whisper.

Rafe grabs the handle of the driver’s side door, pushing it open before walking around the front, helping you to your feet. His arm wraps around your waist, leading you to the other side. He hugs you tightly, pressing kisses on your forehead and cheeks before landing on your lips, kissing you one last time.

“Just a conversation,” you whisper.

“Nah,” he breathes. “Not this time. I love you, princess.”

“I love you too, Rafe.”

Your hand holds his as he steps away until your fingers lose contact. Rafe reaches behind his back just as he did the night you walked into the club, checking the pistol tucked into his waistband before falling out of sight. You step into the driver’s seat, wrapping your hands around the steering wheel, still warm from Rafe. You grab the shifter, putting it in reverse, fighting against the impulse to wait in the wings ‘til he handles business, just in case he needs to flee. This man gives and gives. He has barely asked me for anything in return. Just leave. You roll out of the drive, pressing down on the gas.

Rafe’s POV:

“Barry?” I bark, my voice bouncing off the walls of the beach house. Rap music swells from the basement, the dank smell of weed hazing the place. My aggravation starts to mount; a SOLO cup crushes under the heel of my dress boot, just one of many. Empty liquor bottles and beer cans litter the counter, takeout food strewn across the tables, thongs, stripper heels, and a few stray lines of coke left cut on the counter. “I’m gonna kill him,” I curse his name under my breath as I bound toward the basement door.

I tug it open, my heart plunging as I see a pool of blood gathered on the floor. Shit. I catch my gun, heart banging as I race down the flight. “Oh, fuck… No. Sh-Shit. Barry?” I stutter as I run toward him, his white tank top drenched crimson red. His dark eyes lift momentarily, falling heavy the next. I catch his shallow breathing, leaning in close as he tries to mumble out a few words, quelled in blood.

“Tony?” I ask, watching as he gives me the slightest nod. This blood is fresh. He’s here.

BANG.

I draw my gun again as the door at the top of the stairs bangs shut. Here we go… I sprint toward the wall, half-hidden, listening to his heavy steps as they move closer and closer.

“You hidin’ from me, Cameron?” Tony’s voice cuts through the hush. “That was an awful lotta coke. You come to pay up? Or, did you just come to take somethin’ else from me?” He booms as he steps out, footing right past me.

He looks like shit. His white button-down shirt tattered and bloodied on his large body; Tony’s donning the same worn-in beard as me after his week of imprisonment in the basement. The fucker got the shorter end of the stick apparently, beaten to the edge of death, Barry doing all but killing the bitch.

I check his hands, breathing a sigh of relief; no gun. I adjust my mine as I see a weapon, however, a large kitchen knife clutched in his massive hand. End this. I find his head in my crosshairs, aiming my pistol at his skull, gritting my teeth, battling with the rational part of my brain that’s tellin’ me to fire. The irrational part of my mind yearning to feed my pride and tell him everything I wanna say for her… Tony bends around, smiling with blood-stained teeth. Shit.

“You gonna shoot, Cameron? Or you gonna just stand there like a pussy,” Tony spits.

“We got some shit we need to talk about first. Hmm?”

“You wanna talk about my girl-“

“My girl,” I stop him as I step a little closer, making him shake his head in disbelief, snickering cruelly as he looks back at me.

“Yours? Your girl? Since when exactly. ‘Cause she never said shit to me. Do you honestly think that she loves you? Are you that fuckin’ stupid?” He asks as he rolls up his sleeves, preparing for a fight.

“I know she loves me,” I grunt as I square up with him.

“You think she’d leave me? It was our plan for you to die at the club. She knew it. I knew it. You were just supposed to walk in.”

”You’re lyin’,” I spit.

“Am I?” He smiles again— that same wicked and crazed smile; punch-drunk after a week of torture. “You know I’m not, Rafe.”

“You are. You think I’m gonna believe that line of shit. ‘Bout her lyin’ to me? About you beating the livin’ shit out of her to throw me off? You think I believe you you’d actually let me fuck-”

”ENOUGH!” He thunders, his loud, deep voice making my muscle tense up. “Don’t finish that FUCKING sentence. Because how hard you make this is how hard she's gonna get it after I KILL you. You understand?”

“You can't even let me finish the sentence, Marietta. You can’t even let the words leave my lips,” I chuckle. “Ya know, about fuckin’ “your” girl, on the couch of your club? That same couch you fucked some stripper on. You think I believe that you’d actually let that happen? She ain’t in on this, Tony. This is you losin’ her and settin’ me up.” He steps closer and so do I, the pair of us level-eyed.

“I’m not lyin’. That women would do anything for me. And, at the end of the day, even if I am lyin’, she’d only want you for your money, Cameron. I’m man enough to admit you got more than me— new money and old money in your pocket. She saw an opportunity and took it. She’s either in on this or in it for the cash.”

“She’s not after my money,” I mumble as I try to keep my emotions at bay. “She’s not in on shit.”

