#3-step funnel

[enthusiasticharry]

the one where YN gets a job as a bartender in a motorbike club's bar, and Harry runs the club.

author's note: suprise!! i'm back again!! i promised i wouldn't keep you waiting and i'm not. this is the first part in my biker!harry mini-series which i started a while ago and only just got around to finishing! let me know what you think and what you'd like to see in the next instalments!

word count: 11.6k of sexy biker!harry (that's it, that's all).

WARNINGS: strong language, smut, bike riding, a bar fight and talks of a motor accident.

let me know what you think of clover here!! mwah <3

1979

“Look, sweets, I’d hire you on the spot if I thought it would be a good idea,” Mick spoke from across the bar, towel over one shoulder and another in his hand drying a glass, “But it just isn’t, I’m sorry.”

YN sighed, dropping her hands down on the bar. This was the fourth one she’d tried, and so far, she hadn’t had any luck. She wasn’t asking for much – just a job to help pay for her student loans. She had graduated a year ago and bounced from job to job, and yet none of them seemed to fit. It wasn’t necessarily her dream to work in a bar, but she hadn’t a single clue about what her dream was. She had a first-class honours history degree (which she adored getting) and yet not a single idea of what to do with it.

She couldn’t think of the future at this moment, she needed to think about the now and if she wanted to continue to live in her small apartment and eat — she needed a job.

Clovers had been her last hope. It was the last bar in town that YN was yet to try, and despite its less-than-positive reputation – it was always busy, and that meant money coming in. As she turned to look around the bar, which was already quite crowded for it being early on a Friday night, she couldn’t help but imagine the cash that was funnelling through the establishment, and how she wished she could get at least some of it.

“Can I get you a drink, sweets?” Mick spoke again, offering her a soft smile, “It’ll hopefully soften the blow a little bit.”

YN smiled at the man and nodded, “Thank you. Whisky, please.”

Mick got straight to work, placing the glass in front of her, dropping an ice cube into the glass and pouring her a more than generous shot. Just as she fumbled with her purse to pull out some bills to pass to Mick, he shook his head and held his hand out to stop it. She smiled in thanks and watched as he turned and walked away, going to serve the next customer who was standing a few feet away from her.

YN picked up her drink, and just as she was about to take a drink the door beside her opened. Her lips parted, her eyes watching as a group of what seemed to be fifteen or so men, all clad in heavy leather or dark denim walked into the bar.

Of course, YN knew about them. Anyone who lived here knew who they were, but it was the first time that she had seen them this up close. The most she had ever experienced with them was the low rumbling of their engines from a distance, or possibly them riding past her but that was only ever one or two. It was their jackets that often set them apart from the rest of the riders in the town, the very specific Clover’s Riders jacket that every member adorned and what seemed like all times.

The men were loud as they stepped in, most of them heading towards the bar whilst others went to some of the other members who were already seated in the bar. YN’s eyes never left the door until the last one had made his entrance, and she just couldn’t seem to draw them away.

He was younger than many of his counterparts, probably resting at an age near YN’s or possibly a few years or so older. He was clad in the same heavy denim that many of the others wore, but they seemed to sit on his body much easier. The curls of his hair were tousled in every direction it seemed, but YN found herself wondering as to what it would feel like to run her fingers through it.

With a shake of her head, she turned back to her glass and lifted it to her lips. She took a large gulp of the liquid, allowing that to slip down her throat before she finished the rest of it. Mick was long gone from being anywhere near her, working at what seemed like double speed to keep up with the orders that the gang of men were giving him, and she felt as though that was probably her cue to leave. She would have to brainstorm other options for work, seeing as though this just hadn’t called through.

Sighing, YN pulled the strap of her bag over her shoulder and pushed up from the stool she was resting on. Just as she turned around to make a beeline for the door through the bodies that were crowding the room, she was stopped by a body in front of hers.

“Woah, woah, little darling where do you think you’re going?” It was one of the riders, standing in front of her with a grin on his features.

“Home,” she said with a shrug.

“So soon,” The man looked over his shoulder to some of his friends who were standing close by, “Me and my buddies here didn’t even get to say hello.”

“Right, okay, hello,” YN nodded to the man in front of her and those behind him, “Really have to get going.”

The man extended his arms so that she couldn’t carry move from her space in front of him, “Let us buy you a drink little darling, I promise you’ll enjoy it.”

“I’ve already had one, thank you, and it was very enjoyable,” YN offered them another small smile, “Now please move out of my way so that I can go home.”

“Hey, none of that,” The man shook his head, “Stay with us, I promise we’ll make it worth it.”

YN hummed, tilting her head from side to side lightly, “I’ll pass but I’m sure you’ll have no trouble finding someone else to make the night worth it.”

And with that, YN pushed past the man and beelined for the door. She half expected him to grab her, but from the hoots and hollers of his friends, he was too embarrassed to do anything else.

The bar that YN had worked out whilst she was completing her degree had taught her a thing or two about how to deal with rowdy men, and whilst the firm but clear approach worked in most cases, YN wasn’t afraid to resort to other means if necessary. It was all a respect thing, and more often than not if you deal back to them what they deal to you – the situation usually sorts itself.

YN had just rested her palm against the wood of the door when she heard someone call her name. She saw Mick standing there, leaning over the bar to catch her attention.

“Saw you deal with those guys,” He nodded his head over to the men whose attention had been taken by another woman in the bar, who seemed to accept their advances more than YN did, “When can you start?”

YN’s face broke out into a smile and took a delighted step towards Mick, “Whenever.”

“Right now?” He raised his eyebrows at her, motioning to the men who were calling his name for more drinks, “Have a feeling we’re going to be swamped tonight.”

YN nodded and immediately dropped her purse down behind the bar and rolled the sleeves of her cardigan up.

She turned to the men who were now staring at her with their mouths slightly agape, “What can I get you?”

It was a Thursday night and YN had been working at Clover’s for around a week at this point when Mick decided that she could handle a night on her own. After being thrown into what very much was the deep end on her first shift, there had been time the next day for Mick to show her the ropes properly and anything she would specifically need to know.

Mick said that he normally wouldn’t leave such a new person on their own so quickly, but he had an important family issue that he couldn’t get out of and that she had shown enough trust that he wasn’t worried. It was a Thursday, so it wasn’t going to be too busy but even so, those who were going to be there would be Riders, and they would protect their bar from anything.

It was nearing nine, and YN would probably say that they were at a quarter of their capacity, the majority of them being riders who had been there for the last few hours or so. YN was lucky she supposed. They never ordered anything more complicated than a beer, at most a whisky or a bourbon and this was their bar so there were never any arguments about paying for the drinks.

There was a lull in the orders, so YN decided to take it upon herself to dry some of the glasses she had washed in the previous lull. This job was not for the weak she would say that, but YN would be lying if she said she didn’t enjoy it. She loved people watching and mixed with the hum of the jukebox it was the perfect combination for her.

The door to the bar opened again about twenty minutes, and in walked that same man that caught her attention a week or so ago, on that first day she was here. He looked the same, apart from he was clad in a mixture of denim and leather this time instead of just denim, and a large bruise was sprouting from under his left eye. To YN, it was obvious that the cause was a punch, for there was nothing else that could cause a bruise such as that one. He walked into the room, ignored the hoots and hollers from some of the other men and took a seat right in the middle of the bar.

YN threw the towel she was holding over her shoulder and walked towards him, resting her hands on the edge of the bar, “What can I get ya?”

The man didn’t stray his eyes away from where they were planted firmly on the wood of the bar, “Beer, and a whisky.”

YN nodded, reaching over to pop the lid of the beer, “Do you want ice in the whisky?”

The man just hummed, so YN got straight to work making his drink for him. It was different to that of the other men in the bar — watching him. Whilst they were loud and rowdy and always had something to say to someone – he was silent. He just sat, with the company of his only himself and drank his drink.

Snapping YN out of her gaze (which had been on the man for a few beats too long) was a call of her name from just down the bar. She walked over to where it came from, a man called Taylor who YN had become quite acquainted with in the last few days or so.

Most of the men (not all, obviously) that she had become acquainted with during the last few weeks were lovely. They loved to have a quick natter with her whilst she made their drinks, some of them flirted with her but she didn’t care (it was part of the job) and nobody bothered her. If one or two of the men when they were drunk got a little handsy or started to say things which would be deemed inappropriate, the other lads would circle her and make sure she was okay. She felt safe, which she was quite surprised was the case.

“A piece of advice,” Taylor spoke over the bar as YN started opening the bottles of beer for him and his friends, “Harry over there always orders the same thing, and he’ll drink the whiskey last before he leaves.”

“Thank you,” YN nods with a small smile across her lips, unable to stop her eyes beating over to him for a second – Harry.

“He’s a quiet one,” Taylor continues speaking, grabbing a few bills out of his pocket to pay for the drinks, “But harmless, I promise. To be fair, you’d think the man who founded the club would have more to say.”

YN’s eyes widen, she had no idea that Harry was the one who founded the club. She hadn’t suspected it at all.

“He founded it?” She asked with a slight raise of her eyebrow. She wasn’t trying to pry, but there were things that she wanted to know, and Taylor already had that buzz that made her know that he would be willing to answer any questions she had.

“Yeah, it was him and a few others,” Taylor shrugged, attempting to pick up the three bottles of beer all in one go, “A few years ago now, and it only grew from there.”

YN nodded once more and watched as he walked back to his table. She put the bills that he had given her for the drinks into the register and put the tip she had been given into her apron.

There was something about that man that had caught her attention from that first day, and yet she couldn’t put her finger on it. Now, it made sense. The aura that he had when he walked into the room, as well as the way he sat and held himself – he had a strong presence in the group without even trying.

YN had more questions, but she knew it probably wasn’t the best to pry right now. Instead, she just got on with everything that she had to do. She served drinks and cleaned up after herself right up until close. YN hadn’t realised when Harry had left, but he had slipped out without a single person realising.

She hummed as she swept the floors, tried her hardest to count the cash right the first time and put it in the safe before continuing with her other closing jobs. The chairs were off the floor, as much of the stickiness in the room that YN could remove was gone and the doors were locked and checked.  

Once she had stepped outside, and locked the door to the bar behind her, the late hour catching up with her very quickly – she realised at that point she wasn’t alone.

Looking over her shoulder, she saw that he was standing there, resting against his motorcycle with a cigarette dangling from between his lips. YN was confused but continued to lock the door and make sure that nobody could get inside. Then she turned, and that was when she saw Harry looking directly at her.

“Can I help you?” She muttered, fidgeting with the keys she was holding in her hand.

He inhaled the smoke from his cigarette, holding it for a second or so before he exhaled, “Heard you were asking questions.”

YN’s heart drops slightly, heat pulsating around her body, “Am I not allowed to ask questions?”

He ran his teeth over his bottom lip, placing the cigarette back in his mouth, “Can’t stop you from doing that, but any questions you have about me, you can ask me yourself.”

YN just pursed her lips and nodded, “Okay then… do you always stalk women when they’re leaving work?”

Harry didn’t seem shocked by her words, or react in any way to them at all, which was surprising to her. But, then again, she hadn’t seen much of a reaction out of this man this entire time she had known of him.

“Only the ones that have worked in my bar for a week.”

“Your bar?” YN widened her eyes, “Thought Mick owned it?”

Harry shook his head, “I do. Mick’s my employee, and so are you.”

“Do you not trust me or something? Think I’m walking away with pocketfuls of cash?”

“I would already know if you’d done that, and you wouldn’t be working here anymore,” YN just nodded, “But this side of a town can be sketchy at night, and you never know who could be lurking.”

YN just scoffed, turning to walk away from the man, “Thank you, but I can look after myself.”

“Suit yourself,” Harry shrugged, climbing onto his bike, and kicking the stand-up. YN could hear the engine turning on, the loud rumble filling the empty street.

YN continued walking, expecting him to speed past her but he didn’t. The low rumble continued down the street, even when she turned – the sound turned too. It was frustrating and annoying. All YN wanted to do was to get home, have something to eat and get in bed. Instead, she was having to deal with what was becoming an annoying rider, who couldn’t seem to leave her alone.

This continued for around ten minutes, and with each second that passed YN was getting more and more annoyed. Just as she turned onto the edge of her street, the apartment she shared with her roommate Ashley coming into view in the distance, she decided that enough was enough.

She stopped and turned around on the pavement, Harry pulling in on his bike to stop just in front of her. YN sighed and placed her hand on her hips.

“Do we have a problem?”

Harry rested his hands on his bike still, but was facing her, “No problem.”

“Then why are you following me home?” A small chuckle escaped her lips, “You know those strange people you were talking about earlier; you do know you’re acting like one of them?”

“You’re one of us now,” He shrugs, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world – it certainly wasn’t for YN at all.

“That means you follow me home?” The confusion grows with every moment in YN, and yet Harry doesn’t seem the slightest bit worried.

“You didn’t want a ride,” He pulls his carton of cigarettes out of his pocket and lights one up, “Had to make sure you got home safe.”

“Right,” YN just nods, “Well, I think I can manage on my own from here. And, if I’m all of a sudden one of you should I expect my jacket in the post? Or do you do collection?”

With a final scoff, she turned and walked away from the man. This time, when the engine started, YN didn’t turn to look at Harry and instead carried on to her front door. It was only then that she turned to peer over her shoulder, just in time to see Harry speed past her and into the night.

She had an incline that this job was going to be interesting, but she had no idea just how much.

It wasn’t necessarily a normal working pattern that YN had found herself in.

Sleeping for most of the day and being awake all night wasn’t necessarily the big girl working pattern that she had aspired to when she was younger, but for the time being she was enjoying it. It did mean that when Ashley returned from her nine-to-five working as a receptionist (YN couldn’t think of anything worse to be honest), YN was just getting ready to start her day.

YN was sitting cross-legged on the sofa, a half-eaten sandwich clutched tightly in her hand. She wasn’t too hungry, but she knew that if she didn’t eat something before, she left for work she would regret it later on. The second that Ashley stepped through the door and threw her bag down on the floor, she threw YN a quizzical look.

“What?” YN asked, wiping the mayo that rested on the curve of her lip off with her thumb.

“Do you happen to know anything about the smoking-hot rider staring at the apartment from across the street?”

YN’s entire face dropped, “What?”

Ashley walked over and dropped down on the other side of the sofa, reaching out to steal one of YN’s chips from her plate. Ashley seemed slightly unfazed by the newfound stalker YN had acquired, and that stressed the girl out significantly.

“What do you mean?” YN pushed herself up, making her way over to the window where there he was. Resting against his bike, cigarette resting from his lips sat Harry, staring at the front door to the building with an unreadable expression on his face,

“He’s been there since this morning,” Ashley adds to the conversation causally, running a hand through her hair which she had just pulled out of its undo, “At first, I thought he was waiting for Sandy, you know, from 2.B but then I saw the jacket and realised he must be here for you.”

“He’s not here for me,” YN shook her head, slapping the curtains shut and walking back over to her friend, “He’s stalking me, I can’t believe you’re not more stressed about this.”

Ashley just shrugged, “Worse people to be stalked by, I suppose. He’s one of Clover’s, he’ll be harmless.”

“No, Ashley, he’s not just one of Clover’s,” YN sighed, running a hand over her face before scooting around the apartment to grab her belongings, “He is Clover.”

It was Ashley’s face that dropped this time, “What do you mean?”

“That’s Harry,” YN pulled each one of her pumps on her feet, “He founded the gang!”

“You’re kidding,” Ashley all but screams, “Jesus YN, I knew I was concerned about this job, but I think you’ve done pretty alright for yourself.”

YN just shook her head. She grabbed her jacket, and her bag and made her way over to the door.

“If I go missing, you know who’s responsible,” With that, YN turned away from her friend and rushed out of the door.

She took the stairs down from her apartment at double speed, almost tripping over her feet multiple times. She pulled her jacket on just as she got to the front door. Just before she was going to push it open, just stopped and hesitated for a second. One deep breath in and out was all it took to compose herself, and then she pushed the door open.

Harry spotted her immediately, throwing the cigarette he had in his hand a few metres away from his bike, where a collection was beginning to grow. YN made sure to check the left and the right of her before crossing the road, not quite fancying becoming roadkill this early in the day.

“You’re lucky my neighbours didn’t call the cops on you,” Is the first thing that slips from YN’s lips, before she realises how stupid that sounds.

For the first time since she met him, a small smile crosses Harry’s lips. She had amused him, and oh did she want to do it again.

“You know you can’t stay out here all day,” She follows with, “I’m going to the bar now anyway.”

“I got something for you,” Harry pushed himself up off the bike and that’s when she saw it.

A denim jacket, smaller than the others that she had seen but still carrying the ever-so-known Clover’s Riders logo on the back. That four-leaf clover was known all over town, and towns for miles in every direction and now it seemed YN had one of her own. It would open paths for her but also close them as well. She knew that the second she accepted that jacket, things would change all over again.

“I don’t even ride, Harry,” She sighed, shaking her head slightly, “I’ve never been on a bike in my life.”

He just shrugged once more, “There’s always time to change that.”

YN toyed up her options, and it took a lot less time than she had thought it would to swipe the jacket from his hands. She shrugged off the one she was wearing and slipped her arms inside the material. It was the perfect fit, exactly what she would have chosen for herself. Harry beamed another smile at her and swung his leg over his bike once more.

“C’mon,” He tilted his head at her, “I have something I want to show you.”

“I’ll be late for work,” YN shook her head, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself from throwing her leg over the side of the bike and using Harry’s shoulder to help steady herself as she got on.

“You’ll be fine,” Harry spoke, and that’s when YN realised that whilst yes, she was probably going to be late for work, she was also on the back of the owner’s bike – so the trouble couldn’t be too grave, “Hold on tight.”

YN did as the man said, wrapping her arms around Harry’s waist. The second that the engine started, and Harry kicked the stand-up they went flying down the road, and she realised in that exact moment why he said tight. YN’s body lurched forward into Harry’s, her cheek resting against the leather of his jacket, and her hands tightening around him.

Once the initial fear had worn off, and YN finally peered over the man’s shoulder – she would be lying if she said that it didn’t feel in a word freeing. The wind through her hair, the chill of the speed at which she was going laced with the feeling of Harry pressed so closely against her. Sure, she had been scared but now she knew that there wasn’t anything to be scared of. It wasn’t a scary thing, instead, it was something to be enjoyed.

YN’s lips curled upwards, a slight giggle leaving them as she noticed they went speeding through a red light. Many, and by many YN meant most, of the riders had a back pocket full of speeding tickets, and lights that they’ve jumped and yet none of them seemed to care. It was as though all of the law-abiding parts of their brains didn’t function when they were on bikes. On second thought, even when they weren’t on the bikes the law-abiding parts of their brain didn’t function.

Harry pulled over just as they joined the road which took them out of the city. They had completely passed Clover’s, and YN hadn’t the faintest clue of how late she was for work at this point, but it didn’t matter. It would take a lot for this smile to leave her face today. Once the bike came to a stop, YN used Harry’s shoulder to push up off of it.

Harry sits on the bike, but his eyes never leave the girl. The way she almost looked like a baby deer as she got her grounding once she was off the bike, the way her hair stuck out in every and all directions, and most importantly the beaming smile that never left her face. For the first time in a long time, there were no thoughts in YN’s head. There were no worries about growing up and getting a proper job, or stress about money – it was completely and utterly freeing. She supposed that was why there were so many of the riders and she supposed they were all chasing that feeling.

“You’ve got to teach me how to ride,” She sighed, the blissful smile never leaving her lips.

Harry just nodded, “Whenever you want.”

“Really?” Her face widened in excitement.

Harry shrugged, “You’ve gotta know how to ride if you’re going to be a rider.”