“‘Course she is… Your head is just too far up your ass to see what’s really goin’ on around you. N’let’s just say my baby isn’t in on this with me and she just after your money and she finds someone else with more, buddy, you’re fucked. ‘Cause if you get what you came here for and you kill me, everything in my name goes to her: all of the hard earned money that I made that she loves to spend, the club, the law firm, my cars, my jewelry, my homes. Everything that I have she takes from me. And she knows that. You gotta see what’s goin’ on here. Right?” He asks as he looks back at me like I'm stupid.

“You’re pathetic.”

“I’m pathetic?” He chuckles. “You know before your boys picked me up, I was on the way to fuck my girlfriend in that pretty little penthouse you bought her. She even sent me a few pictures in that pretty pink lingerie. You know, the one she was describin’ for you on the phone? Fuck, Rafe. You should see it on her. My princess doesn’t just talk a big game. She knows how to fuck,” he sneers as he catches me battling my emotions. “Why don’t you go look at my phone. Pretty sure it’s in his pocket. You can see for yourself.”

My stomach falls as I hear the door crack at the top of the stairs—one step then another, as the person at the top creeps down. No. No. Tony hears it as well, the man looking over my shoulder with a smile. “Guess who’s here, Cameron,” he whispers. “Princess?” Tony softens his tone with her, the sound of y/n’s slight feet stopping in a flash.

Was this her plan all along?

I scrunch my nose; eyes burning with tears of deceit and rage. There’s no way the story he’s spinning is true. If he kills me, and he’s lying, what will happen to her? I can’t take that risk.

I shove him hard, making him stumble back, kicking him with the heel of my dress shoe square in the chest before he can rise back up to his feet, sending him and the knife to the ground. I hear her soft gasp; her feet quickly clearing the rest of the steps. “Don’t move, y/n,” I bark back at her.

“Rafe?” She whimpers, making me look over my shoulder. The second I do the air flees my lungs, Tony’s big body tackling me to the floor. My skull ricochetes off the hardwood floor; eyes slamming shut in pain, losing my gun in the process. I overpower him, rolling him to his back, grabbing his shoulders I lift him slightly, bashing his head against the ground again and again making him scream out in pain.

He scratches and claws at my face and shirt as I wrap my hands around his throat, squeezing with all my might. "Not so easy to fight a man. Huh?" I hiss.

"F-Fuck you," he stammers as he throws a rough punch, meeting my jaw. I respond with four of my own. The connections, direct and brutal, the dried blood on his face replaced with fresh blood as his body starts to go limp.

Finally.

I stare down at him, lifeless, one with the floor, his breathing almost nonexistent. I draw my hand back, slapping him across the face, his head snapping to the side; body unresponsive to the pain. I drag myself to my feet, stumbling across the living room for my gun. An execution. This ends right here. Right now.

My chin trembles with adrenaline and emotion as I try to get his words out of my head. There’s no way she was in on this all along. Everything she shared with me, the things she said to me, the things we did… That was real. She's here ‘cause she was worried. She's here ‘cause her intuition was right. She's here for me.

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. My heart sinks, the rapid bounding of Tony’s feet stopped almost as soon as it start. It’s quiet, wet gurgling and a soft whimpers are all that remains. I turn around, facing Tony but his eyes aren’t on me. He looks down at his chest, the bloodied tip of carboned steel poking out from his chest. He falls to his knees before me, y/n standing behind him in shock, watching as he tumbles face-first on the floor.

She looks up at me, eyes filled to the brim with tears. I run to her, pulling her into my arms, holding her body close as she clings to me for dear life.

I haven't let her go since. It wouldn't feel right. I hold her, watching as the sun sets in the east; a blood-red sky, painted across the Atlantic. The last sliver of the golden sun dips below the horizon. I kiss her gently on her cheek, down the soft flesh on her neck to the dip on her shoulder before resting my chin on top. “Are you okay, baby,” she whispers. I rest my hands on the top of hers, pressing my chest against her back as we both look over the edge of the yatch, watching the black water swell below.

“M’perfect, princess,” I whisper as I nuzzle into her neck. “Are you okay.”

“I am,” she whispers, “because of you. Thank you...”

“Thank you,” I mumble as she melts into me. “I needed you. I can't believe you did that for me.”

“I’d do anything for you,” she whispers as she turns, resting her hands against my chest, looking up at me with pleading eyes. “I know him. I know Tony probably filled your head with lies but I promise, none of it’s true.”

“I know,” I assure as I cup her cheeks in my hands, guiding her soft lips to mine. “This is almost over and from here on out it’s just you and I.”

“You and I,” she echoes. I kiss her forehead and her lips before pulling away.

“Stay here. M’serious.” She nods submissively, falling back as I move foward. I shuffle across the main deck, grabbing the rail, walking down the small flight of stairs to the carport before raising the hatch. I reach behind my back, pulling out my 9mm, opening the trunk.

There he lies, Tony Marietta. I smile as he lifts his eyes, matching mine; the bloodied knife already laying by his side. I take the gun, pressing it against his temple, tilting my head slightly to keep his eyes on me. “M’so glad you’re alive for this… I could make this fast,” I whisper. “But after all the shit you did, I’m gonna have you dyin’ nice and slow. Too bad I don't get to watch.” He goes to speak but all that comes out is a thick trail of blood. “I know what you're gonna say… Don’t worry. I’m gonna do what you couldn’t. I’m gonna take care of her. And that's a promise.” I toss my gun inside before slamming the trunk.

Moving to the front I step inside, firing up the engine before shifting it into neutral. I give the vintage ride a little push, the pull of the yacht sending the tires rolling. I follow the car as it plunges into the deep, dark waters, the depth snuffing out the headlights ‘til all that’s left is blackness.

Goodbye, Tony.

Epilogue

One year later…

Reader’s POV:

You roll up to Tanneyhill, flooding the big driveway with light after a late night shift at the Country Club. It’s mine now and business is booming; a new staff with increased security. Rafe took it upon himself to turn it from the dive it once was to a luxury experience, all for me. Of course I clean his money, the perfect front. Anything for my man. Stepping out of the car you make your way up the cobblestone walk to the front door, passing the bay window, watching as Rafe shuffles by in a black button down, resting two plates of food down on the table.

“Knock. Knock,” you sing as you open the door with a smile, matching Rafe’s beautiful blue eyes making him return the same.

“Babygirl,” he croons as he walks closer, helping you out of your jacket before, swathing his strong arms around you waist, looking down at you lovingly.

“Welcome home. Happy Anniversary,” you coo as you rise on your tippy toes, pressing a kiss on his lips. “I didn’t think you’d be home ‘til next week.”

He smiles against your lips, recalling his initial plan, the pair of you knowing there was no way he was gonna miss this day, even if it meant flying home from Morocco for one night only. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world, you know that, princess,” he mumbles against your mouth between kisses. “I got your favorite.”

Rafe takes your hand, leading you to the dining room, pulling out your chair, directing you to sit. You look across the table seeing all of your favorite things; the meal, the flowers, wine. Little candles glint in the middle of the table, adding to the ambiance as he runs you a glass of Chateau Lafite Rothschild, the first bottle of wine you shared on your very first night together.

"You look stunning," Rafe praises, lifting his glass to his lips, sipping slowly as his eyes drink you in.

"And you look very handsome, Rafe Cameron," you hum, resting your hand on the thigh of his Armani suit.

"You know baby, you’ve been working too hard. Are you free this week?” He asks, knowing the answer is ‘no’, but that’s not the reply he’ll get. If he’s asking you to go somewhere he’s already worked everything out for you.

"I’m always free for you, baby."

"Mhmm… Barry and his girl are gonna watch the club so you can come to Morocco with me. How does that sound?”

“So nice… You’re so good to me,” you sigh blissfully as you grab him by the collar of his jacket, pulling him to your lips. “Fuck, I love you.”

"Mmm… Yeah? Wanna sit on my lap and tell me how much you love me? We can see what happens next,” he chuckles warmly.

“Don’t tempt me, baby. You know I have no problem taking you right here,” you smile, the blonde smirking as he recalls what happened the morning before he left.

“You are so good to me,” he corrects you. "Y/n, I'm so happy you're mine. I hope you feel that.”

"I'm so happy I'm yours," you smile, spreading a little wider. “Of course, I feel that.”

"You deserve to have the very best, sweetheart. You deserve to be happy, and safe, and loved.” He leans in closer to you, his eyes meeting yours.

"I do… You’re perfect, Rafe.”

“I’m not, princess. But I wanna be for you,” he whispers, swallowing thickly. Your brows rumple as his mood shifts from flirty and light-hearted to serious. His eyes always look bluer when he’s on the verge of tears, yet, his smile contradicts it all. "I got you something."

"Yeah?"

“Mhmm,” he hums and nods as he reaches into his suit jacket pocket, pulling out a blue box.

"Oh my gosh! Rafe Cameron,” you gasp. “It's too much.”

"It's not, princess," he smiles softly. You reach for the box, but he keeps it in his hand, using the other to brush the tears out of his eyes.

"Rafe... Are you okay?" You whisper as you cup his cheek in your hand. He shuts his eyes, relishing in your touch, leaning into you slightly. He takes a few deep breaths before opening his eyes again.