YN just nodded, and almost jumped back onto the bike. Harry didn’t say anything when she wrapped her arms back around his waist, not a single gap between their bodies but it just felt so comfortable. Harry kicked the stand down once more and sprang straight into action, turning slowly around on the road before speeding up the second they were on the straight back to the town.

All YN knew was that she was going to savour the feeling of the wind in her hair.

It was another Saturday night, and it was packed in the bar.

YN was so thankful that she could stay behind the safety of the actual bar and not venture out into the rest of the room. The men had just come back from a ride, and they were all excited and loud and wanting nothing but drink upon drink upon drink. She had been there from earlier on in the day today, and when Mick showed up later in the evening, she hadn’t managed to utter a single word but hello to him since.

All she could think of was the fact that once the rush had died down, it would be her time to go home and rest. In what felt like a very long few months of working every day (at first YN hadn’t minded, but she was slowly getting more and more burnt out) it was finally time for her to have a day off. Mick had graciously said to her the other day that he could handle Sunday on his own, and those words felt like gold slipping from his lips. She didn’t have a single clue of what she was going to do with her day, all she knew was that it was going to be relaxing.

She just had to get through this night first.

At first, the night seemed fine. Everyone was in good spirits and there was nothing more than a few drunken disagreements that sorted themselves out. YN had taken that as the opportunity to make her way over to where Harry was sitting and replenish his beer while he was there. It was then that the door was thrown open, and the entire atmosphere in the room changed.

What had at first been a lovely evening had changed within the second, and it was all because of a man that she hadn’t recognised. He didn’t have a rider’s jacket on his back, and that should have been YN’s first clue that this man was going to be in trouble. This was a riders’ bar, and those jackets were almost like a rite of passage. Without one, people stuck out like a sore thumb.

It became even more obvious to YN when the man beelined straight over to where Harry was sitting. He didn’t sit and instead leant over Harry, so his focus was on him. YN stayed close, but she didn’t want to make it too obvious that she was listening. She wasn’t the only one either – she could see other riders peering over at them from where they were sitting.

“You said if I did it, I’d get my jacket,” Those were the first words that came out of the man’s mouth – not even a greeting of hello, “I did it. Where’s the fucking jacket?”

Harry didn’t say anything for a second or so. Instead, he lifted his recently replenished beer to his lips and took a swag. He was doing as he always did – taking his sweet darn time.

“I said I’d think about it,” Harry mumbles, shrugging slightly as he did, “I’ve thought about it… and no.”

The man smacks his hand down onto the bar top, the sound echoing throughout the room. It silenced everyone, and all eyes turned to the two men. YN’s eyes looked towards Mick with a panicked expression on them but he shook his head, hoping that would calm the girls down.

“That wasn’t the fucking deal,” The man spits, coming right up into Harry’s face but it didn’t seem to deter the man at all, “The deal was to drop the shipment, I get the fucking jacket.”

Harry finally turned to look at the man, his stern expression never wavering, “Do you think I want someone like you, someone that doesn’t listen wearing one of my jackets?”

The man didn’t like that response, and it seemed as though as quickly as YN could blink her eyes the man was grasping the lapels of Harry’s jacket and pulling him up from the stool. He was then pushed straight into the bar, a slight grunt leaving his lips as he did. There was the initial sound of beer stools scratching on the floor, and other Riders were reading to split the two men up but all it took was Harry lifting one of his hands and they all stopped in their places.

“I don’t want someone who’s that willing to fight one of his men wearing a jacket.”

That was all it took for the other man to make the first punch. His arm pulled backwards, and his fist hit Harry straight across the jaw. The skin immediately went red, but Harry didn’t look like a man who had just been hit straight across the jaw. The bar stayed silent, obviously waiting for whatever Harry’s retaliation was going to be.

What YN, and certainly a lot of others in the bar hadn’t expected was Harry to reach behind him, to where his empty beer bottle was sat and hit the man over the head with it. The man fell to the ground, his grip on Harry letting go instantly. Harry lifted his hand, wincing when he noticed that a shard of glass from the broken bottle had lodged itself in his skin.

He just sighed, rubbing his forehead with his uninjured hand, “Get him out of here.”

Three of the men who were watching closely immediately listened to him, walking over, and picking the man up. They carried him out of the bar and were back to their drinks in what seemed like minutes. It was as though nobody truly seemed to care as to what had just happened and were more excited to get back to their drinks truly as though nothing had happened.

YN watched as Harry threw back the glass of whisky that had sat on the bar waiting for him (courtesy of Mick). That seemed like something that YN would have to take note of. With that, he dropped a few bills on the counter and stormed out of the bar. YN watched this and immediately started to pull her apron off her body.

“Mick,” The older man hummed from the other side of the bar, “I’m going outside for a break. I’ll only be a minute.”

The older man just threw YN a look, obviously having spotted who had left the bar just before she wanted to, “Be careful.”

YN just laughed, throwing the latch open, “I’m always careful.”

The second she stepped outside; she was shocked to see that Harry’s bike was still there, but he wasn’t sitting on it. There was a slight chill in the night air, and YN looked from left to right to try and spot him, but he was still nowhere to be seen. It wasn’t until YN made her way towards the alley that followed the side of the bar that she finally realised where he had gone.

It was dark, but not dark enough to miss the figure leaning against the wall with a cigarette hanging from his lips. YN wrapped her arms around herself, wanting to conceal at least some of the warmth from inside. As her shoes crunched on the path, Harry’s eyes turned to look at her. He was ready for it to be someone else, and it was almost as though when he noticed that it was her – his features seemed to relax.

“How’s your hand?” She asked, coming to a stop right in front of him.

He raised his palm towards her, “It’s been better.”

YN winced to herself slightly as she looked at his hand, seeing the shard of glass still sticking out of the skin. Whilst she didn’t have a first aid kit on her body at this exact moment, it was good that she knew where one was.

“Come with me,” She nodded, walking further down the alley to the bar’s back entrance.

YN didn’t even turn to make sure that he was following her, she just knew that he would be. She held the door open for him, and the one that opened to the office of the bar (where Mick spent most of his time during the day, sorting the books out) and pointed at the chair by the desk.

Whilst Harry sat down without a word to her, YN reached up to the shelf above them and brought the first aid kit down. Harry’s eyes watched her as she pulled tweezer, gauze, and some antiseptic to clean and dress his wound. It was all very silent, and still but caring.

“Can I?” She asked, checking sure it was okay to touch his hand.

Harry nodded, placing his hand in hers. To YN, she wasn’t sure if she was truly touch-starved that feeling of his hand in hers felt truly intimate. She got to work straight away, pulling the glass out with the tweezers ever so carefully before wiping the surface of the cut. Even though YN knew that it would have stung, Harry’s face didn’t show anything, only one raised an eyebrow slightly.

“I don’t think you’ll need stitches,” She mumbles, face still full of concentration on making sure the wound is fully clean before she wraps it.

Harry just nodded, “You see wounds like these before?”

YN nodded, “I’ve worked in bars before – of course, I’ve seen wounds like these before.”

Harry just nods, allowing YN to move his hand at her ease to ensure that it is wrapped tightly and securely. He opened his mouth once she had finished, as though he was going to ask her something, but he closed it straight away. She wanted nothing more than to tell him that he could ask her anything that he wanted to, but she didn’t want to scare him away.

“You’re all set,” She offered him a small smile.

“Thank you,” The words sort of felt foreign, but very sincere coming from his lips, “I… you didn’t have to.”

YN just shrugged, “Wasn’t going to let you bleed out – would’ve been bad for business.”

Harry offered her a small smile at her attempt at a joke, “I’m sorry about what happened in there as well… usually we try to keep those sorts of things out of the bar.”

“Harry,” His name came out of her lips softly, hoping that would be the thing to tell him that it was okay. That she wasn’t angry at him, “I know… it doesn’t bother me – I promise.”

He just nods, “I knew that, you know.”

YN furrows her eyebrows, “What do you mean?”

“That first day,” He reached out to her, and did the last thing that she would ever expect – grabbed her hand, “The way you dealt with some of the lads… I knew you were different.”

“It was you…” The words slipped out of YN’s mouth before she could truly register them, “You saw me that day.”

It all made sense. YN had noticed Harry that very first day that she’d appeared at Clover, and whilst originally Mick had said no, he had changed his mind and said yes. To YN, it had looked and seemed that Mick was the one who had made that decision, and yet it made sense that it was Harry to be the one who changed Mick’s mind. Harry, if he had been sitting at his barstool would have been a metre or so away from that conversation – and he would have heard every word that had been said.

“I did,” Harry nods, claiming every thought that YN had to be true, “I saw you, the way you spoke to them, the way you stood your ground and god, YN, I was hooked.”

That was the first time that YN had heard Harry speak her name, and she was addicted. She wanted to hear it over, and over and over again. He noticed the slight shift in her and used his legs to roll the chair he was sitting on closer to where she was resting against the desk. Then he slipped his uninjured arm around her body and pulled her down to him. She straddled his knees, relishing the feeling of his body beneath hers.

“I…” Her words came out as a whisper, “I felt the same.”

Relief. That was the look on his face – it was a true relief.

“You did?”

“God, Harry,” YN giggles, shaking her head, “I tried not to, but I would be lying if I said that most of my thoughts haven’t been filled with you. Wanting to know more.”

“You can know anything,” His thumb slipped underneath the thin material of her shirt, a heat spreading across her entire body from that one single touch, “Ask me anything, everything – I’ll answer. Whatever you want to know?”

YN pondered that for a second. She could have asked him anything, and yet there was one thought which was present in her mind more than any of the others. An hour ago, this question would have been risky – she just wouldn’t have asked it. Yet, in the safety of this room – away from peering eyes, or anyone who could make assumptions as to what it meant – she wanted nothing more than to ask it.

“Do you want to kiss me?”

Harry exhaled a breath, lifting his hand to rest against her cheek, “More than anything.”

YN nodded.

“Harry…” He hummed at the call of her name, “Kiss me.”

His thumb danced from her cheek, down to her lip. He ran it across the skin of her bottom lip, pushing down slightly so that her lips parted for him. The only sound in the room was YN’s heavy breathing, a response to the teasing that was on display right in front of her.

Then his face inched forward, and his lips were on hers. It didn’t take long for his tongue to slip past her parted lips, dancing with her own. This closeness to someone, the vulnerability – YN had missed it. She pushed her body forward towards Harry’s, slipping her hands in the curls at the nape of his neck. His hands, never mind the bandaged one which would have still caused him pain, rested upon her denim-clad arse. They found their home resting there, and YN wasn’t about to move them.

Harry pulled away from her lips, obviously needing oxygen as much as she did. But he wasted no time in dropping his attack down her neck, his teeth nipping the skin there. YN’s hands still rested in the curls at the nape of his neck, and heavy breaths parted from her lips.

“Harry,” She gasped as he started to suck at the sweet spot where her neck met her collarbone, “I need to get back to work.”

“No, you don’t,” He mumbled, and YN just rolled her eyes.

“I’ve deserted Mick,” She continues, “He might need help.”

“Mick’ll be fine,” He pulled his head up, resting on her chest as he peered up at her, “And anyway, I’m your boss.”

YN shook her head, “I need to go.”

Harry groaned but finally nodded, “Ride home with me?”

“Of course,” YN pecked Harry’s lips one last time pushed herself up from him and walked out of the room.

Harry’s eyes never left her the entire time.  

“Harry, no, I’m going to tip over.”

When Harry had dropped YN at home last night, he had muttered the words that he would see her tomorrow. Before she could clarify that she wasn’t working, he had sped off on his motorcycle into the dark of the night. YN should have known, though, that Harry knew she wasn’t working. It became even more clear when Ashley shouted at her from the kitchen at around midday today, telling her that her Rider was waiting for her.

Instead of the annoyance that YN felt the first time, there was a skip in her step this time. She had taken some time that morning to make herself look that little bit more presentable and waited for him. After their kiss the previous night in the office, and the slight peck that he had given her when she had climbed off his bike yesterday.

When she had bounced over to him earlier, a smile beaming on his face she didn’t have a single care as to what she would be doing that day – all she knew was that she was going to enjoy it. Even when she climbed on the back of his bike and asked where they were going – the smile never left her face. He refused to tell her, though, saying that it was a surprise.

“Harry, I don’t want to,” YN shook her head, hands grasping tightly onto the handles of the bike, “I’m going to fall off, or I’m going to crash your bike.”

What Harry had planned for the girl was to teach her how to ride. Whilst at the start YN had wanted nothing more than to learn how to ride, now that she was sitting on Harry’s bike without him there – she was terrified. Harry was standing close to her, cigarette dangling from his lips and an amused expression on his face.

“You’re not going to fall,” Harry shakes his head, “I’m right here… and I promise I won’t let you crash.”

“You can say that Harry, but you can’t promise,” YN was sitting on the bike, with her feet resting on the ground and absolutely no attempt at all to move.

He threw his cigarette on the floor, moving over so that he could wrap his arms around her waist, his hands coming to rest upon hers on the handle. He turned the engine on, and even though it was YN’s hands on the handle, Harry was controlling it. They went very slow – they had to so that Harry could walk at the side of them.

“I’m going to let go,” Harry spoke after a minute or so, but YN shook her head.

“I’m not ready,” YN pushed her body into his slightly, “I’m going to crash.”

“There’s nothing for you to crash into,” Harry peels one of his hands off of hers, “I trust you… you’ll be fine.”

It wasn’t as though he was lying. Harry had driven them out to a deserted road just out of town. Close enough away that they’d be home at a normal time, but far enough away that there wasn’t any traffic which would interrupt them. There wasn’t anything but stone and grass around them, and whilst if YN came to a haphazard stop, it wouldn’t be the most comfortable thing ever – there wasn’t a lot of damage that she could do to Harry’s bike.

Harry let go of her other hand, and she was doing it. Granted, she didn’t go over 2mph, but she was still riding the bike on her own. She wasn’t comfortable enough to attempt to turn yet, so she just came to a slow stop a few metres further down from where Harry was. She kicked the stand down and climbed off the bike – turning towards Harry with a smile on her face.

“I did it!” She bounced over to Harry and wrapped her arms around his neck, his coming to rest around her waist.

“Never doubted you,” He leaned down to place a kiss on her lips, pulling her body flush against his. Before anything more could happen, the sound of crunching on the road, as well as the sound of a siren interrupted them.

YN’s heart started to beat rapidly at the sight of a police car inching towards them. Whilst YN had dealt with police before working in her previous bars, she hadn’t ever been out in the open with her and only one other person when talking to them. Knowing that Harry also ran a motorcycle gang added another level of worry to it.

Harry just pulled YN with him, going to rest against his bike. He looked completely unfazed, whilst YN truly was shitting in her boots slightly. The police car stopped right in front of them, and as the door swung open to the car, Harry lit up a cigarette and brought it up to his lips – again, making it aware that he was completely unfazed by what was happening.

“Styles,” The officer sighed, slamming his car door behind him shit as he walked towards the two of them, “You’re not an easy man to find.”

“Hmm,” Harry just hums, inhaling from his cigarette, “I had no idea you were even looking for me… I wouldn’t have just stood in the middle of the road if I knew.”

The officer chuckled, placing his hands on his hips, “We had reports last night that you attacked a man.”

Harry shook his head, “Couldn’t have been me.”

“It happened at your bar,” The officer took a step forward towards Harry, “Had reports that you hit him over the head with a beer bottle.”

Harry just chuckles, “Officer Thompson, I don’t have time for this he said she said bullshit. If you’ve got something to say to me, I think you should say it.”

The officer just hummed, “Where were you last night?”

“I was at the bar,” Harry nodded, “All night.”

YN started to panic from beside him, but she tried not to make it obvious. Harry must have complete and utter trust in his riders to not say anything to the police. It made sense now to YN as to why that man hadn’t been given a jacket. He had instigated the fight, and yet he had run straight to the police with it. He was a coward and a rat.

“Can anyone corroborate this?”

“I can,” YN was surprised at how strongly her voice came out, “I was there with him all night, I work there.”

The officer hums once more, his eyes dropping down to focus on Harry once more. YN realises that it’s then that the officer has spotted his bandaged hand. YN’s mind starts to spiral slightly, hoping that one of them will be able to come up with something quickly.

“What, uh,” The officer couldn’t hide the smile on his face, obviously thinking that he had found him out, “What happened to your hand, Styles?”

Harry opens his mouth, but nothing comes out, so YN interrupts. She giggles slightly, knowing exactly what type of character was going to be believable for this officer. But desperate times called for desperate measures.

“I’m so sorry, officer, that was my fault,” YN took a small step towards the officer, but not far enough that she wasn’t in arms reach of Harry, “See, I’m real clumsy. And yesterday, I dropped a whole crate of beer and Harry heard the crash, and he helped me clean up – unfortunately, he cut his hand in the process.”

The officer’s eyes moved between Harry and YN. There was no way at that point for YN to try and guess what he was thinking – or what he was going to say. Then, when the officer’s face broke out into a smile just the same as YN’s, she knew she had convinced him.

“I’m sorry to bother you, miss, and I hope you have a good rest of your day,” Then the officer turned to Harry, and the smile on his face dropped, “I’m sure I’ll see you soon, Styles.”

“And I’ll be looking forward to it Officer Thompson.”

Harry rested against his bike the entire time, whilst YN had her arms crossed against her chest. They didn’t say another word to each other until they watched the car turn around and drive away from them. It was only then that YN turned to Harry, who was running a hand over his face. Sighing, YN walked over to him, grabbing his hands (but making sure to be careful of his injured hand).

“You didn’t have to do that,” Harry shakes his head, pulling her hands up so that he can place a kiss on the back of them.

“I know,” YN nods, “But I wanted to.”

Harry rests his chin upon their connected hands, “I wanna take you somewhere.”

YN would be lying if she said that she hadn’t thought about where Harry lived once or twice because she had. He had been to her apartment a few times to pick her up, and whilst she hadn’t necessarily wanted to be that forward and ask him where he lived, there was a part of her which wondered about it.

It was a strange circumstance. Where does the leader of a gang live? Where does he rest his head at night? Where does make his coffee in the morning? Whilst YN wouldn’t necessarily admit it, she was an inquisitive person.  

When Harry’s bike came to a stop outside of a garage, one that seemingly had an apartment attached to the top of it – it all made sense. Yes, the bar had to be doing well, with how many people were in it daily. But there had to be another way that Harry was making money, and it seemed as though this was it. She wondered if this had anything to do with the shipments that the other man had been speaking about.

He kicked the standout and gave YN the space the climb off before he did. He walked over to the shutter, unlocked the padlock, and threw it open. The apartment didn’t look too big, but the shop itself was huge. She had expected a car, maybe a few bikes – but she hadn’t expected rows upon rows of bikes lining the side of the walls. In the middle, YN could see the different stations where Harry and some of the other members worked.

“Are these all yours?” YN asked, her finger reaching out to run across the glossy black exterior of one of the bikes closest to her.

“Most of them,” Harry shrugged, dropping the shutter closed behind the two of them after pushing his bike inside, “Me and a few others, we buy them and restore them, make them better to sell on.”

“God, Harry,” YN turns to him, an expression of what could only be described as amazement on her features, “This is amazing.”

He just offered her a small smile, taking small steps towards her until he was close enough to wrap his arms around her middle. YN giggled slightly, resting her head on Harry’s shoulder as he pulled her closer to him.

“Pick one.”

The features on YN’s lips dropped again, “What?”

“Pick one,” Harry repeated, “A bike.”

“Yeah, I gathered that, Harry, I’m just confused as to why.”

He just shrugged, leaning back against the workbench near the two of them. YN turned around so that she was facing him, and Harry at once pressed his hands against her waist. It was funny to YN, to see the big, scary, gang member was so soft around her, and they hadn’t necessarily known each other very long.