"I’m perfect, baby.” He whispers weakly. "Umm... I'm not sure how I'm this in love with you, baby. But I am. And, at this point, I genuinely can't remember a time when I wasn't. Every night since I saw you I fall asleep with you on my mind, and I wonder if you're doing the same. I can't even comprehend losing you, or someone hurting you. I’ve said this once and I’ll say it a million times I don’t trust anyone to protect you but me and that includes your heart too. It's you, princess. It's fucking you. I can't describe it any more than that. You are the only person I want and will ever want. You make me feel safe. You make me feel loved. And since I've met you, sweetheart, you've always been that person. My girl. I can't love anyone else. And, I don't want to. So, with that being said. Y/n, will you marry me?" Rafe moves from the chair, dropping down to one knee, pulling open the box, the Tiffany engagement ring, resting in the center.

Your eyes widen, hand covering your bright, ecstatic smile. "Yes!" You squeal in delight, making Rafe let out a happy chuckle as he glides the jewelry on your finger.

"Yes?"

"Yes! Yes, Rafe! Oh my gosh. I thought it was a necklace," you gasp as you eye the ring on your finger.

"I figured, when you tried to take it from me. I got nervous," he laughs warmly, guiding you to his lips. You smile against his kiss, Rafe doing the same.

"I love you, Princess."

"I love you too, Rafe Cameron.”

Bonus smut chapter 💕

Thank you so much for reading my short story! I hoped you enjoyed it 💕🩷

Miski 🩷

tag list and masterlist on my pinned post @starkeysprincess @rafesthroatbaby @gri959 @loserboysandlithium @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account @akobx @darlydixon83 @hyperfixationgirl @savayvayblr-blog @oxpogues4lifexo @rafesgiirl @sleepiibunniiii

[shalotttower]

The Art of Disappearing (part 2)

Title: The Art of Disappearing Fandom: Resident Evil Village Characters: Lady Dimitrescu x Reader (female) Summary: Lady Dimitrescu enjoys wine; you enjoy living. You pray to god those don't overlap. Word count: 1900+ Notes: Implied violence, implied death (not reader), tension, topics of disillusionment and loss of faith, WINE Part 1

You don't forget.

The small tube remains in your apron pocket for the rest of the day and the next, and every time you touch it ─ a gesture done without thinking ─ you're reminded of where it came from.

It's not that hard. Just a walk to the Lady's chambers. Just returning an item to where it's supposed to be. And if someone sees you, then you've simply found the mistress' missing lipstick.

In six months you've only seen Lady Dimitrescu when serving meals. Her shoes sometimes would pass by while you were cleaning the floors. You've never spoken a word to her before, or even looked directly into her face for more than a second. The idea of being in her private quarters, uninvited and out of place, is nerve-wrecking. But you promised. You gave your word, even though it was the only option possible.

At five in the afternoon, just before dinner is served, you go.

Lady Dimitrescu's chambers are located on one of the higher floors. Everything smells like jasmine here; sweet, heady perfume in the air with a faint trace of something bitter to balance it out. The red rug under your feet absorbs sounds, making each of your steps almost silent. You take a turn at a vase filled with wilting roses, then another near a painting of a woman who looks like Lady Dimitrescu herself but much younger.

To knock or not to knock? Your fist hovers over the door. What if she hasn't left for dinner yet? What if she's taking a nap? To wake her up seems like a grave mistake. You stand, awkward and quiet, with a tube of red lipstick in your pocket.

After another few minutes tick by, you decide to knock.

Nobody answers.

With a sigh of relief you enter, shutting the door.

It's spacious here; high ceilings, tall windows. The curtains are drawn back, allowing the sunlight to flood through.

Her vanity table is a beautiful wall piece, carved from dark mahogany and polished to a shine. Your reflection in its mirror is clear as day. A maid with tired eyes and hair styled in a braided bun. You're not here to gawk though. The faster you're done, the better.

You put the lipstick back where it belongs ─ there, done ─ and turn to leave.

She has a massive bed, you think in passing. Must be comfortable to sleep on; it looks like it could fit four people and have space left. A canopy of heavy curtains hangs from its frame, slightly open.

It wasn't open when you entered.

You didn't open it either.

Two golden eyes watch you in mild interest through that gap. Oh no.

"My lady," you croak out, and manage a curtsey. "I didn't know you were resting. Forgive me for the intrusion."

The words tumble out of you in a rushed mess of vowels and consonants. Lady Dimitrescu does nothing to acknowledge your apology, instead she studies you, in silence, in a way that makes thin hairs on the back of your neck rise. She's dressed for bed, you notice ─ a nightgown of dark silk and delicate lace. Finally, you snap out of this staring contest and bring your gaze to your feet.

"You're not one of mine."

The comment is so soft that you barely catch it.

"No, my lady. I work in the halls and dining room, mostly."

"And yet," she says. "You are here. Do you have any business in my chambers, or were you simply lost?"

It sounds like a joke but you're sure she isn't smiling. You curtsey again ─ deeper this time, anything to make amends and live yet another day under this roof with all your fingers intact.

"I found something that belongs to you, my lady. And only-"

You hear a gentle rustle. A scratch on a matchbook.

"Lift your head. I can't understand you if you're a puddle on my floor."

Slowly you do.