“You said it yourself,” He shrugged, his hands pulling her between her body between his open legs, “If you’re gonna be a rider, you’ve got to ride. Seems like you need a bike to do that.”

“Yeah, but I’ll buy one,” YN spoke, as though it was the most obvious thing in the word, “When I have the cash for it.”

Harry shook his head, “No need, rather have you on one of these. Tested them myself, they’re all safe.”

YN just shook her head, propelling her body even further forward so that she could wrap her arms around Harry’s neck and press her lips against his. It was a clumsy kiss, with both of their teeth clashing and smiles upon their features but they did not care.

“Thank you,” She mumbled against his lips, pressing a flurry of chaste kisses to them afterwards.

Harry shook his head, “No need – pick one, baby.”

YN pushed her body up and started to walk up and down the rows of bikes until she spotted it. It was about halfway down the row, a bike with dark green glossy accents, looking nothing but sleek with the dark metal of the engine. It was the one that she wanted, and the second she was standing in front of it she knew it was hers. With that beaming smile across her features, YN turned and launched herself at Harry, wrapping her legs around his waist and his arms around his neck. His hands came to rest on the plump skin of her arse over her dark denim jeans. Even though YN suspected that she had caught him off guard, he didn’t show it on his face.

“How can I ever thank you?” She asked between a litter of kisses to his lips, a boyish smile crossing his features afterwards that YN wants nothing more than to bottle up and remember forever.

“That smile of yours is enough,” Harry nods at her, pressing another full kiss to her lips.

YN tilts her head to the side, turning to look at Harry with a slight smirk crossing her features. His eyebrows furrowed as though he already suspected she was coming up with something in her head.

“What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?”

“Maybe…” YN starts, her teeth clamping down on her bottom lip, hesitating, “Maybe there’s another way I can thank you.”

Harry’s eyes widened, as though he was finally catching on to the thoughts swimming around in YN’s head.

“We don’t have to,” Harry shakes his head quickly. “I promise I’m not expecting anything from you.”

YN just shakes her head, leaning forward to place another kiss on his lips. Her hands tugged at the curls at the nape of his neck.

“I know you’re not,” YN offers him a smile, “I want to. I promise.”

Harry shook his head, a groan emitting from his lips as he tugged her even closer to him if that was possible. YN giggles at his obvious joy at her statement.

“God,” He rests his forehead against hers, “I know it’s wrong, but I’ve been waiting to hear you say that.”

“Well, what are you waiting for?”

Harry turns, as though he’s going to walk out of the garage, but YN stops him. He furrows his eyebrows at her, and she just giggles once more.

“Want it here.”

“What?”

“Want it here, want you on the bench,” Harry groans once more, moving to drop her down upon the workbench that he had been rested upon earlier.

“Are you sure I haven’t dreamt you up?”

“Nope,” YN shakes her head, “I’m real.”

YN threads her fingers back through the curls at the nape of his neck, bringing his face back to hers. It doesn’t take long for their lips to connect once more. It wasn’t sweet or light. It was rough, as though both of them were finally able to do what they had both been thinking about.

Harry’s hands start to move down her body, resting on the hem of her jeans. She can feel his thumbs pressing down into the skin of her waist, and when it registers in her brain what he was trying to do YN pulls away, shaking her head.

“Not yet,” She lightly pushes his body to the side so that she can jump off the bench, “I haven’t thanked you yet.”

“You don’t have to,” YN’s hands rest on the lapels of his jacket, waiting for his nod before she pushes it off his shoulders.

“I want to.”

It takes just one swipe for Harry to pull his shirt over his head whilst YN’s hands come to rest upon his belt buckle. YN’s eyes widen at the sight of his exposed chest, as well as the tattoos that litter his sin. YN knew that Harry had tattoos; she had seen the ones on his arms multiple times, but it felt different to see the ones on his chest.

Her fingers work quickly to pull Harry’s belt buckle open, working on the button and zip of his jeans next. YN drops down to her knees, pushing Harry back slightly so that he’s resting against the workbench. Harry peers down at her, his chest heaving up and down in anticipation. Her hand rests upon the grey material of his boxers, palming his already semi-hard cock through the light material.

“You like teasing?”

YN shrugs lightly, “I have no clue what you mean.”

Harry laughs, watching her intently as her fingers loop into the band of his boxers, pulling them down to expose him to her. YN finds herself unable to pull her eyes away from his cock. She knew it had to be big from palming him through his boxers but seeing it before she made her mouth water and pressure to build in the pit of her stomach.

She placed a light kiss on his tip, which was already red and leaking from his obvious arousal. YN smiled, giving it a lick from the base to the tip before she used her hand to give it a few tugs. YN was confident in her moves, even though she had only done it a few times before in her life. She gained more confidence from the moans leaving Harry’s lips; they were deep and quiet, but she could hear them, and they caused her to squeeze her thighs together in hopes that it would give her some relief.

“YN… please,” It almost sounded as though he was pleading with her to do something, and YN almost moaned at the sound.

YN wraps her lips around the tip of Harry’s cock, beginning to bob her head up and down. One of her hands rested upon his thigh, whilst the other wrapped around the base of his cock, helping her with what she couldn’t fit in her mouth. Her tongue lightly grazed his tip, earning a louder moan from Harry that egged her on further.

“Fuck… YN.”

Harry’s hands came to rest in her hair, helping her to move her head up and down his cock. It was a light tug that caused YN to moan around his cock, and she could feel Harry resisting from bucking his hips to meet her. Instead, she continued to bob her head, speeding up in hopes that it would help him recover from her teasing.

“YN gotta pull away,” Harry says after a minute or so, his grip on her hair tightening, “I’m gonna cum.”

YN doesn’t stop, however, instead, she keeps going until she hears him moan louder and start to cum down her throat. When she looks up at him, his head is thrown back, and his eyes are closed. She works her head up and down until he’s finished, only pulling away then. When she looks back up at him he has a look in his eyes that makes her assume that they aren’t done.

YN giggles as he puts his hands on her waist and pulls her up so she’s standing, immediately placing a kiss on her lips, seemingly not caring about the fact that his cum was on them. YN’s legs nearly gave out then and there, and she had to place her hands on his biceps to steady herself.

“Did that show my thanks?” She asked, tilting her head to the side innocently.

Harry wraps his arms around her thighs once more, picking her up effortlessly.

“Damn right, it did,” Harry starts to walk over to the door that she suspects goes into the house, “But I’m not done with you yet.”

It was quiet at Clover’s, a lull mid-afternoon on a Friday before everyone picked their spots for the night. YN had spent an hour or so cleaning and drying the glasses that had been used earlier in the day, making sure that they were to have enough for the night ahead.

The repeated motion of washing and drying gave her time to think, and more often than not, she found herself daydreaming about her morning, which she had spent in Harry’s bed, wrapped up in his arms. The two of them had been pretty inseparable before, but after he had gifted her the bike, it had seemingly gotten even worse, if that was possible. It had been weeks since that day, and YN could probably count on one hand the nights she had spent alone since then. Harry waited every night for her after work, and even when he couldn’t she would return to his house and wait for him there.

They hadn’t spoken about what they were necessarily, but that didn’t matter to YN. She didn’t need a label to know how she felt about Harry, and she assumed Harry felt about her also. For the first time in a long time YN was happy, and even though she was only a bartender and that useless history degree of hers wasn’t doing much – she wasn’t yearning for something else, for something better. YN truly felt as though it couldn’t get any better than it currently was.

The door to the bar pushed open, and whilst YN thought it was probably a rider coming in for a drink, she was shocked to see that it was Mick, obviously dropping in to start his shift. Thankfully, since YN had taken the day shift she didn’t have to stay until close tonight, meaning that she could spend more time in bed with Harry to end her week.

“Hey, YN,” She offered Mick a smile, “Just lemme drop my shit in the back and then you can go on break.”

“Thanks, Mick.”

Once he was back out, and she had passed over what she was doing to him, she made her way outside with the sandwich that Harry had made for her earlier. She was going to make her lunch, but Harry insisted that he make it for her. YN smiled at the memory of her sitting upon his kitchen counter, clad only in one of his t-shirts and a pair of pyjama shorts. They had laughed and joked and, at one point, had a break to dance around the kitchen to the song that was playing over the radio.

YN hadn’t had many relationships before, two at most she could think of, but they were never like this. They always felt transactional to YN. But with Harry, it truly felt as though they were two halves. There was a level of domesticity that YN loved more than anything with him, and every little task that they did together meant so much.

Once YN had eaten her sandwich, her thoughts filled with Harry and their morning. YN pulled her legs underneath her and began to read her book, knowing that she could get a chapter or so read before her break was over. It was a book about the Tudors she was reading, something that had been a passion of hers during her degree. It had been a while since she had read anything, but she supposed that the want came from her peace and happiness being restored.

She had just finished a chapter on Henry VIII’s Economic policy when she heard noise from the front of the bar. It was loud, and the voices that were speaking were quick, but it was muffled, so she couldn’t quite decipher what was being said. Putting her bookmark into place and closing the book, she pushed up from the chair and made her way towards the bar.

Mick was standing there, with three or four others in front of him. They looked panicked, and their words reflected that.

“Tell me again,” Mick placed his hands down on the counter, “I can’t tell a word you’re saying when you’re talking that quickly.”

“An accident, Mick,” It was Taylor who spoke, “There was an accident. We were riding along, and this truck came outta nowhere, sent him flying.”

YN moved towards them, her heart immediately starting to thump within her chest.

“Who?” Her words came out quickly, all of the men’s heads turning towards her, “Who went flying?”

“YN… I…” Taylor took a step towards her, his entire face dropping.

That was when she knew.

Her palms started to sweat, and her body felt heavy. There was a dizziness inside her head, and for one second she thought that she was going to fall to ground.

It was Harry.

“Where is he?” Her voice cracked as she spoke, the tears finally starting to collect within her waterline.

“YN…” Mick started.

“No, Mick,” She shook her head, “Where is he? Tell me where he is!”

Taylor took another step closer towards her, “I don’t know. The woman in the store across the street from where it happened phoned an ambulance, I left before they came. If I hazard a guess, they’ll be on their way to the hospital by now.”

YN nodded and before she knew it she was stalking her way outside and towards her bike. Ignoring the tears that were clouding her vision she climbed upon. Just as she was about to start it, a hand touched her elbow. It was Mick. She almost broke down crying there and then.

“Don’t,” Mick shook his head, “You can’t drive like that, darlin’. Let Taylor take you. Please.”

“He has to be okay,” YN shook her head, the sobs starting to wrack through her body.

Mick nodded, helping her off the bike, “He will be. But, if you wanna get there safely, in one piece let the boys take you.”

YN nods, walking over to Taylor’s bike and hopping on behind him. Mick gave her hand one last squeeze.

“Send him my love, okay?” Mick spoke and YN nodded, not trusting herself to be able to reply in that moment.

Taylor started the engine, and before she knew anything, they were hurtling down the street. This time, though, she wasn’t thinking about the wind in her hair.

[parfaitblogs]

as time goes by ❀ s. reid x reader

in which you funnel through photographic memories of what once was, now isn't, but might still be.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader genre: angst & smut (18+ mdni) tags: what isn't there? meet cute. burnt toast theory if you squint. right person wrong time. soft dom!spencer. first time. p in v. fingering. praise. fade to black oral (f receiving). mommy issues. anxious attachment reader. past alcohol consumption. argument. + angst, smut, fluff, hurt/comfort. word count: 9.8k a/n: i know i said this was 8k but then i just kept writing and writing and writing and writing and writing... enjoy my angels!! this truly took a piece of my soul to write. a short playlist of what i listened to while writing this <3

"I'm always soft for you, that's the problem. You could come knocking on my door five years from now and I would open my arms wider and say 'come here, it's been too long, it felt like home with you." (Azra T)

February

It was a dreary burst of continuous rain and the threat of a thunderstorm that landed you in this predicament. 

Grey storm clouds that darkened the entire city even at the early hour of seven in the morning. There was a soft glow in one of the clusters of clouds where the sun was attempting to peek through, a striking metaphor for the way your life currently felt. Rays of sunshine barely piercing the sky enough to make an impression on the otherwise miserable day. 

You were late for work. Your usually easy morning routine replaced by bus delays due to the traffic on the roads, and trains canceled due to faults in the signalling.

You were barely halfway up the stairs to your platform when it happened. 

If you were any less focussed on keeping the ends of your jeans off the damp concrete, you wouldn't have spotted the drop of the blue and green SmarTrip card dropping to the step in front of you, from a leather messenger bag that was frantically swinging on someone's shoulder. 

You pick it up without even thinking, concerned by the fact that its owner hadn't even noticed. Which meant you'd have to experience the God awful awkward interaction of handing it back to them, and the even more awful small talk conversation that followed. 

The platform stretched out in front of you, and you were rushing to tap his shoulder before he could get too far away from you. A mop of messy curls turned, and never mind the fact that he was a stranger; he was hot. 

He's confused, and you watch him begin to think the tapping was a mistake, and you were just too rude to apologise for it. 

"Hi," you burst out, holding the card out in front of you. "Sorry. Is this yours?" 

"Oh," his expression is replaced with relief. "Yes. It is. Thank you."

You force an awkward smile onto your face, and he matches it with his own. Your heart flutters at the sight of it, and you thank God he was one of those awkward attractive guys — not an asshole. 

Then again, this was a two second interaction, and you didn't know him. Delusion would be your downfall. 

The train was overly crowded that morning. The traffic of two trains packed into one, resulting in barely any seats, and even less standing room. 

Thankfully, you had gotten one at the back of one of the carriages, which meant you could watch as multiple people walk past you, thinking there'd be more further down. Only to be sorely disappointed, but too stuck to come back and get the seat beside you they had spotted. 

"Oh. Hello again."

You lift your head at the voice, metro card man standing awkwardly next to the seat next to you. 

"Hey," you reply, heart rate skyrocketing. Just your luck.

"Is it okay if I sit here? All the other seats are taken," he asks, and even if there were six other free seats away from you, you'd let him. 

He sits when you nod, and you adjust your bag on the floor in front of you as he does the same, the messenger bag hugged firmly atop his lap. 

"Thank you for catching my card," he says, and you aren't sure if he's trying to make small talk because he's interested, or because he feels too bad to not. 

Your heart decides to go with the former. 

"It's no problem," you shake your head. "If I ever lost my metro card I'd probably have a panic attack in the middle of the station. So... y'know..." Why did you say that?

His chest shakes with quiet laughter anyways, and he's nodding in agreement, but you're sure he doesn't really understand what you mean. He doesn't seem like the type of person to have a panic attack in the middle of a train station.

"Are you headed to DC?" he then asks, and delusion be damned if this isn't him interested in you. 

You nod your head. "That's where this train is going, yes."

He pauses in a reply. "Well, yes, but there's stops along the way. You could be getting off at any of those." You fall silent at his words. That was true. "But you're not. You're going to DC."

"I am," you confirm your destination of the day for the second time, and your brain wonders if telling this inherent stranger where you were planning on going was a wise choice. Probably not. He didn't seem like a serial killer, at least. Then again, your judgement wasn't always the best.

"I am too," he says, lips pulling into the same awkward smile he had earlier, when you'd given him his metro card back. 

"We have so much in common," you joke, but you aren't sure if it lands. For he's blinking awkwardly, and then he must recognise you're trying to joke, because his chest puffs in a laugh. Pity laughter was still laughter. 

"We do."

It takes an entire train ride of conversation for you to muster up any courage at all, and it's only when he's about to step out into the aisle to disappear into his own world, and you into yours, that you blurt out,

"Do you want to get coffee?"

He blinks a few times, but then he's nodding his head, lips twitching into a small smile. "Yeah. Yeah, I'd like that."

At his approval, you ask, "Could I get your number? Y'know, to... plan... this coffee date..."

Metro man, whose name you've since learned is Spencer, nods again, and he's rummaging in his bag for a piece of paper and a pen. The pen he finds, the paper he does not, and you simply tell him to write his number down on your hand. 

Delusions were fuelled quite easily when you're a hopeless romantic, and the immediate flutter of your heart when his hand holds yours in place so he could write on your skin was enough to convince you this man was your soulmate. 

You part ways from each other, feeling a little giddier, and a lot less like the storm clouds still swirling over your head. 

March

Even the quietest of sounds were catastrophically loud when you were in that middle ground between being awake, and being asleep. And the muffled sound of a tap turning on was as loud as a raging thunderstorm, in the early hours of that Saturday morning, startling you awake from the comfortable sleep you had been in. 

It took you a few more minutes to fully come to consciousness, but by that point, you had registered what tap was on and why, and your fears of an unfamiliar scent surrounding you as you awaken were diminished. 

"Oh. Morning."

Your eyes flutter open to see a slightly shocked Spencer Reid standing at the foot of his bed, collecting the bundled socks he had set on the mattress. 

"What're you doing?" you ask him, tiredly, rolling onto your back and blocking the bright sunlight with your arm. 

"Going to work," he answers. "I have paperwork I need to catch up on," he then adds, at your puzzled expression.

"Oh," you pout immediately, your heart sinking at the knowledge that he was leaving you. 

"I'll be home by three," he promises, moving around and crouching down by the edge of the bed, next to your head.

"You want me to stay here?" you ask him, rolling over to look at him.

His eyes bore into your own, and you search his face, his cologne mixing with the scent of his sheets beneath your head, making your head go a little fuzzy. 

He brushes hair out of your face. "You can if you want. There's food in the fridge, and I bought copies of your toiletries for when you do... stay over..." he stammers to a stop, brain catching up to his mouth. "Sorry. Is that weird?"

"No," your lips pull into a smile. "No. It's really sweet, actually."

"And there's clean clothes in my dryer," he continues at your reassurance. "Since you said you like my shirts. I mean, you don't have to, obviously. But I'll only be gone six hours, and then I have the rest of the day and tomorrow off, and I know you do too, so I just figured—"

You cut him off with a kiss. Perhaps not the best time to kiss him, for you're pretty sure you have a bad case of morning breath. If you do, he doesn't protest. In fact, he melts even further into your lips. 

"I'll stay," you tell him.

"Okay," his eyes light up a little, and your cheeks hurt from how wide you're smiling. You're sure you look ridiculous. "Okay. I'll see you later."

"Bye," you say, catching him for one more kiss, until he's closer to being late for work than anything, and he's tearing himself away from you. Forcefully, because he doesn't really want to. 

He comes home six and a half hours later to his home smelling distinctly of a candle he forgot he even owned, and whatever it was in his fridge you had managed to create a dish out of. 

He wonders if it's too soon to feel love for you. 

April

A night out was, arguably, the last thing you had expected to do when you woke up that morning. In fact, you had spent the entire day with plans to stay in your sanctuary of a bedroom with a shitty television series playing to detach from the past few weeks. Your life was busy, and you felt as though you had no time to yourself. Technically, you did. But your days off never consisted of an entire day in your bed without any responsibilities. 

It seemed that even on your planned day off, you couldn't get that. Granted you weren't mad, come six o'clock, because despite talking about how excited you were for your day off to him, the second Spencer Reid had mentioned restaurant and dinner in your morning phone call as he commuted to work, you were begging him to fulfil the plans he was about to cancel. 

He had stayed afterwards. Of course he had. You'd be damned if the man who had just taken you to the nicest restaurant you've ever been to in your life didn't stay over afterwards. And he was quite happy to, it seemed, which made your heart flutter a little more than it probably should've.

"Have you read Emily Dickinson?" you ask him, looking up at his face. You were now in your bed, covers draped over your entwined legs, his back up against the headboard of your bed, your own on his chest. 