You've seen her while waiting, seen her while bringing out drinks and standing near walls, served her meals with hands that trembled and a bowed head; never for more than one second, never for more than half a breath.

Lady Dimitrescu sits at the edge of her bed with one leg crossed over another. A cigarette in a dark holder is perched between her fingers; she blows out a cloud of smoke which drifts towards the window. It smells expensive, unlike what your dad used to smoke. Your throat burns at the memory.

"Well?"

"I found your lipstick, my lady, and came to return it."

You're not stupid enough to mention Daniela. Something tells you this is a secret between you and her alone.

"Where?" Lady Dimitrescu asks.

Your brain scrambles for an answer. "In a... a corner of a hallway. Near a window, second floor. East wing."

You wonder if she believes you. The tip of her shrinking cigarette glows brighter as she takes another drag.

"Was that all, then?"

"Yes, my lady."

"Dismissed. Refill my glass before you go."

There's a bottle on a nightstand, and it's the prettiest you've ever seen in your life. A pattern of intricate metalwork decorates its sides and top, like vines curling around stems or branches woven together, so delicate that they'd look real if not for their color.

"...yes, my lady."

It takes forever to pick it up and pour.

The rich wine flows ─ a viscous syrup ─ dark like late July cherries meshed together in one liquid drop. It makes your head spin a little. You're too aware of yourself. How heavy the bottle is, how clumsy your fingers feel when handling glassware like this one, worth more than your body weight probably; how much gold is it alone? Five thousand lei? Ten thousand?

You try not to think about it, where it comes from. You don't want to be sick all over her floors, because then you're dead for sure.

"That will be all."

Happiness in castle Dimitrescu is short-lived and fragile, but you've learnt to cherish these few seconds when you can.

When your hand twist the doorknob, she adds as if in afterthought: "I rarely visit the east wing this time of the year. I wonder how it ended up there."

"I'm not sure either, my lady. Have a pleasant evening."

The door shuts close.

You've done everything in your power to keep your presence as faint as possible in these walls, so that you're forgettable in every single way, but still useful enough to keep around.

It's a simple formula which worked so far. So far.

You hope Daniela is happy with herself, now that her mother knows you exist.

---

There's not much to her.

Not many things to say, not many experiences to share. All that's known about her is what she wears: a maid's outfit, standard issue.

And her eyes, of course. She has very expressive eyes that convey more than she thinks. They hold a certain kind of weariness to them ─ not just physical exhaustion from labor or lack of sleep, but emotional fatigue which seeps deep into one's bones until they ache at night, when there are no distractions left. When there're no chores, no conversations, nothing except a room with two beds (or four) and another girl trying just as hard to sleep.

Is it going to be like that? Yes.

Will she never leave this place? Yes.

Does anyone miss her? If there's anyone left. She hasn't got a letter from the village in a while.

Does she still believe in god like her mother (they had a small altar at home, decorated with simple things like a fresh bun and candles in various colors), then her father, her grandparents? She wants to, but he's stopped listening long ago.

Is she afraid? Sometimes. But mostly she's just tired.

Pretty maids with expressive eyes aren't a rarity in Dimitrescu castle.

Most of them have a similar story: born in the village, a father who works in a field, a mother who stays home, maybe a sibling or two. The oldest girls in the family who always end up here. Their fathers couldn't provide for them, the harvest was poor, and so on until their mothers send them off to work for 'someone rich', because 'at least you won't starve, at least there's a bed and a roof, and you get paid'...

...but money stops coming one day; there's no word, no letter, and their mothers cry in the kitchen.

Poor, scared, desperate things.

---

"How did it go? Did you put it back?"

You're not surprised to find her in your room. She's sitting on one of the beds, flipping through an old journal you've hidden under the mattress. It's a book full of silly poems you used to write in your spare time, back when you thought those were important enough to preserve on paper.

Daniela's fingers slowly leaf through the pages.

"I did."

"And you didn't tell it was me?"

"I didn't."

Her face lights up. "Good. Now I don't have to eat you."

You stand in front of her, two hands clasped together over your apron.

Is there a code of conduct which applies to your mistress being in your room? Or do you just wait until she leaves? You're not sure; Daniela doesn't seem to be in a rush. She continues browsing through your private thoughts instead with intense interest.

Your handwriting is messy, untidy scribbles in pencil; you see her struggling at times to read them. There are smudges of graphite here and there where your hand rubbed on paper by accident.

You wonder how much of yourself is revealed there without any filter or censorship, or self-restraint.

"I like this one." Daniela says after a while.

She points at something. It's a poem about a girl who lives by a lake, and goes looking for rocks and pebbles along its shore every morning. She keeps them lined on her windowsill, and her family laughs at her because what is she doing, collecting trash.

It's a sad one, you realize. You've forgotten you even wrote it until now.

"Thank you, my lady."

"Is it about your home? Where you grew up?"

Her eyes flick between you and what's written down on the yellowing paper.