"Yes," he nods his head, lips twitching at the way your face fell upon his response. "Did you think I hadn't?"

"No, I guess I assumed you had," you shook your head. "A small part of me didn't know for sure, though."

"Now you know," he says, eyes falling to the televison that had a silent cartoon playing on it (your choice, not his). "Did you have a good night?"

"Yeah," your lips curl into a smile. "Did you?"

"I always do with you," he leans down and pecks the smile off your face, watching your lips frown when he pulls back. "What?"

He laughs at the pout on your lips, and your eyes narrow in response. In a quick motion, your legs and arms wrap around him, bodies now facing each other, as you return your lips to his. 

"Was my kiss not up to your standards?" he muses against your mouth, and you poke his shoulder with a finger as a response, incessantly begging him to kiss you back.

You had done this before. Multiple times, in fact. Making out with Spencer was slowly but surely becoming your favourite past time. You weren't entirely sure what it was about it. Perhaps the way he kissed like he'd never be able to kiss again, always with so much fervour, and always so desperate. Maybe it was the way his hands felt when they grappled the entirety of your ass whenever you were on his lap, something that seemed so not Spencer Reid. Whatever it was, it was maddening, and you found a quiet, controlled mewl leave your lips when his hands squeezed your ass, pulling you closer to him (if that was possible).

"Mm-mm," he murmurs against your lips at the sound, fingertips digging into the flesh of your ass, eliciting another, less controlled sound from you. "You can do better than that."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," you mumble against his lips, semi-breathless, hands delving up into his curls, encasing your fingers in them.

He laughs again, the sound addicting, and melting any anxieties away as his fingers travel up your body, beneath your pyjama shirt, stopping short where your bra strap would be if you were wearing one. 

"We don't have to," you rush out when you feel his hesitance. Though you were no stranger to this part of making out – the suggestive touching – you could feel the bulge in his pants, and you realised this was not like every other time.

"You don't want to?" he asks with a gentle voice, pulling back to look at you.

"No, I–of course I do," you reassure him.

His lips tug into a small smile, and his face leans in to kiss the corner of your lips. "Okay. Good. I want to, as well."

"Good," you answer with a firm nod, and he hums. 

His hands slip beneath your shirt again. Warm – burning, even – though you weren't particularly cold. Yet, you felt like your skin was ice that was melting beneath his fingers as they dragged along your skin. All while his lips kissed down your jawline and neck, until they found your pulse point. He had found it accidentally a few weeks prior, and had used and abused it as much as he could after that. For no reason other than the fact that you let out the sweetest sounds whenever his teeth grazed over it, or his lips sucked on the skin there.

His hands reached further up, and his palms brush over both nipples at once, eliciting a gasp from you as your back arches into him. 

"Sensitive," he notes when his thumbs drag down over them, pulling the same reaction from your lips. You shoot him a sharp glare, and he laughs. His response is then to lean back in and kiss the pout away, gently biting down on your jutted lower lip with his teeth. All while he rolls your nipples between his thumb and forefinger, earning a whimper from you into his mouth.

It was a few more moments of that, before you murmur quietly, "Tell me you're taking this further." 

He laughs in response. Then, says, "What do you want?"

"Up to you," you reply, and he shakes his head, bringing one of your hands to his lips and kissing it. 

"No. Up to us."

"Okay. Um..." you hesitate. "Surely there's a natural order of things."

"I don't know. I think it depends on the people," he replies. "Tell me what you want to do."

You hesitate. There's a thousand things you want from him, and you're sure the mere twenty-four hours in the day are not enough for them all. Though, you also know time is not running out for the two of you soon. 

Recognising your hesitance, he instead taps your hips to get you off his lap, and you comply, and he lays you down on the bed. He hovers above you, and you almost laugh at his hair that falls down and creates a curtain over your two faces. 

His fingers lift the hem of your shirt over your body, and you let him, your breath hitching at the still less-than-hot air that settles in your room amidst April. He follows suite and removes his own shirt upon seeing your close to demanding look, before he ducks his head down to kiss you again. 

Fingers dance across the skin of your waist as he hesitates in pulling your pants down, but you don't even want to complain as he kisses you. In no rush to hurry him along, you savour his lips on yours, allowing him to take the time to work you up with brushes along your thigh through the fabric of your pants. 

You were equally as present as you were lost in a daydream as he touches you, for you don't really remember when your legs had become bare and his touch had become more direct, but you remember exactly what it felt like for his breath to hitch against your ear as he ran a finger down the damp fabric of your underwear. 

He seems to have picked up on your dreamlike state, for he brushes his lips against your temple and asks, "You with me?"

"Yes," you reply, breathlessly. 

He doesn't really believe you, but you're eagerly inching your hips closer towards his retreating hand for him to need to. 

Gently, he's pulling your underwear down your legs, and you're watching the pupils in his dark eyes expand. You relish in the knowledge of you emitting such a reaction from him. 

A sharp whine comes from you when his finger brushes through your folds, stopping just short of your clit. He does it again. 

"Spencer."

"Yeah, pretty girl?" he murmurs, though his focus is solely directed to his hand on you.

"Need you."

"I can see that," he muses, and he jolts at the way your heel kicks his side. You're pretty sure it doesn't hurt, at least. "Okay, okay. Sorry."

"You should be."

His other hand pinches your thigh.

You don't have time to argue against him, for he is sinking a finger into you, and every word dies on your tongue, replaced only by a quiet moan and the breathless sound of his name. 

He lifts himself back up your body as he presses his finger further into you, capturing your second moan with his lips against yours. Again. He would probably swallow you whole if you asked him to. You think you might. 

He adds a second finger almost too soon. His fingers were longer than yours ever could be, and he curls them in a way that has your head tilting back and pressing into the pillow beneath it, and your hips rising off the mattress. He chases your lips with his as you squirm away, and his free hand pushes your body back into the mattress as he draws his fingers out, then presses them back into you. 

"Didn't know you were this sensitive," he murmurs against your mouth, and your teeth nip at his lower lip in protest. You feel him smile, and he returns the gesture, scoldingly. 

His fingers brush against your g-spot and you're pretty sure you see stars. Or perhaps that's just the ends of Spencer's hair tickling your cheeks as he continues to kiss you. 

He continues to finger you until it becomes its own language, complete with strings of high pitched moans from you, and his inability to keep you still on the bed. He pulls his fingers out all too soon, and you're verbally complaining about it as he takes his own pants off. 

"Do you ever stop talking?" he asks you, but there's no heat behind his voice for you to seek insecurity from. 

"I talk when I'm nervous," you reply. 

"Are you always nervous?"

"Around you? Yes."

He doesn't reply, but he laughs, bashfully, and you know he finds it endearing. Instead, he says, "I need to go get a condom."

At which your eyebrows shoot up. "Did you bring some?"

He pauses, sheepishly replying, "Yes?"

You decide against teasing him for it, and merely nod your head. "Okay."

He doesn't waste time, but you're left laying there on the bed to watch him, stuck within the thoughts of how did you luck out so well? 

He's quick to return your mind back to Earth, and in a quick turn of events, he's positioned back over you, condom wrapper discarded somewhere in your room — you'd need to find that later before it gets found by somebody mortifying — and his hips achingly close to your own. 

Lowering your gaze instinctively, your lips part, and you mutter a, "What the fuck?"

"Tone, please," he asks you, kissing the corner of your mouth.

"Bad. But good," you confuse him further, before you settle on, "Shock."

"Are you still okay with this?"

"Yes," you quickly confirm. "Just... scared. I guess. I haven't had sex in a while and you're..." Not small.

"I'll go slow," he promises, and your heart flutters at the sincerity in his voice. 

Slowly, he eases himself into you, swallowing your moans all over again with a kiss, hands rubbing gentle circles onto your hips as a welcome distraction. It was borderline filthy as he moans into your ear in harmony with your own.

You hear him murmuring from above you, your ears catching the whispering of numbers and statistical facts you've definitely heard him spewing to himself before. But never in bed. Usually, it would be as he situates at his desk to work. 

"What're you doing?" you murmur, and he pauses upon realising he was thinking aloud. 

"Trying not to come so soon," he answers, kissing your jawline, a shuddering breath leaving him to rest his head in that position. 

"Oh."

"Yeah. Oh," he mocks. "You just feel so good around me. Can't believe I went so long without you, angel girl. Fuck."

You wish you could tell the you many moons ago that this is how the man you met at the train station would talk to you. 

He's slow as he withdraws his hips from you, before he's pushing himself back into you with yet another moan, from both him and you.

You're not sure when your causal moans break into whines and desperation overtakes you. Somewhere between him taking his time in getting to know what you liked, and discovering how easy it was to make you squirm if he just put a finger on your clit at the same time as thrusting into you. 

He is so good it's almost sickening, and you begin to entertain the idea of this man being your soulmate once again. Or perhaps he's just really good at seeing right through you, which might be a little embarrassing in retrospect. 

"Spencer," you moan, hands looping around his neck, delving into his hair and nails scratching gently at his scalp. 

"Mm?" he asks you, pressing another kiss to your head, drawing circles on your clit in tandem with his thrusts. 

"Please."

"Please what, honey?"

"Wanna—" you're cut off with a wanton whine, "—come. Please."

"You do? Really?" 

"Spencer," you repeat his name, this time frustratedly.

"That's no way to ask for what you want," he wanes his movements ever so slightly, a silent warning. 

"Please make me come."

"There you go, good girl," he mumbles, and he smiles at the way your hips jerk slightly at the praise. 

He complies with your request immediately, though you're sure it has something to do with how quickly his own hips stutter into a stop with an orgasm of his own. 

Never one to complain, though, and you let him work you through the star-seeing experience with broken moans and chants of his name that has his own heart fluttering. 

He rolls off of you soon after, disappearing from the bed only to dispose of the condom, before he's climbing back into the bed. Regardless of every bone in his body telling him to get you up to shower. 

"Why didn't we do that earlier?" you murmur.

"I don't know," he replies, lips moving against the skin of your forehead. 

"Can we do it again?"

His breath is warm as he huffs out a laugh, rolling back over top of you, thankful for his lack of asking to shower. "Yes."

June

There's a comfortable quiet that blankets the air around you and Spencer. The pages of his book turning as he flips them every few seconds, and the quiet murmur of characters Ilsa and Sam talking on the television, Casablanca playing at an awfully quiet volume. 

He was sitting on the floor in front of you, who was sitting on the couch, fingers entangled in his hair. Freshly washed, because you were adamant on fixing him a proper hair routine now that his hair was long enough to require something remotely akin to your own.

His head lifts as the piano began to play, and the familiar voice of Dooley Wilson filled the space, his reading of his book now on pause.

"Spencer!" you began to protest when he peeled away from the edge of the couch, the criss-cross pattern in his hair falling loose almost immediately. He turns to look at you, noting the page he was on for his book, before he closes it and places it on the coffee table in front of him. 

"What are you doing to my hair?" he asks you, hands going up to feel the strands, eyebrows frowning towards each other at the loose plaits he was touching. 

"I was braiding it," you grumble, watching as he brushes each strand out unconsciously. "You've ruined it."

"Oh, I'm sorry," he muses upon realising what he had done, lips twitching as his hands drop back by his side. "Do you want to redo it?"

"No," you huff, scooting further back into the couch, folding your arms across your chest. 

"Honey," Spencer says amidst a laugh, turning his body around fully. 

Instead of acknowledging him, you kept your eyes fully transfixed on the black and white television screen in front of you. You could see, out of the corner of your eye, the sight of him shifting on the floor. 

Perhaps it was cruel to be giving him the silent treatment so quickly. Though, you have a small smile painted on your face that told Spencer he wasn't in any real trouble with you for pulling your otherwise perfectly curated braids out of his hair. Unknowingly, mind you.

With your lack of response, he found his hands wandering over to your legs, fingertips trailing delicately up the sides of them. Despite the pyjama pants you had on providing a layer between his skin and your own, you still squirmed. And, much to his own satisfaction, your gaze flickered down to his face. His stupid, grinning face, that told you he knew he had succeeded oh so easily. 

"I'm mad at you," you bite, and his eyebrows rose. 

"You're mad at me," he parrots. When you glare at him, he's forced to bite his cheek to stop himself from laughing out loud. "Okay. Can I make it up to you?"

"No."

"Are you sure?" 

No, you weren't. For his head was resting gently against the side of your thigh now, the slightest hint of a pout on his lips, eyes wide. To absolutely nobody's surprise, your resolve was dissolving, and you found yourself hesitating with a response to him. 

He wasn't oblivious to your hesitance, and the amusement on his face was almost frustrating. Almost, if not for the teasing drag of his fingertips along the sides of your thighs distracting you from the irritation you had towards him.

But, you held your own. "Yes, I'm sure."

His eyebrows rising told you he didn't believe you, and it took everything in you not to respond with the twitch of a sheepish grin. And under his unbelieving gaze, you let out a huffed sigh, and shook your head. 

"Yeah, I didn't think so," he answers, fingertips gently pressing into your lower back as he tugged you towards the edge of the couch. "So I can make it up to you?"

"Maybe," you murmur, biting the inside of your cheek. "What're my options, Dr. Reid?"

"I could take your clothes off," he says, punctuating his point with his fingers sliding around to your waist, hooking under your pants' waistband. "Or you can choose something else."

"I like option one," you answer, meekly. 

"I figured you would."

He was frustratingly slow as he pulls your pyjama pants down, the fabric catching on the leather of his couch you were sitting on, until you had enough conscious mind to lift your hips up for him.

He trails his fingers back up the skin, eyes almost fascinated in watching you squirm as your inner thighs — and only your inner thighs — received the upmost of attention from his hands. At a whining protest from you, Spencer's hands wandered to do the one thing he knew you were after, and you let out a breathy moan when his index finger traced up the centre of your already damp underwear.

"Oh, you do like option one," he says with a hum, and if you were any less turned on, you'd probably be glaring at him for it. Instead, you were nodding your head in compliant agreement. 

He, thankfully, wastes no time in latching his mouth onto you. He spends a good portion of your evening taking you to the stars and back, multiple times, before he's satisfied, and he's sure you are too. 

You're showered (again), and curled up on the couch, your head now in Spencer's lap as his fingers brush through your hair, the beginning of Casablanca beginning to play all over again. You had protested neither of you appreciated it enough the first time, and you want to give the film its proper treatment. 

"Why do you like this film so much?" he murmurs, staring at the black and white screen. 

"Reminds me of better times, I guess," you reply. 

"Your better times take place in Morocco in the forties?" 

"No," your lips twitch into a small smile, your head shaking, hair brushing across his thighs. "When I first watched this film I was fifteen, with my mom. It was one of the few times we really got along, so... I guess that."

He decides against commenting on it, for your voice had dropped to something a little sadder. "Rick's not a good person," he chides. 

"You don't get to form an opinion on Rick without finishing the movie first."

He laughs at that, but he falls silent soon after, an evident promise that he would wait. 

"Why did you make me watch this?" he asks, as you're greeted with a screen of black, your two reflections staring back at you. 

You turn your head, resting it flat against his thighs as you look up at him, raising an eyebrow in question. 

"It isn't a happy ending," he explains at your quizzical look. 

"Oh, so movies I show you need to have a happy ending?" you argue. "You like Star Wars, Spencer."

"No, obviously they don't. But when you explained the film to me, you said, 'a romance classic from the forties'. Forgive me for presuming it would be a happy ending."

"I think it is kind of happy," you reply, shrugging as you tear your gaze away, resting instead on the coffee table. 

"How so?" he brushes the hair that falls out of your face. 

"They weren't right for each other," you murmur. "Rick knew that. He loved her enough to let her go, I guess."

August

You are a fragment of every person you have loved, and who has loved you. Tiny pieces of their soul weaving within your own to form the person you are today. From acts as simple as the way you cook your eggs, to reactions as serious as your emotional response to an insult. Family members making up your emotional regulators, childhood friendships determining your insecurities. 

Like a solidified piece of putty holding two pipes together, you are a person moulded to be what other people need. 

Stay quiet, don't react, detach. 

Not even a conscious choice you make anymore. Too many years spent punished for being loud, too many tears cried over your supposed overreaction, too many pieces of your heart shattered each time somebody leaves. Your responses are simply automatic now. 

Spencer Reid had not heard from you in fifty six hours. 

Two thirty in the morning was never a good time to try and communicate, for a plethora of reasons. Never mind the fact that it was late. His mind had been exhausted of its use during a particularly gruelling case, and you had been too anxious the four days he'd been gone to sleep properly. 

For that reason, and possibly many others you didn't know, he was in a bad mood. Your being awake at that hour was irritating to him, your half drank coffee was an awful idea in his mind, and your touch was unwanted by him. You didn't know why. 

You hated miscommunication. You hated the unsaid words that hung in the air whenever you'd look at him. 

The first thing he had said upon coming home was not, hello, or even, I missed you. No, it was a sharp, "Why are you awake?" as he set his messenger bag down on the floor next to his door. 

"I was waiting for you," you had said, picking up the mug of coffee. "Then it hit midnight, and you still weren't home, and usually you come home to me asleep, but I wanted to see you so I drank some coffee and..." you'd trailed off upon seeing his uncharacteristically cold expression. 

"You shouldn't stay awake waiting for me," he'd muttered, taking the mug from you and heading into the kitchen to clean it, flicking the light on. "You have work tomorrow. You need to be asleep."

"I missed you," you'd protested, standing up and going towards him. 

"I missed you too, but you should've been asleep."

Your attempt at hugging him and kissing him in greeting was denied, his hands prying you off his body. He could've ripped your heart out instead and you'd think it hurt less than that.

"Go to bed. I'll be there soon."

You felt like a child being scolded at his snark, which was evidently the reason behind you not listening to him at all in the end. 

He'd offered no proper explanation for his irritation towards you. Even as you'd picked up your things and left his apartment, silently, not even a quiet I love you whispered to confirm that you weren't leaving him for good, he didn't explain a thing to you. 

Out of sight, out of mind, was not a principle you could exercise when it came to him. Every notification to your phone that didn't brand his name hurt your heart, a constant reminder that maybe he was still mad at you, and he didn't want to see you.

It was a knock at your door that pried you from the clutches of your duvet that morning, a half-assed attempt at brushing through your hair and straightening of your clothes was the best whoever dared to come see you uninvited would get. 

Opening the door and your brain computing who it was had you wanting to slam it again, as if this were some movie and he would have the will to shove a foot in the door to stop it from closing. 

Maybe he would. 

"So you are alive," he says. 

"Last I checked, yes," you reply. 

Simple words spoken between two far from simple individuals, until he was nodding his head to the open space of your apartment behind you, and you were wordlessly agreeing to let him come in. 

"Are you here to break up with me?"

His closing of the door was interrupted by your question, his entire body going rigid for a beat, before he gently clicked the door and lock in place, turning on his shoulder with frowning eyebrows. 

"No. I'm... not—why, why would you think that?"

You bite the inside of your cheek. "Habit."

That hurts his heart, and he's shaking his head almost incessantly. "I'm not. I promise, honey. I just want to know what's going on. Nobody's heard from you."

"I know," you murmur, feet carrying you over to your couch before your legs can give out on you. 

He watches you, awaiting another spiel of words to explain where you had disappeared to for the past two and a bit days. And yet; nothing. So, he follows you, and sits down on the couch next to you. Hands reach out to pick up your legs, shoulders relaxing a little when you let him place them in his lap, and you go slightly still out of fluster. 

"I'm sorry for making you mad, if I did," you whisper. 

"You didn't. Did you think I was mad?"

"I guess. You were kind of mean," his heart shatters at that. "But maybe I was just taking it the wrong way. I was tired."

"No," his fingertips run up and down your legs, the only conscious act he could focus on to keep himself from bombarding you with every worried thought he's had the last two days. "I shouldn't have let you leave thinking I was mad at you. I wasn't. The case just stressed me out, and I was concerned about you still being awake that late."

"I was waiting for you," you mumble. 

"I know, angel," he nods his head. "It's just I usually come home to you asleep on the couch."

"Or the bathroom."

His chest puffs out with laughter, and your heart swells a little in your chest at the sight. "Or the bathroom," he parrots, nodding. 

It was when he was coming home from a case on the border in Washington state, and you had, like usual, tried to stay awake to wait for him. Unfortunately, the UnSub tiptoeing between the two country lines meant the case was dragged out, and he had come home much later than expected. And you had mistakenly passed out on the bathroom floor, wrapped in a towel, after a shower. 

Amusement was over as his eyes found and locked with your own, and he earnestly asks, "Can you tell me why you disappeared?"

"No."

It wasn't that you didn't want to tell him. Just that you didn't know why either. Perhaps it was something you'd need to unpack with a professional, not your boyfriend at ten in the morning on your couch. 

Ever so understanding, Spencer Reid was. Even with the pause of his delicate touch on your legs in what you're sure is another jolt of frustration towards you.

"That's okay," he says, instead. "Can you promise to try and not disappear next time, then?"

Your shoulders shrug. Can you promise that? 

"You can't," he voices your thoughts for you, and you nod your head in confirmation. "Okay. Well, I really want to work this out with you. I need you to want that too."

"I do," you say quietly. 

"Then you need to work with me," he answers. "Where did your brain go that night?"

"Um," you hesitate. You could think of a thousand places your mind wandered to that night. None of them very good. A child again, being scolded for not turning the light out because you were up reading, maybe. "I don't know. I don't like being scolded like I'm a child. I guess I felt like a child."

"That wasn't my—"

"—I know," you cut him off before he can defend himself to you. "I know it wasn't your intention. But it felt that way. I'm an adult who makes her own decisions, and losing sleep before work because I want to see my boyfriend is one of those. No matter how... how stupid a decision you may think that is."

"I didn't think it was stupid," he shakes his head. "I was just concerned."

"Funny way of showing it," you mumble, lowering your gaze, before his lack of response makes you realise what you had just said to him. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. That was mean."

"No," hands lightly swat your legs. "No, I deserved that. I was really mean. It wasn't the right way to show my concern for you."

"Doesn't mean I should be rude back."

"I think it does," he says, his fingers going back to tracing patterns on your skin. "In fact, I encourage it."

In true Spencer fashion, his words tug a small smile onto your lips, and you feel the heaviness of what had happened between you two ease off your chest slightly. "That's a weird thing to encourage."

"Maybe," he agrees. "I don't like that you left without saying anything."

"I didn't feel very wanted," you explain. "By you. I tried to hug you, and you wouldn't let me touch you."

"I was overstimulated," he says. "It wasn't that I didn't want to hug you, honey. I did. Sometimes I don't like people touching me, yes, even you," he adds upon seeing your confused expression and tilted head. "I didn't handle that well. I should've told you that in the moment."

"I wish I had known that before," you murmur. "That's why I left. And you didn't try to stop me, so I just assumed..."

"I wasn't very present," he shakes his head to stop your self-deprecating thoughts in their tracks. "I barely registered you were leaving until I heard the door shut."

"Oh."

"I wanted to stop you when I realised. I decided to give you space."

"I just thought you didn't care."

"If nothing else, know that I'll always care," he tells you, and your heart stutters at the raw honesty in his voice. "Even if you run away and I don't reach out for a week because I think you need space. I'll still care."

"Please don't leave me alone for a week if I run away," you reply, and one of his hands squeezes your knee. 

"Noted. I won't."

You nod your head with the faintest hint of a smile, before your gaze lowers to your legs. You inhale, then say, quietly, "I'm sorry for disappearing."

"I know," he answers. "It's okay."

November

It was a horrifically awful day that led you to this moment. Curling up on the couch with a blanket covering your entire body, staring aimlessly off into the warm glow of the reading lamp Spencer had bought you many moons ago. 

Your heart was heavy, hands cold, body shivering, in the cool November air that flooded your apartment. Your thermostat was just too far. Not that you were comfortable. Not even a little bit. You could evidently feel each spring of your couch pushing into your flesh, puncturing you uncomfortably. You hadn't had a need for a new couch since getting together with Spencer, usually finding your residence at his apartment more often than not. 

Not today, it seemed. 

Keys rattled outside your apartment door, and you heard the shuffling of familiar feet, followed by the gentle calling of your name to alert you of his presence. 

"Honey, it's freezing in here," he says, settling his bag down on the kitchen countertop, you're sure (you aren't looking). You hear the beep, following by the rush of wind coming out of your air conditioning unit as he turns the device on, and you're silently grateful. 

He finds you on the couch, wrapping his arms around you from behind it, greeting you with a kiss to the side of your head, right on your temple, and a few of your worries melt away in an instant. Only a few, for there is still a bricklayer of hurt seated comfortably over your heart. 

He says your name again when you don't say anything to greet him, and it's more shuffling of feet until he's dipping into the couch next to you, despite the fact that he still had his shoes and work clothes on. Irrelevant affairs he could deal with later. 

"Hey, what's this?" he asks you, quietly, leaning forwards and nudging your arched knees, and your gaze finally tears from the lamp to his face, spots of light decorating your vision and covering some of him.

"Sorry," you mumble. "I'm thinking."

"Very hard, apparently," he says, lightly. You appreciate the attempt of lifting the mood. "About what?"

"Um," you pause. "I saw my family today."

"Yeah. You said you were. I assume it didn't go well?"

You wordlessly shake your head, and he sighs, wasting no time in bringing you into his chest. You crack, and his heart shatters at the quiet sob that wracks through your body.

"Talk to me," he murmurs, voice all too quiet for your fragile state, for it only makes you cry a little harder. "Angel."

"She—um," your voice cracks. "Everything I said she turned into a joke to everyone. I just felt stupid the entire time. Like everything I said wasn't worth being said. So I stopped talking, because I couldn't get made fun of if I didn't say anything, right?" You feel his head nod against your own, even though you couldn't see him.

"No. She brought up things I'd said to her previously, and mocked them. I mean, I was in the other room so she didn't know I could hear her, but—but—" you choke on your words, cutting your ranting short, your hands petulantly clutching at the fabric of his shirt to ground yourself. "I'm sick of waiting for her to love me. Isn't she supposed to? She's my fucking mother and yet I'm still begging her to even like me. Why?"

"I don't know, angel." His voice is achingly soft, and his hands thread into your hair, brushing through it a few times; a welcome comfort. "This happens every time you see her."

"Yeah."

You're feeling impossibly small in his arms as you nod, sniffling away hideous snot bubbles you're sure he cared about. If he did, he didn't say anything.

"Maybe it's time to stop seeing her."

"Yeah." 

You're reluctant in agreeing with him, though you know deep down he's right. But it's an Earth shattering revelation that you aren't quite sure you wanted to ever come to. While certainly a thought you've had, and entertained previously, agreeing to it aloud is an entirely different beast. 

"She's my mom, though," you mumble. "She raised me."

"What she did for you previously should never be enough for you to ignore what she does to you now. I've never seen you come home happy after seeing her. You're never anything short of miserable. That makes me miserable, honey," the pads of his fingertips brush against your cheek, and you hum as a quiet response. "I hate seeing you like this."

"I hate feeling like this."

"Yeah, I know," he murmurs. "Don't decide tonight. You're emotional—yes, you are. Don't look at me like that," he scolds as you jerk your head back to narrow your tear filled eyes at him. "But can you promise me you'll consider my option?"

"I promise."

"Okay. Good. I love you."

"I love you too."

January

He wasn't home. 

Three o'clock in the morning, and Spencer Reid was nowhere to be found. Not in his own apartment, like you had originally thought. Not collecting the last of your boxes from your own. Not anywhere he commonly would be. 

At three in the morning. 

You had tried calling him. Multiple times, actually. A flurry of messages followed in their wake, and you were growing increasingly impatient as you stand awkwardly outside his apartment, that had just recently become your apartment too. You didn't have a key yet — needing one to be cut for Spencer only had one thus far. 

He had promised he'd be home. When you'd asked him as you were leaving earlier that evening if you'd need to take the key, he said no, and that he'd be home all night. 

God forbid you actually believed him, apparently. 

You could've sat at that apartment door for three minutes or hours. You weren't too sure anymore. Staring off into space and making up a list of sentences to say to him when he finally showed up — if he showed up. 

It was embarrassing. Heels tucked next to you, dress bunched at your waist, head beginning to ache from the alcohol wearing off, and eyes beginning to droop from how exhausted you were. 

Shuffling of feet had you lifting your head, landing on an equally as exhausted looking Spencer Reid, who's lips were parting upon spotting you on the floor, and a sickening realisation settling on his facial features. 

"I'm sorry," he stumbled out as he helped you stand up, ignoring your protests as he picked up your heels for you. "I forgot you weren't staying at your friends. I just assumed—"

"—You forgot?"

You didn't sound angry. You didn't even sound a little irritated. It shatters his heart more to hear a painstakingly small, broken tone coat your words, instead of them being dipped in venom. 

He knew it was a pathetic excuse. He forgot. That's his whole thing. He doesn't forget. But he also isn't always called into his job at two in the morning for an in state amber alert. You didn't know that, though.

"Here, let's get you inside and out of your clothes," he places a hand on the small of your back and pushes you forwards into his apartment, your feet stumbling as you let him guide you around. 

"What do you mean you forgot?" you ask him, quietly. His stomach twists. 

"I got called into work. It was urgent. I had been so focussed on Hotch being freaked out I left without thinking. I'm so sorry, angel girl."

"Seriously?"

He freezes at your incredulous voice, his hands pausing at the top of your dress zipper. When he doesn't answer you immediately, you turn so you can look at him.

"You weren't home because you got called into work," you repeat the words over, and over, as if saying them more will make them any more sensical. He opens his mouth and begins to say your name, so you cut him off, "I was sitting there for—" you pause, checking the time on the wall clock across the room, "—two hours, Spencer. Drunk, and cold, and you weren't fucking picking up. Did you forget how to use your phone too? Did you forget how to contact your girlfriend?"

"You're tired, honey. Can you get some sleep and we talk about this tomorrow?"

"I'm fine, actually. We're having this discussion now."

"No, you're not. You're exhausted. Sleep deprivation affects your emotional regulators, and—"

"—For once, can you not fucking Reid-splain to me?" you spit. "I think I'm allowed to be a little upset with you, Spencer. You forgot about me!"

He agrees; he does deserve your anger. Though, it doesn't make this any easier to listen to, and it certainly doesn't make his biting of his tongue very easy. For he wants to argue with you. He didn't forget about you, and none of what happened tonight was due to anything other than his lack of focus on things that weren't at the forefront of his mind. Case in point; a missing child. 

A few more beats of silence pass by, and you're brushing past him into the kitchen, jerking your arm away when his hand reaches out to grab it. 

"Why is it always work?" you ask him. "All of our issues come back to your job."

"I don't know."

"Am I not worth more than your job?" 

The question itself hangs in thick air, and his hesitance is enough of an answer within itself. It isn't fair. You know that. His job is important, and you'd never actively ask him to choose you over saving somebody's life. He knew that.

"I'm not asking you to choose seeing me over saving a life," you verbalise your thoughts, when he still doesn't reply. "I'm never asking that of you. But you couldn't have called me back? Or texted me to see if I could go to a friend's? Or even come to you at work to get a key?"

"I—"

"—Forgot. I know," you mutter, almost bitterly, turning around to pick out a glass from the cabinet. 

It's another few moments of quiet. Save for the tap that runs as you get yourself water, and the shuffling of his feet as he hesitates, then takes tentative steps towards the kitchen bar. 

"I don't think I can do this anymore," you whisper, before he can get too close.

"Do what anymore?"

"Us."

The silence that follows deafens, and you have to flutter your eyes up to the ceiling to wane tears that threatened to spill. This was most certainly not how you imagined your night to go. 

"That's a big decision," he says, as if it weren't obvious.

"I know," and it's the finality in your voice that hurts him even more. 

"Can we please revisit this conversation in the morning? After you've slept?"

"My decision won't change."

"It might."

"Humour me with how we're supposed to move past this."

He freezes. "Um—we can talk. And we can even go to couple's therapy, or something," he ignores the face you pull. "I just think we—you—should make this decision when you're completely sober and rested."

You place the now empty glass on the bench again. "I won't have the courage to break up with you tomorrow."

"Is that not a sign that you shouldn't break up with me, then—"

"—Let me do this, damnit, Spencer!" you slam your hands down in front of you, eyes wide and almost desperate. 

He doesn't say anything more to argue with you. Instead, he bows his head, and you despise the crack in your heart at the way his eyes shut and shed a tear before his face is out of sight. 

You're moved out by the end of the month.

June

The universe is a wonderfully strange place. Somewhere you go to when things get too difficult, begging for respite and the freedom from yourself. Or when things are going so well you thank whoever was pulling the strings of your lifeline. 

You tried not to curse at the universe. What you give, you will receive. The love you expend will always be returned to you, whether that is in two minutes or two years. Hatred for the universe was always internalised and pushed down, for you'd rather that, than having the karmic Gods ruin your life any more. 

And yet; fuck you universe. 

You were recently asked who you love, in a group setting with people you barely knew. You'd have said your best friend's name, or your parents, but you felt awfully lonely amongst a group of people saying, "my partner", "my kids". You didn't think you were old enough yet for the most important person in your life not being the woman who raised you (though, she would never be that anyways). 

You said his name before you could even comprehend it. Before your brain had a second to stop running on autopilot to think. The two syllables flying past your lips, embarrassingly so. 

When someone asks you who you love, you think of him. 

Perhaps this was all your own fault. If you had just bided your tongue, held onto your pride and mumbled a quiet, "My mom, I guess", you wouldn't have spoken his existence back into the universe. 

It was a quiet, "Oh. Hello," that'd prompted your head to lift from your phone, attempting to tune out the busy train. And there he was, standing tall, messenger bag crossing over his body. 

"Hi," you say, breathless, air knocked from your lungs. 

"Can I... um, sit? All the other seats are taken."

And like you would if he was a stranger, you nod your head, shuffling a little closer to the side, allowing for him to sit down next to you. 

"Your hair's gotten long," Spencer Reid says, quietly.

"Yeah, I need to go get it cut. You have more—um, facial hair. Like it's more prominent. Like thicker," you stammer. 

"Yeah," you see his lips twitch into a small smile out of the corner of your eye. "I just got back from a case. I haven't had time to shave."

You manage to push down a comment about you liking it. 

And as if you were not strangers, he asks you, "How are you?"

You know he doesn't mean currently. Subconsciously asking you to tell him you're doing awfully without him, that the past six months had been horrible and you miss him dearly. 

It's true, but you can't say that.

Instead, you opt for a nonchalant, "I'm okay," and, "How are you?"

"Okay, too," he says, and you wonder how much truth his words hold. 

"How's work been?"

You don't know if you actually care. Asking aimlessly about the thing you had to blame for him becoming a solidified memory in your brain, and not a current experience. 

"Busy," he answers. "I've barely been home."

Not much has changed, it seems. "That sucks. I'm sorry."

"It's okay," he replies. "It's kept me from wallowing."

"Can't say I've had the same fate."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

It was your own fault, really. And maybe he thought that. Maybe he's making fun of you in his mind for being sad and feeling horrible things after the breakup, because it was you who initiated it, at the end of the day. 

No, he isn't. You know that. Spencer Reid doesn't do that.

"It's okay," you finally say, words spoken on a breath. 

Silence covets the two of you, a thousand words on the tip of your tongue, but none ever spoken aloud. A silent conversation dancing in the air between your two bodies.

Do you miss me?

Yes. Do you miss me?

More than anything. 

But then the train stops, and his station is called, and he's standing awkwardly, forcing a tight smile onto his face, as he bids you goodbye. 

And for a few long half seconds, you watch him walk away, very slowly, for time has stopped for just a few beats of your heart. Then, you're calling his name, and he's stopping, as if he had expected you to reach out to him before he could get too far. 

You stare up at him for another beat longer, and you wonder if he's quite content to miss his station, just to talk to you some more. 

"Do you want to get coffee?"

"To wait an hour — is long — if love be just beyond. To wait eternity — is short — if love reward the end." (Emily Dickinson)

your reblogs and replies are always appreciated ♡

[heavyhand61]

I have prepared my dream (and probably unrealistic) time line for a feedee

Starting at the day then move in

First 6 months

All prior commitments will be cancelled (work, schooling, ect)

All social medial accounts that don't revolve around feedisum will be blanked out

There will be a push to sign you up for every available feedist community (more extreme the better

Daily calorie intake will sit around the 4000cal mark

Next 6 months

Contact with anyone not completely in support of your goal of immobility will be broken

You will have regular posts about your gains on any and all available feedist platforms

Any content that does not revolve around obesity and weight gain will be banned

An expected gain of 40-60lbs a year

First year

Trips from the house will be limited

Decreasing step limits will be applied

Most media will be replaced with feedist porn

10000cal minimum per day

1 funnel feeding per day

Increase rate of post of feedist content

Second year

Leaving the house will be disallowed

Trips from bed or couche will be severely limited

15000+ cal minimum per day

3 funnel feeding per day

Clothes will be disallowed

Only consumable content will be extreme feedist porn

Any communication on social media will be limited to extreme feeders and other pro death feedist feedees

Expected 100+ lbs per year gain

Third year

Any movement beyond 3 steps must be done by scooter or wheelchair

Minimum 4h of viewing extreme feedist porn per day

25000cal+ per day

Tube feeding is standard aside from the occasional food "treat"

Must spend 4+ hours a day tube feeding

Forth year

Involuntary immobility, you will be confined to bed regardless of current mobility status

35000+ Cal per day minimum, to be consumed primarily as fats and sugars cut with only a minimum of nutrition supplement

Every hour from wakeup to sleep will involve tube feeding and a constant stream of the most extreme feedist porn

Sleep will be deferred if calorie goal has not been met

Fifth year

24/7 live stream of you're immobile fourm

50000 cal minimum

All windows blocked, all clocks removed, no indicators of date or time

Feeding tube lives in your mouth

Diet is mostly fats

Sixth plus years (don't expect to survive this long)

No contact with outside world, other feedist included

24/7 feedist hypno playing for you

Feeding tube size increased and feed slop made even less healthy and even more fattening

Start of year calorie goal of 100000+ an additional 1000 a week to be added to the minimum every week for the rest of your life

Six years and I plan on taking you from a normal healthy person to the perfect feedee, no thought, no life, just growing, growing GROWING, all that matters is growing all that matters is more all that matters is your life cut short by obesity

[spurbleu]

unraveling careful threads

nurse!reader x johnny mactavish (sfw oneshot)

s. johnny finds you where he needs you. wc. 2k for @kentwos, <3

you don’t know what it is about your door, but it seems to beckon chaos.

it has no business being there. on the days you return with sore heels and needle indents on your pointer and thumb, it should not follow you. the military is its ball and chain- two trenches deep behind security fences. it should remain there- you’ve told the damn thing to sit and lie and yet it stalks you to a place of respite.

stray cats pitch on fat paws by your front steps. doorbell ditches- neighborhood boys who strangle their youth. rain.

tonight, its dressed in a bleeding temple and wine cheeks. bruises beneath the porch light and leans against the wood of your door frame. lubberly smile.

“come here often?”

although your concern is sluggish, it waxes the underside of your ribs when he lumbers past you into your living room. you lock the door before following him.