"My mother didn't let me near the lake," you reply. "She was too afraid that I'd drown."

That's not really what Daniela asked; she wants to know if this is about your life before the castle, your family ─ parents who gave birth to you (and sent you here), brothers or sisters who played with you when you were little. But it is also as honest of an answer as you will give.

You don't understand why she even asked. Curiosity, maybe. Yes, that's a feature constant enough in her personality. Curiosity which pushes her to poke around and wiggle herself into every corner just to see what's there. She'll find out, absorb and then move on.

There's something very innocent about it.

She can also kill you without a second thought, you think grimly, watching her.

Daniela gives you a funny look. Then huffs, apparently deciding that it's not worth getting upset over.

The poems stop around the mid-point of your journal, sometime during spring. The rest are blank pages from then on, it's been at least six months since you last wrote anything new. She shuts it close and places it on top of your folded blanket.

"You're no fun today," she comments while standing up.

You've never been a great conversation partner, that's true. But again, what is the exact definition of 'fun' here?

Before you can apologize for not being entertaining enough, Daniela waves: "Good night!", and then leaves through the door like any other guest would.

The journal lays on your bed, unassuming. You tuck it back underneath your mattress.

[deaddovedecadence]

Title: The Tsumiki years

Summery: it wasn't always just you, Your Father and Megumi. Once there were four (a prologue for the Dad! Gojou verse that doesn't have a name, and if you want more of it, check out my #demon mode tag)

Warning(s): possessive behavior, parentification, dead dove do not eat, this is pretty tame actually, belittling.

Request(s): none

When you were young you didn't have the words for what Gojou your father did to you. Sometimes when you think about telling people, even though you know it'd get them killed or hurt or something worse then any of that, you still don't have the words.

He brought Megumi and Tsumiki to you maybe a few something after you were taken. You're not sure. Barely remember them coming (liar).

"Hello?" A warm little voice says, "are you alright?" You shake your head wildly, and the voice hums. "Can you look at me? It's rude not to look at people when they're talking to you. You know that. He's told you a couple times.

You look away from the couch only to see a girl with pretty blue eyes staring at you with something you don't know. "Why are you crying?" She asks, edging her way into the narrow spot behind the couch. There's a boy behind her, watching you with green, green, eyes. You don't want to look at him, reminds you too much of Him.

Once the girl is close, she takes your hand from your person, half humming a lullaby. "I don't know why you're sad but maybe if you come out, you'll feel better." You won't, you know that but you follow th girl anyways, keeping a hand tucked in hers.

He's waiting for you outside of the couch area, clearly amused with your rebellion. "This is Tsumiki," He introduces the girl, "and Megumi," the boy. He's got a weird name for a boy. You tell him so. He looks pissed for a moment before the now named Tsumiki scolds you. "Not nice. He can't choose his name you know." With that she walks away, the one named Megumi, right on her heels.

Somehow you feel bad, like you shouldn't have done it. She reminds you of your mom, warm and stern and something a little bit scary. "I explained to Tsumiki and Megumi that you're still adjusting here, that I only adopted you recently and to give you a little bit of space." He says softly, "They will tell me if you run away sweetie." You hate pet names, they make you want to scream. He doesn't seem to care.

You were so naive them, actually thought that he was lying. You know better know. Megumi has always been on your father's side and when she was... here , so was Tsumiki.

There were good times, and you know that. Know that Tsumiki wanted you to be happy with them and sometimes you think she could have understood. That's not to say that there weren't good times, there were but somehow your father always managed to ruin them.

"Miki that isn't how you do it!" you snap, tugging the doll away from her. You've always liked to create, to do fashion and you've been trying to show her what you like to do.

Your Father (not dad, never dad even little you knows better then that) keeps you in dolls and gets you new things for them when he says you've been good. Tsumiki likes to play with you but you don't know how to explain to her that she doesn't do it right, that house has a mom and a dad and not just a dad and siblings.

Megumi doesn't like to play at all but he'll watch sometimes or sit near with his dogs. He's gotten good at manifesting them, something that you aren't allowed to do. Your Father says that you are too weak, too soft to ever use the cursed energy that you know you have because you can make flowers grow and wilt whereas Tsumiki can only see, not use. She doesn't seem to mind though, likes watching, and somehow even bosses your father around. She's big and strong.

Your Father walks in just as you've managed to convince Tsumiki that a mom is important, even though she thinks that moms are silly. They're aren't lots of things that Miki thinks are silly but when she does there isn't any telling her anything else. "What's going on here?" He asks, and Megumi looks away from his dogs, says "They're trying to decide if you need a mom for house." Your Father hums, and takes a doll away, and says, "Mom's don't do anything. That's why we have older sisters." Tsumiki beams and you feel... sad. Moms are important but maybe they aren't as important as sisters?

Tsumiki ran the house with a gentle iron fist and by the time you and Megumi were ten even Your Father was listening to her. Like cleaning day. You still feel... something when you think about cleaning day.