“johnny? what on earth h-“

“jus’ a scuffle. some bam off his rocker- one tae maneh bevvy’s,” he limps across your carpet with a right lean- sobering up slowly as he rummages through your cabinets, “where d’ye keep yer aid?”

whatever brought him to your door had beaten off the drunken stupor. you can’t classify what replaces it, but the shadow of it follows him. wimpish, reeking of pub grease, caramelized liquor, a drying anger.

the lights of your flat soften it.

in fact, it softens him.

unfamiliarity sheets the corners of your vision. him, unmitigated substance- raw sinews that thread thick strands beneath tanned skin are left exposed to the mundane. violence in a butter dish. grisly silt on a vacuumed carpet. a sergeant in cotton.

you’ve seen him only in the context of harsh lines. charcoal draws his boots on concrete, nothing picks the gravel from his teeth, and horizon grays let him taunt grim reapers and their assault rifles. where the world is his adversary and he takes it by the throat. even in the confines of your office, the walls feel as though they’d been sanded on whetstone when he receives a third set of stitches.

delicate looked unnatural on him. johnny was rock. impenetrable, inevitable. a dulled stone, rounded and heavy, bludgeons docile until it’s drying in saline and the vim that grows haphazardly on his knuckles. he did not belong where things were soft, and certainly didn’t fit in your kitchen.

he sends you a look over his shoulder. “ah ken ‘m good lookin, but i could realleh use a bandage.”

you swallow. “what?”

realization funnels through your exhaustion. you’re on leave. so is he. neither of them, given the circumstances and distance, should converge. regardless, he stands beaten to a variant of death, offering you a wilting smile and a flirt.

your eyes narrow. “johnny, why are you here.”

“cannae wounded soldier nae get help from his favorite nurse?”

a cautious step forward. “on base. but this is my house. how-“

“christ bonnie, jus quit it with the interview ‘n give me yer aid,” he rubs his temple and leans against the fridge, “that fuckin bastard.”

the disquiet comes back in a wave.

you’re vaguely acquainted with the state. the lull of anticipation as you sit in the after brood of consequence, sore operative on a stretcher. a mothering silence, rocks you both into placidity. its where you become removed from the outcome of the stitches, the draw of their brow, the blood that gets on your shirt. fades to somewhere beyond the both of you, mental death among other reliefs. lets you work.

but its never there when you look at johnny. never has been.

you’re left so agonizingly present around him. you blamed his sound for years- the resonate baritone in foreign gaelic that forges its way into spaces that cannot fit it (medic rooms, your ears…wayward sentimental thoughts) and how after he’s stopped speaking, it lingers on the back of your neck for hours.

but the longer you’ve known him, you realize it isn’t how loud he is, or the territory of his torso- not even his eyes. it’s the untitled charm that soothes a callous under your skin. you don’t know how to name it, so you let it guide your body to the corner base cabinet, searching for your aid.

because he needs it. and you have never been above giving johnny want he needs.

“go sit down.” there’s a disjointed noise from behind you as you pull the box to the counter.

“’m perfectly capable of-“

“johnny- go sit.”

you feel him staring at your back, but when the kitchen goes quiet, you know he’s done as told. you put the kettle on the back stove and set the heat to low, before walking around the banister back to the living room, where he waits with a pouting lip and a wide sit.

what a charmer.

you set the aid on the coffee table and assess the damage. shallow gash on the right side of his temple, bruising cheekbone that swells his left eye, split lip and a smudge of blood under his nostrils.

you pause where you stand, realizing in order to be productive you’ll have to be up close. you don’t have another chair that won’t risk an unsteady hand. johnny follows your thinking rather quickly for being roughed up and half sober. “my lap donae look comfeh enough for ye, bonnie?”

this little-

out of spite, you plop ungracefully on his right thigh. you hoped- expected- a fragment of surprise. instead, he gives you a loose grin, before gently resting his hands on your hips. the breeze of his fingertips makes you flinch.

“wha-“

“jus’ tryna keep ye steady,” he close one eye, the other full of mirth, “ready for my check up, doc.”

you scoff before pulling out your cotton swabs.

the routine begins. cleaning infections, pinching the skin to prepare it for stitches, breathing slowing. all while trying to ignore the sensation of your hands ghosting over his face, and how when you pull them back, they’re burning, sweating between each gap. all this fuss over how his thumbs mindlessly fiddle with the hem of your sleep shirt.

your fingers are the spiders that web him back together. the lifelines of your palm could never reach him, but you find that he’s already been there. burrows in the vulnerable fissures of your body, your mind, until you’re unravelling while he’s sewn together.  

and yet, you’re anchored. calmed. his discord serves as relief from a world that is inherently boring. you’d feel compelled to thank him if you think he’d understand.

“yer makin tha’ face again.”

you pause the needle before it hits his skin. “what face?”

“yer lip puffs out and yer brows do tis’ ting where d’ey meet n ta’ middle of yer-“ he smiles to himself and loses your eyes, “ye make it when ye need tae focus.”

you squint. “does it bother you?”

he laughs. a deep sound, resonates with the child in you that remembers waves against mercury bluffs, or watching thunder from your bedroom window. awe. having heard them before, and yet they sound foreign every time.

“nae,” he shakes his head softly, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a classic grin. if you had been standing, your knees would weaken at the gnaw of their blue when he looks at you again, “nae quite ta’ opposite. might be the most beautiful thing i’ve eva’ seen.”

the ceiling fan whirrs above you in a rhythm that matches your heartbeat, the carpet feels decade rough on your socks, and the clock in the corner is quieter than it’s ever been. and it’s all because a man who takes up leagues of space just by smiling called you beautiful.

you’d never say that aloud though. you’d be feeding the thing that makes him that way.  

“you’re hopeless.” is all that you muster.

he smiles, but its without gravity. it’s almost sad. “aye, maybe for ye.”

you lose yourself in the moments you find him like this. pliant, willing, gentle. (is that how cain killed abel? virgin hands wield a rock on innocence? softness weaponizing itself? you’re unsure, but when he meets your eyes for a third time, you’re convinced he’s waiting to kill you with the tender that holds you still on his thigh.)

“this is going to hurt.”

he recoils when you push the needle through the edge of his temple, but relaxes with a labored exhale. suddenly its quiet like it hadn’t been before. a breed of silence where you realize how close you are, how you swallow his breath, and feel the blimp of his pulse on your hip bone.

it doesn’t take long for you to finish closing the tear. when he feels you pull away, he tips his head up to look at you.

“looks like i came tae the righ’ d-“

“why are you out at this hour?”

your interruption is involuntary if anything else, but now that you look at him- half blue and half bloody- the concern you usually remove from patients rears an ugly head and hits the roof of your mouth.

he falters. “wha’d’ye mean?”

you drag your knuckles across his cheek bone and the flesh swelters. plums where other men became sideways and angry- and it’s the cotton in you that can’t help but swipe a thumb over it. he cringes, but you persist until the pad of your thumb cools where it burns. when you find his eyes, you lose something in your lungs.

“I…I know you’re on leave, and your life is your own but…” you pretend to idle your hands over his jaw- looking for any contusions, or perhaps a lifeline that could stabilize you as you rest on his lap, “getting into fights at pubs isn’t exactly the point of a vacation.”

he sighs before looking at your palm, “I…” his voice below a whisper, his stubble barely itching your fingers tells you he’s trying not to startle you,  “I get… antsy. gets me inta’ trouble,” he offers you a clumsy smile, “donae think I’m capable of sittin’ still for very long.”

you steal a look at his lips. they’re not bleeding anymore. you blink. “you’re doing it now.”

he gives you a look like you’re torturing him and your mouth dries. “I’ve got ye on my lap. ay’d be a very, very foolish man, to move now.”

johnny has a way of saying things so simply that you think it’s better if you say nothing at all.

instead you take antiseptic and wipe his stitches clean. the only remnants that remain of night- the swell of his eye, the healing cut on his temple- are now replaced with remnants of you. needle and thread, careful breath, your skin on his.

you didn’t know nursing could ever feel so intimate.

“i’m…you’re all..” you swallow the blue in his eyes like their air, “done.”

he nods, but doesn’t move. in fact, neither of you do.

the lamp light tames the sting of his iris. they can’t startle a paralysis under downy soft yellow. instead, hot blue steel melts you. diminishes the flesh and bone of your second skin. he has a tendency to stare at it until it’s been torn apart and pieced together (the countless times you’ve done it for him under a needle and thread do not compare to what he does with his eyes).

it’s an oddity you’ve grown much to fond of for something that is so inherently finite.

“ah…meant what ‘ah said,” this will not last, “about ye being beautiful.”

it will pass, god let it pass. “Johnny…”

the teapot whistles from the kitchen brings you back to your senses. you cough the penciled fear into your fist and try for a smile. both of you know its not honest.

“sit tight.”

the tea is still warm in your belly as you watch him shuck his coat on his shoulders from your position on the wall. you both remain comfortably mute, in this odd routine that doesn’t feel new at all. despite every experience tonight proving something different, as he stands at your door you’re prompted with an overwhelming rush of deja’vu.

“you sure you’re alright to drive home?” you stifle a yawn. “I know you’ve slept on more uncomfortable surfaces than my couch.”

he laughs, albeit its muddled by his own exhaustion. “very temptin’ bonnie. but i cannae stay- gotta get back to my own.” something other than his own bed is tugging him out the door, but you let a sleeping dog lay (or, an injured sergeant lie).

he opens your door and turns to face you before walking out. you can’t tell if the shiver is from the cold rush of air that hits your bare elbows, or the preserving look he throws your way. “thank ye, bonnie. yer a life saver.”

you smile. “i would say come again, but i feel like that’s redundant.”

he nods. his eyes flit to the space behind you and then back to your face. he pulls his hand from his pocket and tucks a stray behind your ear, and you swear it’s the first time you’ve seen the sergeant properly blush.

“sweet dreams, mm bonnie?”

“yeah. get home safe,” your smile broads, “not keen on staying awake too much longer to fish you out of trouble again.”

he nods, stepping out the threshold of your door. you feel like you’ve lost things tonight but gained something infinitely more important. “goodnight, Johnny.”

“g’night.”

you don’t realize that its yearning until his footfall recedes back into a world that is boundless and without your hands to keep him threaded together.

at least then, he’ll return to you.

[caffeinewitchcraft]

The Hero and Hope (5/5)

(Part 1) (Part 2) (part 3) (part 4)

Last Time

The crack under the door lights with a sickly purple. The smell of ozone seeps into the manor. For a moment there is a silence so complete you think you’ve been struck. What was that? Magic? You’ve never seen magic before--

Screams rocket across the field. The Blacksmith’s screams. The Baker’s screams. Marie’s rage-filled howls.

“DEMON KING!”

Your Destiny burns.

---.

You have dreams the closer you get to turning fifteen. Dreams of a kingdom in the sky, a kingdom heard in the roiling clouds and in the cracks of lightning that splinter through them. This kingdom howls and chatters and hungers.

You dream that you are under these clouds. Your necks aches from staring up into them. You’re alone in a field of dead wheat and the stalks whisper prophecies whenever the kingdom above falls silent. Rivers will run with blood, flesh will lay torn across the streets, no child can hide—

In these dreams, you aren’t afraid. There is an answering snarl in your chest for every howl and prophecy you hear.

You won’t have your way. You won’t win.

I’m the Hero.

When the storm sends down a funnel of demon bats (or horned rabbits or screaming goblins or demon wolves), you leap to meet them.

------.

This isn’t a dream.

Your hands slide down from the door. Hera and Josiah are frozen in place, eyes wide and unseeing as the demon king’s presence steals the oxygen from the room. You take a step back. Then another.

All doors and windows are blocked on this level. But this manor has more than one floor.

The fighting resumes outside before Sarah realizes what you’re doing.

“Isla!” She has the strength of a mother when she grabs you this time. Your nearly choke as your collar is pulled taught against your throat by her grip on your sleeve. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“To fight,” you wheeze before you can think better of it.

“Absolutely not.” Sarah attempts to pull you back, but you’re braced against her now. She grabs your sleeve with both hands. “The knights have it handled—”

“Not this—”

“—you’re to stay here.” Sarah’s lip trembles and she squares her jaw to hide it. The younger kids are holding onto her skirts, eyes wide as they stare up at you. “Understood?”

Afraid. She’s so afraid for you, so determined to keep you safe this time. You can see that winter seven years ago like you never have before; when you held the door and lost your hope in heroes, she never once looked away from your narrow back.

You have never been alone.

“Take care,” you say as gently as you can. Then, as she draws breath to speak, you rip yourself from her grasp. Your sleeve tears and Sarah’s eyes fall to your arm.

She gasps. “Isla—”

You shoulder your way through the villagers and thunder upstairs. The grand staircase leads to a hall of doors and you throw open the one at the end indiscriminately. You get the impression of books, leather furniture, a black feather quill, but it all blurs when your eyes fall on the door leading to the balcony.

That will do.

You burst out into unrelenting sunlight. Shouldn’t it be storming? In your dreams, it’s always storming. The garden is a mess of turned earth and splintered party tables. The knights’ armor flash rays of sun and the orcs – great, fleshy beasts with hardly any neck and black-sclera eyes – undulate like mountains below. You can see that some orcs are down, their giant bodies strewn across the ground, but it hardly seems to make a difference.

Not when there’s a Demon King.

You climb up onto the railing to get a better look. He’s half-hidden by the fighting, almost lounging against the treeline. He’s more human than you expected with dark, shaggy hair, and a bored look on his face. Canines the length of your index finger poke over his thin lower lip. Without the fangs, he’d be a traveling merchant, one of the ones who turned up their nose when they realized that the home they were visiting was an orphanage and not that of an affluent family.

As you watch, that sickly purple magic crackles at his fingertips. You follow his gaze to where Ivan and Marie are fighting back-to-back. The Lord is standing defiantly behind them, his horse slain mere yards away. The Lord is staring a challenge at the Demon King.

This is my land. You can see his mouth form the words, but can’t hear him over the clashing of swords and the twanging of Marie’s bow. Did he lose his voice? His exhaustion drags at his face, just visible under his fury. Green power seeps from him and into the ground as he emphasizes his Lord’s claim. You won’t have it.

The Demon King smirks. His hand twitches and purple magic soars into the sky. It arcs over the orcs’ heads, ten feet, fifteen feet, ten feet, five feet—

Ivan catches the bolt on his shield, a cry leaving his lips as the magic splashes around the edges and tears at his skin. You can smell burning flesh and ozone. Ivan falls to one knee and Marie snarls as she blocks an orc’s blow with the curve of her bow. She manages to kick the beast away, but her distraction costs her. This time Lord Brennan has to block the orc swinging a mace down upon their heads. His connection to the land wavers and the Demon King’s smirk widens into a smile.

Something in your chest cracks and you see gold.

Your destiny is like a flame on your shoulder. It drips down your arm and into your hand. Golden light is burning there and with a barely a thought, it takes the form of a spear. You hoist the spear over your shoulder and hurl it with your full strength at the ground between the orcs advancing on Marie, Ivan and Lord Brennan.

The ground shatters. The orcs are thrown back. Marie, already kneeling at Ivan’s side, jerks her gaze up to you. You see her mouth form your name.

The Demon King is as loud as he is in your dreams. “HERO!”

The word alone strikes fear in the orcs. Stupidly, a few look up at you and fail to block the next blows from the knights. One squeals and turns to the forest. You barely notice the knights chase after it.

“Isla?”

“Don’t—”

“Go back inside, his magic is too--!”

The Demon King hisses a spell. It’s fast, not the slow and contemptuous arc of power he’d thrown at the lord. Without thinking, you swipe your arm. It’s still drenched with the golden glow of your power and the air rings when the Demon King’s spell connects. You feel the blow vibrate through your bones. The magic crackles and your own power rises to meet it, filling your view with sun-bright light that washes over everything.

When the light clears, you’re still standing.

“Impossible,” the demon king says.

On instinct, you lift a hand above your head. Something presses against your palm and you grab it, drawing it down in front of you. A sword drenched in a golden haze follows. Hero’s sword. You point it at the demon king in a silent declaration. Your destiny is choking you, but your message is clear.

His lips curl in a snarl. “Attack!”

You leap down from the balcony as the demon king’s army surges. An orc charges you the moment you land, his eyes filled with the demon king’s command. He towers over you, but you’re strong enough to haul a half dozen fence posts on your own. You catch the club he swings at your head and launch him back in the same motion. He falls back a dozen steps and you follow him, slashing at his throat with your sword of light.

You’re on to the next monster before his body hits the ground.

You are new to your power, but you aren’t alone. Knights scream their second wind and fall on the monsters’ backs when their master’s command stupidly makes them turn away. A corner of your mind shrinks at the smell of blood and worse, at the sight of bodies under your feet, at the sound of armor crunching under heavy blows, but your power blocks it out. You move through the battlefield with an overwhelming, single-minded purpose.

Demon King.

“Don’t understand—”

Who is that? Your senses tell you it’s not an enemy. You duck when an orc swings a meaty fist at your head and then blink when someone severs its arm before you can.

“It’s okay, Isla,” someone says. “We’re here.”

“--she’s fourteen—”

“Argue about it later, protect her now.”

“Right.”

The Demon King isn’t relaxed when you see him next. His lips are pulled back so far you can see all his teeth. He’s commanding his monsters to stop you, to kill you, to put their bodies between you and him. One orc is bigger than the rest, a vibrant red instead of fleshy pink. It plants itself squarely in front of its master and raises a mace the length of your body.

Your power won’t let you falter, but your mind balks. Can you catch that? Block it? Those spikes are as long as your arm—

An arrow sprouts from the orc’s throat. It blinks stupidly and the purple haze clears from its eyes. Another arrow finds its mark in said eye and the beast steps back hesitantly as if unsure if its okay or not. The third arrow lets it know it’s not.

“Keep your sword tip up, Isla.”

“You’re training her now?”

“On your left, Marie!”

The Demon King must be cocky because he doesn’t try to run until it’s too late. The orc falls and his eyes widen in surprise to see you still coming for him. You’re close enough to see the color of them now, a red as deep and terrible as what’s drenching your hand.

Purple magic crackles. It’s not a spell – he’s too afraid for that – but the destructive power is unreal. The earth splinters to either side of you, causing your allies to falter for a moment. You deflect the bolt aimed for you and it explodes overhead like fireworks.

“No,” the Demon King breathes. He stumbles back and tries to ward you off with hands drenched in power. “No, I do not fall here! I am King! I am ultimate! I am—”

You throw your sword. You never really learned how to use one and this motion is more natural. For a moment, you see your Hero’s sword like your sharpened stick, sailing into the throat of a horned rabbit. Then you blink and it’s the Demon King with your sword through his meck. Blood bubbles at the corners of his mouth. One of his long-nailed hands comes up to try and grab the hilt. You’ve pierced him through.

The Demon King falls like his orcs. Confused and unsure of his own demise.

You come back to yourself the moment you feel his power die. There’s crashing through the woods as the remaining four orcs turn to flee. Absently, you mark their paths.

If the knights don’t get them, you will.

The details of the battle filter back to you gradually, like the sound returning to a forest after a rockslide. The memories of each blow you dealt tremble up your arms and the smell of one orc’s fetid breath makes you suck in a breath. That of course drags new horrible smells into your lungs and you cough so hard you gag.

A warm hand pats your back. “There, there,” Ivan says. He sounds tired. “The first one is always rough. Vomiting is okay.”

Marie grabs your hand before you can rub your face. “Don’t touch your eyes. Orc blood is corrosive.”

You twist, blinking tears out of your vision. You tremble as the memory of battle becomes fresher and fresher. You croak, “I’m an orphan, you know.”

Ivan looks taken aback. Then understanding washes over his face. “We’re acting like your parents, aren’t we? We were going to ask you after the party.”

The nausea temporarily subsides. “What?”

“She’s in shock,” Marie scolds Ivan. She fishes a clean handkerchief out of her bodice and uses it to dab under your eyes. “We want to adopt you, Isla. If you’ll have us as parents?”

You stare at them. “I—” you clear your throat. “I just meant we don’t actually know when my birthday is. Because I’m an orphan. I might be fifteen after all.’

“Oh.” Ivan opens his mouth. Closes it. “Well, do you be our daughter anyway?”

“More than anything,” you say and then vomit right onto the demon king’s corpse.

---------.

Things are both complicated and not after that.

The questions you thought were coming never get asked. Sarah isn’t upset you hid your Destiny from her and neither are any of the kids. They’re just relieved you’re alive.

Hera buries her face in your stomach before dinner that night. The Bahrs have invited you all to stay over until the last of the orcs are caught. Hera smells like their bath oils when she says, “I held the door, Isla. Nobody got in.”

There’s a lump in your throat as you pet her damp hair. “You did. You were very brave.”

“I helped,” Josiah says. Unlike Hera, he eyes your arm from a distance. Your mark is covered in a fresh cotton shirt, but it’s like he can see it anyway. Finally he collapses into you. “It’s not fair. You’re our Hero. Now you’re going to have be everyone’s.”

You lean down to press a kiss into his hair. “I’m too mean to be everyone’s Hero. I’ll just be yours, okay?”

“Good,” Josiah says. Then, after a long moment. “Though you should be nicer to us now.”

“No,” you say fondly.

The complicated part comes when the Bahrs enter the dining room after Sarah has gotten you all seated.

Ivan’s arm is in a sling, but he smiles widely when he sees the spread Josiah, Annie and Sarah have cooked up. He compliments them on their efforts, thanks them, and takes a seat at the head of the table.

Marie pauses by you before she takes her seat. She lingers by your chair until you turn to look at her. “Isla.”

You swallow. “Marie.”

Is it just you or is Marie as nervous as you are?

“Would you…sit by me?” she asks. Her eyes flick to the seat just to the right of her side of the table. You may not be a noble, but you know what that seat means.

Your voice wavers. You’re suddenly very conscious of the kids looking at you, of the way Sarah’s pressed a hand to her mouth. In surprise? To hide her pleasure? “If—if I can?”

“Yes,” Marie says quickly. “Yes, if you don’t mind, I mean, if you’re able to be drawn away—”

Lord Brennan throws open the dining room doors with an astonishing crash. He isn’t dressed for company and his long sleeping robe is drenched with the water still dripping from his hair. “I am starving. Is there—” He catches sight of the table and his mouth drops open in surprise. “You were all about to have dinner? Without me?”

“You were in a coma, my lord,” Ivan says.

“I was taking a nap,” Lord Brennan corrects. His golden eyes catalogue the way Marie is standing over you, the three empty seats at the end of the table opposite Ivan. Rather than claiming the empty head of the table seat, he strides over to Ivan. “Up, up you get.”

“There’s another seat you can take!” Ivan complains. He guards his plate of food. “I just served myself.”

“Go sit with your wife and daughter,” Lord Brennan commands. He nearly sits on Ivan when the other man stands too slowly. He smiles charmingly at Sarah. “Director. Fancy seeing you here.”

Sarah flushes up to her ears.

“Daughter?” Hera asks.

Your stomach turns over. Oh god. It’s not fair that they asked you – you were too happy to think about it, but the other kids must be devastated—

But Hera doesn’t look sad. She’s staring at you for an answer, her eyes open and accepting.

“Y-yeah,” you say.

“Hell yeah,” Josiah says. “If the Bahrs adopt you that means I can read through their library right?”

Annie looks up at you. “And we can come visit?”

“Of course you all can,” Marie answers. Is her voice a little misty? “You all can stay here as long as you like.”

“Go sit with them,” Hera says. She smiles and pushes at you. “Go on.”

It’s the best meal you’ve ever had.

-----

(Part 1) (Part 2) (part 3) (part 4)

------------------

Thanks for reading! IF you'd like to support me and see pieces like this a week in advance plus monthly exclusives, please consider checking out my Patreon!(X)

[korn-dawg]

newly turned vampire!vi + vampire!reader cause lachryma's theme was vampires !!

cw: reader's a toxic bitch, could be classified as hurt/no comfort (?), brief smut scene but it adds to the plot

˖°🦇ִ vampire!vi who met you in a nightclub after a win in the pit, playing eye tag for an hour from her booth before you approached her, sitting on the table between her man-spread legs

˖°🦇ִ vampire!vi who's initially surprised by your boldness, telling her she's coming home with you, plain and simple

˖°🦇ִ vampire!vi who's eager despite the twisting feeling in her gut, following you away from smoke filled air and thumping music, away from the safety of witnesses

˖°🦇ִ vampire!vi who let you lead the way, stumbling over the thick air suffocating the underbelly of zaun

˖°🦇ִ vampire!vi who let you rough her up on your ragged mattress, neck giving way when you pull her hair, thighs spreading like warm butter on toast with the slightest push, moaning like a cheap whore at every touch

˖°🦇ִ vampire!vi who closed her eyes when you went down on her, not noticing your fingers pushing and prodding at her inner thigh as if looking for something while you sucked on her swollen clit

˖°🦇ִ vampire!vi your fingers stilled where her pulse was strongest, your mouth detached from her and latched onto the area, sharp canines clamping down until her soft flesh gave way and teared

˖°🦇ִ vampire!vi who felt the sting, then the burn, then nothing.

˖°🦇ִ vampire!vi who woke up the next morning feeling like shit. this wasn't a normal hangover, it felt like a panic attack mixed with a bad head cold. she couldn't control her breathing, heartrate so fast she couldn't hear anything but the rapid thump thump thump in her ears, not to mention she was sweating like a motherfucker despite being cold to the touch and shivering.

˖°🦇ִ vampire!vi who freaked when she noticed her blood all over the sheets, pooling at her thighs, getting up to check herself for an injury

˖°🦇ִ vampire!vi who could hardly make it to your bathroom, passing out on the cold tile and waking up confused, only to vomit and pass out again.

˖°🦇ִ vampire!vi who spent the entire day there, missing what she had planned for the day (albeit it wasn't much; fight, win, drink, smoke, fuck, nap, rinse and repeat)

˖°🦇ִ vampire!vi who woke up at around 7pm to a half-assed kick to the side and you standing over her, disapproval and borderline disgust painting the features of your face

"you were here all day? did you even do anything to make yourself remotely useful?"

˖°🦇ִ vampire!vi who tried to explain what she was feeling, only for you to disregard her, walking off to go lay on your couch

"you'll be fine, you're being dramatic."

˖°🦇ִ vampire!vi who stayed there on your bathroom floor for 3 days straight until she could finally get her bearings and stop fainting

˖°🦇ִ vampire!vi who got worked around the entire time. not once did you check on her or offer anything, just stepping over her borderline lifeless body to get done in the mornings

˖°🦇ִ vampire!vi who didn't know what to do when she could finally walk around and just sat on your couch, waiting for you to get home

˖°🦇ִ vampire!vi who asked so many questions as soon as you stepped in the door, demanding answers as to what was happening and why you were so casual about her almost dying on your floor

˖°🦇ִ vampire!vi who didn't believe your reluctant explanation at first, leaving your place in a huff after calling you a lunatic

˖°🦇ִ vampire!vi who didn't last very long outside, the punctured arteries in her thigh still bleeding despite her trying her hardest to stop it

˖°🦇ִ vampire!vi who ended up at your front door not even a day later, her earlier symptoms resurfacing swift and worse than before

˖°🦇ִ vampire!vi who stared at the liquid in front of her, glancing over at you a few times, refusing to drink it before she was held down, metallic tasting red funneled down her throat

"i'm keeping you alive, stop being a little bitch about this."

˖°🦇ִ vampire!vi who finally started to believe you because immediately after, she felt fine. great actually.

˖°🦇ִ vampire!vi who stuck around after that, coming to you with any questions or to feed, developing a little bit of a crush on you overtime

˖°🦇ִ vampire!vi who decided to tell you after much thinking, confessing while hanging out on your couch, only to get laughed at

"you're pathetic, violet. no chance."

˖°🦇ִ vampire!vi who was devastated by the rejection, avoiding hanging out with you, only coming over to eat and leaving immediately without a word

˖°🦇ִ vampire!vi who started seeing a girl temporarily to soothe the heartbreak, only for you to shut it down when you caught wind of it

˖°🦇ִ vampire!vi who got yelled at the next time she came over after you saw them together, being threatened with getting cut off from her blood supply if she didn't drop the girl immediately

˖°🦇ִ vampire!vi who refused to break it off, leading you to conveniently move away to an unknown location

˖°🦇ִ vampire!vi who was lost without you or your guidance, the weakness and hunger getting to her during a night with her new girl, blacking out as she did once before. this time, though, the pool of blood she woke up in wasn't hers

aftercare !!

˖°🦇ִ vampire!vi who had a lisp for a solid two months after her fangs fully grew in

˖°🦇ִ vampire!vi who cuts her lips on the sharp points of her teeth

˖°🦇ִ vampire!vi who got really sensitive to bright lights after turning, wearing shades almost 24/7

˖°🦇ִ vampire!vi who sleeps with a little bat plushie she stole borrowed

˖°🦇ִ vampire!vi who picks everyone up during group hugs

AHHHH YOU ALL THOUGHT THIS WAS GONNA BE SMUT HUH LMFAOOOOOOOOOOO

taglist !!! : @hihihhihahahha  @lolitalovess  @peskylez  @saturnhas82moons  @kylorey25  @lipglosskxsses  @mars4hellokitty  @hwasddeongbyeoli  @foralltheprettygirls @kae-boom

[nemo-writes]

𝗮𝗯𝘀𝗼𝗹𝘂𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝘀𝗺𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻 I chapter thirteen

(dr. jack abbot x nurse!reader)

⤿ chapter summary: things end in tragedy.

⤿ warning(s): character death, graphic descriptions of blood and violence, graphic descriptions of medical procedures, medical inaccuracies.

⟡ story masterlist ; previous I next

✦ word count: 2.5k

Jack is too late to stop the fall, but just in time to witness the aftermath.

For an instant that will brand itself forever, the world goes eerily still. He reaches the railing and leans out, and there you are: crumpled on a tangle of construction scaffold two stories below, Dorian’s body twisted beneath you like a grotesque cushion. Sodium floodlights paint everything sepia; the hum of city traffic wafts up as if nothing extraordinary has happened.

You’re not moving.

The sight punches the air from Jack’s lungs. His fingers clamp the cold rail so hard metal creaks. An animal noise claws up his throat, but training strangles it.

He then sucks in freezing air, pivots, and bolts down the service stairwell three steps at a time. On the landing he nearly collides with a pair of ICU nurses already hauling a backboard. Words crash out of him—“She’s on the scaffolding, eighth-floor façade”—before he vaults past, feet barely touching concrete.

On the seventh floor he bursts onto the scaffold walkway—the world roaring back to motion. The two nurses scramble at your side, desperate hands feeling for pulses.

Jack drops to his knees, palms skidding on grit, and braces your head between shaking hands. Tears blur his vision for half a heartbeat, but then the old medic clicks on: airway, breathing, circulation. Your chest rises in ragged little gasps; a pulse flutters at your neck—the faintest drum, but there.

“C-spine!” Jack barks. Robby is suddenly at his side—face blanched, hands steady—sliding the rigid collar beneath your jaw while a night-shift nurse anchors your skull. Jack’s fingers quake, but his voice stays level, murmuring between commands: “Stay with me, sweetheart. I’ve got you. Breathe.”

Just a yard away, Dorian’s body lies where it landed—arms splayed, eyes fixed on the blank sky. No one spares him more than a glance; purpose funnels toward the living. An ESU tech tosses a silver casualty blanket over the corpse—an afterthought glittering under flood-lights—then hurries back to help Robby steady the backboard.

Straps cinch tight; splints cradle your ruined arm; IV lines snake from bruised veins. The moment the stretcher locks and lifts—your weight finally secured—Jack’s composure splinters, a raw, half-voiced sob ripping free before duty slams the door on it. Robby is there, bracing a steady hand between Jack’s shoulder blades—an unspoken stand fast, brother—and the lance of grief folds back into purpose.

Robby’s hand stays planted between Jack’s shoulders as they seize the stretcher handles—Jack with one hand steadying the dripping saline, Robby matching his grip on the opposite rail. Together with the team they surge for the stairwell. Behind them the scaffold creaks; wind rattles the foil over Dorian’s abandoned corpse. Ahead, sirens and shouted clearances funnel toward the harsh, saving brightness of Trauma-bay lights.

The freight elevator bangs open onto the surgical floor, and the gurney rockets out into a corridor already cleared to disaster footing. OR 3’s doors stand wide, lights blazing like a white-hot maw. Your stretcher rolls past stacked crash carts, through teams who yank instrument trays from sterile wrappers with frantic precision.

“Prep time is blood time—move!” Dr. Walsh barks, snapping fresh gloves on. She jerks her head toward Dr. Garcia and Dr. Miller—both technically off shift, both refusing to leave. Garcia yanks on a fresh sterile coat, while Miller chases the circulating nurse for a vascular tray, face chalk-pale beneath exhaustion but set like stone.

Jack jogs beside the rail, one hand on the IV hub, the other cradling your barely-there pulse. Your face, normally lit with sunrise jokes, is gray as surgical steel; respirations hitch against the vent. The monitors scream—heart 140, pressure free-falling despite pressors. Blood oozes past the chest-tube dressing, runs in black rivulets along the mattress seam. For one lurching second Jack thinks he can see your sternum move independently—flail segment snapping like a broken birdcage whenever the bag squeezes a breath.

Inside the suite, an anesthesiologist slams the vent into the wall gas. “ETCO₂ tanking—she’s blowing off nothing. Tubing clear, switching to pressure control.” A tech sponges the brown spill of gastric contents from your cheek where the fall forced bile up your throat.

Before Jack can take another step forward, Walsh is there to plant a palm on his chest. “Line of departure,” her tone’s a scalpel but her eyes flicker with something fragile. “You watching through glass keeps me honest. Get there.”

Jack’s knees try to root themselves to the floor—leaving feels like desertion—but he obeys, stumbling back to the anteroom. Robby drags him aside, shouldering a silent barricade, as the scrub nurse slaps a No-Entry sign across the doors.

Inside OR 3 chaos becomes choreography. Dr. Garcia slides an ultrasound wand over the upper-right side of your stomach; the screen blooms black—blood drowning your liver. “Big tear—she’s bleeding out,” she calls.

“Get every unit of blood we have!” Walsh fires back. A tech slams thawed plasma onto the rapid infuser; Fin, sleeves soaked crimson, races in with more O-negative.

Miller squeezes the breathing bag with one hand while reading the monitor with the other. “Blood pressure sixty, heart racing, oxygen crashing,” he warns. His glance to Walsh is clear: we’re losing her.

Walsh answers by drawing a long line down your belly with the scalpel. Metal meets skin; bright red floods the drapes. Suction roars as Garcia stuffs sponge after sponge inside, trying to keep pace with the tide.

From behind the glass, Jack sees it all in slow motion: Walsh’s hands diving into the wound, fresh crimson soaking gauze, Miller’s shoulders knotting as he forces each breath into your lungs. Alarm tones layer over each other—howling that time is almost gone. Robby’s fist clenches Jack’s scrubs, tethering him. Dana appears beside them, tears sliding unchecked.

Inside, Garcia’s shout fractures the moment. “Heart’s out of rhythm—paddles, now!” Gel slaps your chest; your body jerks under the jolt, then flattens. The screen still scribbles chaos. Another shock. A beat… another… the wavering line steadies at 40 beats a minute.

Walsh never looks up. “Clamp that liver,” she mutters. Miller drops a clamp into her waiting hand; her fingers disappear into the bloody cavity. Seconds crawl. Then—a sharp, certain “Got it.” The suction pitch drops; the gush slows. Your pressure inches up—seventy, then eighty.

Jack’s knees buckle with relief so bitter it tastes like metal. Only now does he notice he’s biting his lip so hard its started to crack and bleed, Robby’s arm still the only thing keeping him upright.

Inside the glass, the storm quiets but doesn’t clear. Garcia calls sponge counts, Miller pushes life back through IV syringes, Walsh asks for closing stitches. The spleen still has to be checked, your arm is splintered, your head injury lurks unseen—but the bleeding that wanted your life is finally caged.

Walsh lifts her gaze to the gallery. Her nod to Jack is small—barely a tremor of her chin—but louder than every alarm. She’s still here.

Jack presses his palm to the pane, breath fogging the glass—an unspoken promise to the broken figure on the table: I’m still here, too.

The last suture goes in at 03:17 a.m.

Walsh’s shoulders hunch, her cap soaked through, but the wound is finally closed and the bleeding quiet. You’re wheeled straight to the Surgical ICU under a tower of pumps: blood, antibiotics, pain drips, vasopressors. A ventilator sighs at your bedside; a padded brace keeps your shattered arm aligned; your leg is already swaddled for the ortho plate you’ll need tomorrow—if your numbers hold.

They don’t hold for long.

03:42 – Your blood pressure nosedives. Garcia—still in the same stained coat—bolts a syringe of epinephrine to the line. “Come on,” she murmurs, eyes locked on the monitor until the numbers claw back into the 80s.

04:19 – You spike a jagged heart rhythm. Miller arrives with the crash cart; two shocks later the sinus beat staggers upright like a boxer on the ninth round. He leaves without a word, too tired to make a joke, too relieved to curse fate.

05:05 – A neuro resident slips in, pupils your eyes, frowns at the sluggish response, and orders another CT scan. The porter wheels you out; every corridor looks bruised by night-shift fluorescence, the hush broken only by the rattle of your ventilator.

Everyone is on overtime on Surgical. Jules runs sponge counts from muscle memory, Fin brews coffee that tastes like burnt hope, and Margot prowls the quiet bays, snapping gloves just to keep her nerves from screaming. And Jack never sits; he circles the ICU glass, charting every tiny rise in your blood pressure like it’s a sunrise.

Downstairs, the lobby still glows with crime-scene klieg lights. Police techs comb the pathology lab where Dorian Moylan worked. Detective Patel—hair pulled into a weary knot—is giving Gloria and Security Chief Ramirez the bullet points:

Moylan had quietly transferred between three hospitals in five years, each move following a “personality conflict.”

He spent night breaks pulling unused visitor badges from shredders, soldering chips to clone them.

Two weeks ago he piggy-backed a vendor to the roof and wedged the alarm sensor with a folded coffee stirrer—so small maintenance chalked it up to wind malfunction.

His apartment wall is plastered with photos of you: cafeteria line, parking deck, charity fun-run. Thread between the prints spells an obsession bigger than anger, almost devotional.

“How did he know shift rosters?” Gloria snaps, exhaustion sharpening her words.

Patel taps her tablet. “Key-logger on a volunteer computer in the HR nook. He read every schedule change the moment you clicked Save.”

Ramirez blows out a breath. “He made our cameras blind with coffee stirrers and still waited a month. Why?”

“Because Jack Abbot was on nights,” Patel answers. “Our profile says Moylan wouldn’t act while a protective figure was consistently present. Abbot’s single day off became the window.”

Gloria’s jaw tightens, grief shading into rage.

Upstairs, at 06:12—the ventilator alarm yelps; your chest tube kicks out a dark surge. Garcia dashes in, adjusts suction, sighs when the numbers settle. Jack hovers behind her. She glances back, voice hoarse. “Go breathe, Abbot. She’s stable enough for twenty minutes.”