Tsumiki wakes everyone up in the early morning, Megumi following at her side. As much as the two of them argue, he's always at her side, glaring at the shadows when they get too rowdy which doesn't happen very often. Megumi is strict with his shadows (with you). There's a knock at the door and Tsumiki goes to answer it.

"Satoru-san," Tsumiki trills and your blood goes cold, "You remembered that it's cleaning day!" There are supplies in his hands and a splatter of blood on his face. Tsumiki doesn't seem to care.

She tried to reason it out once, explained to you that the people your Father kills aren't Family so it doesn't really matter in the long run, not to someone who's been raised by assassins and killers her whole life. You are glad to this day that you never forgot the Before.

Your Father smiles at Tsumiki and runs gentle fingers through her hair. "You've been reminding everyone since Monday," he says and he's so much gentler with Tsumiki and Megumi then you, never makes them feel worthless and weak even though you have more cursed energy then Tsumiki.

"I have," She says, "because I can't let you run away from helping". Your Father snorts, and watches for Megumi who's slinked over and is looking at him with a critical eye. "You're going to get blood on Miki's carpet. Go wash up." It's funny to watch the man who took everything (what did you even have before him? Don't you belong here? what happened to you?) get bossed around by someone exactly your age (it doesn't feel that way. Megumi isn't a child but he is a threat).

Your Father ruffles Megumi's hair and he snaps at him with teeth. Megumi's teeth are a little too sharp to be human teeth. You shudder. He notices, gives you an itty bitty little smile.

"You leave my baby alone Satoru." Tsumiki says lightly, the only person that Satoru even really thinks about listening to, and all of you get to cleaning.

You tackle the cabinets and it's kind of soothing, to do something that you can't be criticized for.

Megumi cleans the living room, using his shadows to wipe the places he can't get to. You like watching him, especially when he's happy like this.

Tsumiki does laundry, pile after pile get folded by her sure, steady hands, the same ones that chop up dinner every night, (the same ones that follow Your Father's instructions), the same ones that tuck you in to this day, humming a lullaby as you fall asleep.

Your Father cleans the bedrooms, mostly his because Tsumiki insists that yours needs to be clean and Megumi is a neat freak on his own, thankfully for everyone because he can tsumiki share a bedroom.

No one but the four of you are aloud here. Tsumiki likes it clean anyways, says that it's good to have a clean mind for a steady soul. You want it to be Monday already, you like school even if Megumi is in your class and no one wants to talk to you cause he's so scary.

You miss Tsumiki, for a lot of reasons.

Now as you stare blankly at the cell that contains you, you wish she was here to talk sense into everyone.

[literary-motif]

I've read all your Zaros fics, and it's so gooood! Btw, since some of it was flower themed, would it be okay if you incorporate hanahaki disease? Hehe. Thank you, and have a good day!

Everything with Zaros is flower themed to my eyes. I try to match their symbolism to the sort of deeper meaning of the scene or story I’m writing and so on. Glad you noticed!

Wilted Petals

Zaros Atha'lin x Reader

Zaros was running out of time. 

He had shrugged off the cough at first, soothing all the worried glances and concerned mutterings of the trials being postponed if he was sick and instead pushing through. 

It was what he always did, never allowing himself to stand still for too long when the reputation of his family and his mother’s expectations weighed heavily on his shoulders. Less than perfect was unacceptable. 

The scratching in his throat had not lessened, no matter the amounts of honey he swallowed or the herbal remedies he tried. The cough seemed to worsen with every passing day, and it was getting harder and harder to hide.

“Look at Sarl Zaros, at it again,” he heard the muttered snicker of a passing noble. Zaros was leaning against one of the pillars, discreetly wiping the blood from his mouth and hiding the daffodil petals in his handkerchief. You did not see him, too engrossed in your conversation with the palace gardener.

It had been easy to hide at first, but now the scratching in his throat had evolved into a tightness in his chest, squeezing his heart and suffocating him as he gulped down breaths in between coughs. Being around you now has that effect. 

He felt like he was dying, and according to his mother, who gave him a disapproving look when she saw the dark circles under his eyes and his ashen face, he looked the part, too. 

“Stop wasting your time in the library,” she had said, shaking her head as they strolled through the garden. “Focus on what is important now. Get rest and take the throne, Zaros. I’m counting on you to succeed.”

That was a lofty goal. He could not even say for certain that he would live to see the sunrise.

Despite the library’s excellent catalog, it had taken him days to find a book relating to his condition, and as Zaros skimmed through the pages hastily — telling him this was brought on by unrequited love, telling him his salvation was a reciprocation of his feelings — the loud thumping of his heart grew deafening. 

He was going to die. 

Zaros leaned back, breathing shakily. It was out of the question that you felt anything but burning hatred and occasional annoyance for him. He was done for.

Everyone died in the end, but what kind of shame would it be to do so now? He would disappoint his mother, depriving her of the opportunity to restore the Atha’lin’s standing in society. He would fail in his purpose to better Serulla and tip the scale in the favor of the people. But most of all, how would it look if Sarl Zaros, contestant for the throne and seemingly arch nemesis of the Earis, was found choking to death on daffodil petals? Someone was bound to know about this disease and figure out the rest.

Yet there was no way out. 

Zaros shuddered, contemplating his options. He could stay in the palace, carry out his duty to Serulla and his family until he suffocated on his love under the scornful gaze of the nobles, or he could flee, abandon everything, and find a quiet place to die, taking this secret to the grave. 

He sighed. As appealing as the second option looked, he knew he could never fail in his duty. He could never betray the responsibility put on him, even if it meant withering away for all to see. 

“Are you sick?” you asked, slipping into the seat opposite Zaros and making him jump. “‘Rare Diseases and Cures’ is not what I’d include in my preparation for the trials.” He choked, feeling his eyes water again as his chest tightened. 

“Exc— me,” he heaved as his frame was wracked by coughs, turning away from you to hide behind his handkerchief. 

You watched him quizzically, contemplating getting up to fetch him something to drink. His wheezes sounded painful and the tears escaping his tightly shut eyes made you wonder just how much this was hurting him.  

Zaros had never allowed himself to show his pain, insistent on keeping tight control of himself at all times. It was hard to make him loosen up a bit, even harder to break down his walls. 

No matter how much you wished to comfort him, you knew that was not the relationship you had. He hated you after all, and you were fine with that, truly. Still, it tore you apart seeing him like this, in shambles as he desperately fought for breaths. 

You resolved to have a talk with the Queen about postponing the next trial, lowering your gaze to the page Zaros had been reading. You froze as your blood ran cold.

“Pardon,” he rasped, clenching his fist around the stained crown of the daffodil and wiping away his tears. This was tearing him apart. He just wanted to have the inevitable over with. Why did the universe need to draw out his torment?

“Who is it?” you asked flatly. 

Zaros raised his eyes, steeling himself for another coughing fit that thankfully did not come as he looked at you. “Who is what?” he asked, clearing his throat while tucking away his handkerchief and hiding the droplets of blood on his wrist. 

Your face was unreadable, not betraying the turmoil raging inside you as your eyes remained fixed on the book before him. He muttered a curse. 

“Don’t test me right now,” you warned, lifting your heavy gaze to stare him down. “Who is it? I will have them brought here. I will make them love you if that’s what it takes. So who is it?”

He sighed, shutting the book. “Not even you can force love,” he said, ignoring the metallic taste in his mouth. There was no merit in telling you, and he quietly resigned himself to his fate instead as he got up, prepared to leave.

Your hand shot out to grab his wrist, yanking him back into his seat. He could feel your hand shaking and looking into your eyes, he saw both determination and heartbreak in them. 

What did you have to feel heartbreak about when it was him struggling to breathe? 

“Tell me!” you screamed, finally losing your composure, but you did not care. There was no point in keeping up appearances when Zaros — your Zaros — was dying because of unrequited love.

It made your heart ache knowing that he adored someone this much when he saw you as nothing but a spoiled brat, but your hurt was overshadowed by the chilling terror you felt at the prospect of losing him. 

You refused to let him die. It was something that you simply could not permit, and if whoever it was that had poisoned his heart did not feel the same, you would move earth and heaven until they did. 

“Drop it, Earis!” Zaros spit, wrenching his arm free as his patience ran short. The tightness in his chest only grew worse by your touch. Every moment spent in your company was a cursed blessing and he hated himself for being unable to enjoy his last days with you, his last moments. 

No matter how much you hurt him — by your actions, your words, or by his love for you — he longed to spend every moment of his time with you, engraving the gentle sound of your laugh and the softness of your skin into his mind forever as his love suffocated him.

“Leech! You think you can just leave me like this?” You grasped the front of his sherwani, pulling him towards you and making him stumble against the table. Your blood was boiling with rage at his stubbornness, fear and desperation making you see red. “Tell me!”

“You!” Zaros screamed, his anger at your insistence quickly bleeding away into sorrow. He sighed brokenly, averting his gaze. This was a secret he had meant to take to the grave. Ironic, since it was the one digging it for him as well.

It took your mind only a moment to process before you pulled Zaros into a kiss. 

‘True love’s kiss,’ the scholar had penned near the bottom of the page, listing it as the only known remedy for the disease, and as you felt Zaros’ hands resting gently against your cheeks while he kissed you back, you were grateful that you had remembered. 

“I do, too,” you said as you broke apart. 

Zaros’ mouth was slightly agape, unbelieving of the pressure lifting from his chest in an instant. He could breathe properly again, his hacking coughs seeming like a faraway memory. That he had ever felt pain appeared absurd when you looked at him with such fondness. 

“I love you too.”