He shakes his head. “Was supposed to meet her on the roof at sunrise. I owe her the view.”

Garcia’s tired eyes soften just a fraction, her usual bite gone. “Then save it. There’s another dawn coming.”

He grips your badge, his nail playing with the edge of the freshly pressed scalpe sticker, the plastic warm from his sweat, and watches the steady pump of the ventilator. There he sits—until pale daylight begins to leak along the ICU windows.

Your vitals bob in a fragile rhythm. Odds still tilt against you, but each beeping heartbeat writes a promise: not finished yet. And for everyone gathered—surgeons running on caffeine fumes, detectives piecing together the how of horror, friends refusing to blink—the night becomes a vigil, a shared refusal to let the dark have the last line.

Down the corridor a clock clicks to 07:00. Shift change. Another dawn Jack will never see from the roof—but he glances at you, bruised and breathing, and decides this sunrise is happening right here, in the hush between monitors.

. . .

Darkness feels solid, almost architectural—an endless corridor of closed doors. You float somewhere in its center, weightless but not free, a body suspended by medicine while your mind paces on its own.

The first door cracks open, and you are twelve again, kneeling on your bedroom floor with a shoebox of mismatched screws. Other kids build forts; you sort hardware by length, head-type, finish—order blooming under your fingers. The quiet thrill of finding the system beneath the mess settles into your bones like a blueprint. If everything has a place, nothing feels out of control.

Another door: high-school cafeteria. A friend’s asthma attack sends panicked teenagers scattering. You don’t run—you kneel, prop her shoulders, count her breaths, coach her through the wheeze until the nurse arrives. That same thrum of purpose swells in your chest, louder than fear. Method birthed into mercy: There is always something you can steady.

Door three: nursing school, surgical rotation. You memorize clamp sizes the way others memorize song lyrics. Surgeons bark, but your trays are flawless. Patients bleed, but your hands don’t shake. Every precise motion says the same thing: Chaos can’t own me if I meet it with order.

The corridor bends. Lights dim. A door creaks that you don’t remember installing. You push through, and the air shifts—sterile at first, then sour. Cell-phone glow reveals walls papered with photos of you: walking to the parking deck, laughing in the staff lounge, rooftop at dawn. Each image is neatly labeled in handwriting that isn’t yours.

Your limbs feel heavy, dream-slow. Footsteps echo behind you—soft, deliberate. You turn, but the visitor stays just beyond peripheral vision, voice drifting like breath in your ear. “I watched you keep everyone else safe. Even him. But who keeps you safe?”

A glint—a scalpel tip catches the thin light.

Panic splinters the method. You reach for old anchors—breath counts, mental checklists—but the floor tilts, photos sliding like loose tiles. One after another the earlier doors slam shut, trapping you in this room of obsessive order twisted into threat.

You run, but the corridor loops back. Same door, same photos, same voice. “Don’t run,” it coax-pleads, as though worry and menace share the same mouth. Shadows swallow your hands, steal your capacity to sort, label, fix. Pulse hammers your ribs; breath snags.

Darkness thickens until it’s syrup in your lungs.

Monitors far away chirp frantic warnings—yet they feel foreign, as if wired to someone else. In here, time is a wheel rut: your methodical past feeding the stalker’s meticulous terror, spinning, spinning.

You try to scream for Jack, but medication drags the sound to the floor. Only a thin exhale leaves your lips in the real world—just enough for the ventilator to notice.

In the black corridor, you press your back to the wall, palms bleeding invisible splinters. There must be a place for this, you think, wild and desperate. Even nightmares obey some order. Your mind claws for a schema, some way to sort fear as you once sorted screws, but the photos multiply, falling like snow, until every scrap of vision is your own image, your own vulnerability catalogued.

The voice fades into a hiss—tireless, self-justifying—yet beneath it, softer vibrations reach you: the steady pump of a ventilator, the ripple of an IV, a distant heartbeat stronger than your own. You can’t see Jack, but the memory of his hand on your pulse thrums like a beacon. It isn’t method—it’s devotion—and for the first time in this loop you feel something stronger than dread.

Somewhere outside the morphine fog, voices pledge that dawn is coming, that hands stand ready to guide you back. But here, in the induced night, you walk the length of your own history—methodical footfalls echoing against walls lined with fear—searching for a door that leads forward instead of back.

divider credit

[magikdarkholme]

ooohhh ok hear me out…what abt joaquin and reader at like a arcade or fair and they make a bet on how many tickets/prizes they can win. just fluff galore yknow!!

(ps this is tea—tumblr won’t let me ask on my other acct.😭😭)

— Ringpops and Clawmachines

pairing - Joaqín Torres x fem gf!reader

summary — Joaquin and gf!reader go on an arcade date. Maybe J lets her win, or maybe reader is just better at him (its the latter)

warnings - pure fluff!!!, established relationship,

notes — i forgot i had this in my drafts so im finally posting lolll!!! here you go tea :) hope this is what you wanted bb <3

masterlist

You barely stepped one foot onto the fairgrounds before Joaquín was tugging your hand, eyes sparkling like he was a kid again.

“Arcade first,” he said with mock urgency. “Before the cotton candy coma sets in.”

You laughed, fingers laced tightly with his. “Are you trying to distract me before I destroy you in ticket count again?”

“Destroy me?” he gasped. “Mi amor, you got lucky last time.”

“Lucky? I outscored you in Skee-Ball and beat your sorry butt at air hockey.”

“That was a technical glitch,” he muttered. “The puck had a vendetta.”

You leaned up to kiss his cheek. “Excuses, Torres. Just admit your defeat like a good boyfriend.”

He made a dramatic show of being wounded before shoving a game card into your hand. “Fine. Rematch. Same deal. Winner gets bragging rights and gets to pick the prize we take home.”

You squinted at him. “Loser buys snacks?”

“Obviously.”

You bumped shoulders. “Hope you brought your wallet, flyboy.”

The arcade glowed with neon lights, the air full of the beeps, buzzes, and explosions of pixelated warfare. You and Joaquín hit every game like a mission: Skee-Ball, Whack-a-Mole, hoops, racing sims. He tried to look all serious and tactical, squinting like he was on an actual op—but every time you glanced over, he was grinning.

He absolutely flopped at the claw machine. Again.

“Why is it always this one?” he asked, staring at the stuffed banana plushie that had slipped from the claw’s grip at the last second. “I had it.”

You giggled. “It knew you weren’t ready for the responsibility of banana parenthood.”

He snorted, bumping your hip with his. “One more try.”

He failed. Again.

“Babe, I think the claw hates me.”

“It’s okay,” you teased, wrapping your arms around his waist. “I love you enough for both of us.”

He melted right there, smile softening as he kissed your forehead. “That’s not fair. You can’t say cute things in the middle of my emotional downfall.”

At the basketball hoops, he bounced back. Literally.

He landed every shot with precision, flexing like a goof and mouthing, “Get on my level,” while you booed dramatically and tried to sabotage him with a tickle to the ribs.

At Dance Dance Revolution, it was chaos.

He was all limbs, bouncing to the beat like a man possessed, while you tried to keep up through gasps of laughter. The machine awarded you a “C” and him a “D,” which sparked a very loud (and extremely incorrect) debate about the scoring algorithm.

“Clearly rigged,” he said, hands on his hips.

“You fell off the pad twice.”

“I was giving the crowd a show!”

“No one was watching except that four-year-old eating popcorn.”

“He was watching respectfully.”

Eventually, you both collapsed onto a bench near the prize booth, game cards drained, ticket stacks stuffed in your pockets, sleeves, and your tote bag.

Joaquín slumped beside you, leaning his head against your shoulder.

“Okay,” he murmured. “Tally time. You ready to admit defeat?”

You pulled out your ticket pile and laid it on your lap. “Count 'em, Torres.”

He stared. Then groaned. “Nooo.”

You grinned. “What’s the damage?”

He held up his smaller pile, dramatically tossing a few on the ground. “By like sixty! This is sabotage.”

“You picked the Dance Dance game.”

“And you picked my heart,” he sighed, collapsing sideways across your lap.

You laughed, brushing a hand through his hair. “Nice try, but that’s not getting you out of funnel cake duty.”

“Worth a shot,” he mumbled, turning just enough to kiss your stomach lightly before sitting up again. “Alright, what prize do we want, champ?”

You both ended up choosing a pair of matching plush dogs and some candy rings for the walk home. He made a whole thing out of fake-proposing to you with a ring pop in front of the booth attendant, who gave you both a slow clap and a sarcastic “congrats.”

“Next time, real ring,” Joaquín whispered to you as you walked away, slinging his arm over your shoulders. His voice was soft now, warmer than the summer breeze around you.

Your heart did a whole somersault, but all you said was, “Only if it comes with more cotton candy.”

“Done.”

[tweenlove-n-hate]

The Scientific Study of Destiny- Updated

The above is commissioned art for Chapter 11 of The Scientific Study of Destiny by @c-rose2081!! I had a vision of this scene from Chapter 11 that wouldn't leave me alone and I'm VERY grateful to @c-rose2081 for bringing this scene to life in this way! <3 I LOVE it, and I hope you will too!

Thank you all for your patience with me getting this update out. Things got away from me, but I hope you'll enjoy the chapter and let me know what you think of it! <3

Sneak Peek:

Galinda tore another piece off from her cinnamon roll and chewed on it.

Fact: She was going to ruin her dinner. Fact: She didn’t care.

She hummed to herself, a common practice to keep herself calm during this part of the walk, while she enjoyed the sweet treat.

She was just about halfway to Shiz when she felt something. The hairs on the back of her neck went up as the air around her seemed to still for a moment with her sudden consideration. The sensation was startling enough that she paid closer attention to it.

Focus. What could she hear?

The wind rustled in the trees around her, that sound was familiar and commonplace.

An owl was hooting somewhere in the unseen distance.

A caw of some kind of bird.

The skittering of small creatures on both the left and right within the woods.

Nothing out of the ordinary. But why then did she feel unsettled?

Galinda swallowed thickly and started walking again. She slowed her pace, wanting to focus and see if she could hear what was making her feel this way. The slower pace meant she wouldn’t get back to Elphaba faster though and that made her frown.

She picked her pace up just a little bit as she forced her senses to pay attention to the world around her again. To find what was wrong, what didn’t fit.

Fact: There was something watching her, she could feel it.

Although she always relied on facts and evidence, this time she was willing to accept that her body had a sixth sense for danger, and the warning bells were chiming incessantly in her head.

Somewhere in the trees, there were eyes watching her every move. Galinda didn’t know where in the trees this something (someone), was, but, but she could feel it.

The breeze circled around her in a funnel for a moment, as if to protect her from something unseen.

Galinda turned her head to the right, staring off into the darkness of the woods, then looked to the left, her steps slow and deliberate as she tried to remain as quiet as possible. Which, wouldn’t work! How could that work? Something was watching her, it could see her, what would her being quiet do?

Available Now: Chapter 11 - Collection of Data Part 8

[idrellegames]

Hello everyone! 

Welcome to Wayfarer Q3. A lot has happened since the last roadmap, and I am very pleased to announce that the Episode 3 finale has been fully drafted. There is still a lot of work that needs to get done before I can start coding it—edits, polishing—but the bulk of the difficult work is done. The Episode 3 finale in total is approximately 278,154 words across all possible variations and routes, and includes three unique endings depending on player choice. 

This content is currently not available to play in Wayfarer’s alpha build. I have made the decision that I am going to continue to write and use Q3 to finish up the remaining Episode 3 openers. This covers events that follow any of the Episode 2 endings that involve Melchior or his theatre company, as well as miscellaneous endings like the one where the MC gets drunk. Once these sections are done, I will be finished writing Episode 3 and will be able to move onto coding the remaining content. It’s still too soon to give an accurate estimate, but I am aiming for an Episode 3 alpha release sometime in Q4. 

I am putting Patreon short story content on pause for the month of July while I sort out the next steps. I am uncertain if the pause will continue for August and September as well, as I would very much like to get Episode 3’s writing out of the way before I do anything else. If you’re interested in the bonus content, please keep an eye on my socials for updates regarding those. 

✦ Q3 Overview — July to September 2025

Q3 is the last push to get Episode 3 finished. I will be using July to return to a section I haven’t touched in about two years; I will need to re-orient myself to remember what is going on and all the threads that need to be untangled as Episode 3’s opening is very different from its finale. August will be about drafting the miscellaneous openings and funneling them down the correct bottlenecks, while September will be about finishing off the last of the connective tissue between the opening and the middle sections of the episode. 

As much of this writing will be using existing content (there are some conversations that need to occur on every route) and editing it for continuity depending on which characters are present, there is a small chance that it may go a little faster than projected. Depending on how Q3 goes and if I do finish all of the writing I need to get done, I will be opening new playtester applications in October to test Episode 3 once it is fully coded.  

Wayfarer’s roadmap is an estimated timeline and is subject to change.

✦ The State of Episode 3 — July 2025

Right click to enlarge for better viewing

This flowchart is a summary of the paths, variations, and routes involved. Teal sections have been added to the alpha build; blue sections have been written, but not coded. Orange sections are WIPs. Red sections have not been drafted yet. There are only a few red sections left now! 

Episode 3’s current total word count and breakdown is:

Green is content that is playable in the alpha build, Blue is content that has been written but not coded, Yellow is content that has been started but not finished, Red is content that has not been drafted yet.

I do not have an estimate for the Episode 3 alpha’s release date yet. The public build will not receive any content updates until the Episode 4 alpha is complete.

✦ Alpha Build Stats — July 2025

Average Word Count Per Playthrough: 193,900 words (approximate)

Average Playtime: 11 hours

Total Cumulative Word Count: 1,414,800 words (approximate) 

The build was last updated in July 2024. It is playable on my Patreon. If you are interested in the alpha, please note that you do not need to restart the game from the beginning. The alpha and public builds share meta data, so any public build saves can be loaded directly into the alpha and they should work.      

✦ Socials

Tumblr — @idrellegames

Instagram — @idrellegames

Bluesky — @idrellegames.bsky.social

Patreon — patreon.com/idrellegames

Thank you so much for your continued support! ❤️

~ Anna Idrelle Games

[inknopewetrust]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐡𝐲𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐋𝐮𝐬𝐭

Summary: When the longevity of sin is threatened by the factions of a feuding family on the brink of war, a choice must be made to protect the secrets of a heart torn in two.

[ser erryk cargyll x targaryen!fem!reader] [wc: 10.7k]

Warnings: minors dni (18+ only), smut, angst, mentions of death/war, themes consistent with show, spoilers for the show (season 3).

quick links: masterlist

There is no duty without sacrifice, nor reward without submission. In a world as cruel as this, you often pondered in wilted daydreams of a world at peace.

As golden springs and chilled autumns once brought virtue and good fortune, the hallowed corridors of Dragonstone in the middle of a long, bleak war brought nothing but a faded memory of the past.

The halls whimpered with the martyrs it kept.

And the phantoms snickered at those in wait and the sacrifices one makes for the duty of their house bears scars on those left in their tormented wake.

Night fell with a deep, dark shadow lingering above. A hand gripping the castle as the maids scrubbed the blood from the chamber floor of the Queen.

He was dead.

And you felt a piece of you die with him.

“Sister,” Rhaenyra spoke but her voice was distant.

In an echo chamber of your mind, the noises funneled around you. A heavy weight of air pressed upon you as your hand picked at the wooden edges of the chair beside the fire.

“Leave us,” the Queen spoke to her guard and Elinda quietly.

The door shut behind her and in careful steps, she could see your eyes trained heavily on the spot now covered in a yellow rug. Toys remained from her young boys which struck the shell of her own heart with a fury.

Death lingered in Rhaenyra’s chambers and there was never a moment to mourn. A war roars on the mainland in her name; people perish in acts of heightened emotions and sacrifice puddles even the strongest of soldiers.

“Sister,” she cleared her throat. “To what—“

“When Harwin died,” your voice was hoarse from a weary day, “did you mourn the man you loved?”

Rhaenyra halted behind the settee. Her hands settled to trace its carvings.

“I beg your pardon?” She inquired.

You were lost in a haze of self destruction. Lost within yourself with a haphazard will to move on. Hours had passed, mere hours, and those on the council that sit around a painted table forget the tragedies that have befallen a great house in a matter of weeks.

You mumbled incoherently and Rhaenyra furrowed her brows. She seldom saw you blink in the light of the fire; the waterline of your eyes pooled with tears. One slipped down the cheek closest to her.

She had watched you absent in your own mind as dirt filled the grave in the early morn. It should not have come as a startle that those feelings remained.

“I fear I do not know what to do with myself,” you whispered. “I-I d-do not know what to do.”

“What for, sister?” Rhaenyra approached as she would her smallest child. “You needn’t do anything at this moment.”

She took a seat on the cushion and reached for your hand. It barely brushed your own before something snapped. A arrow shooting from its bow, breaking your stupor and sending you out of your seat.

You removed yourself from the chair and stepped away from her. Your hands shook as your lip trembled.

The death that grieves in isolation swells. Ribbons of torment become suffocating, choking until awoken with a shake.

“I do not wish to be alone,” you all but wailed. “I’ve been alone for so long, so long…”

“Do you speak of sleep? Or, or marriage?” Rhaenyra drew confused. You had been adamant for years, threatening your life and title to remain a spinster the history books would forget.

The Virgin Princess, she imagined the books may speak of.

You let out a weak, strangled laugh at her. Eyes cutting and red, she felt the tremors of Harwin’s pain bubble inside of her. It made her uncomfortable in her skin.

“I loved him, Rhaenyra.”

For the first time, you saw your sister truly look at you.

And she did not see her elder sister.

She did not see the girl, simply two name days older, who was fond of reading and politics.

She could not see the girl who would beckon Rhaenyra to braid her hair while recalling stories of Old Valyria and the conquests of their ancestors.

She did not see a now grown woman who sought independence; someone who tried to subvert the traditions of a name such as the one you shared.

Rhaenyra saw a widow.

She spoke your name softly and you shook your head at her.

“I loved Erryk. I loved him so.”

Rhaenyra let your confession sit.

“I followed you to Dragonstone,” you spat. “I left the only world I’d ever known to remain in your court because you’re my sister, Rhaenyra. But this place,” your eyes trailed along the vaulted ceilings and the wet stones. “This place has done nothing but bring us suffering.”

“Sister,” Rhaenyra sat forward. “We all make sacrifices—“

“No!” Your voice raised as tears fell consistently. “We are weak, Rhaenyra! This would not have happened if we had been prepared!”

“You speak as though his choice was my fault.”

You let silence fall. Diverting your eyes away from Rhaenyra, she felt a grip on her heart go numb. You believed it to be her fault.

“My grief,” you closed your eyes to darkness. “My grief pokes holes in the agony of my life. It heaves within me for a purpose that is not there and I do not know what to do with myself because of it. He is gone. He’s gone, Rhaenyra. I loved him and he’s gone.”

“Is that why you have never agreed to take a lord husband?”

You nodded your head and sank down on her bed.

“Did you truly love Harwin Strong?” You asked, following it with an awkward chuckle. “I find it to be quite amusable that we two daughters loved men in the cloak.”

Rhaenyra shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “I did.”

“And when he died, did you grieve him as I do Erryk?”

“I did.”

“But you have a memory of him; pieces of him always with you.”

She never spoke aloud the paternity of her sons. Rhaenyra was not daft in knowing people knew, but even to you, her dear sister, she never spoke of it.

Rhaenyra did not shy away from having Harwin keep a long distance between their children. She had seen you and Harwin get along well in the presence of her children and often wondered what the world would be like had she been able to marry him in place of Laenor.

Everyone would have ended up in a much happier place, she believed.

“I do," she whispered against the dead of night. "I do, yes."

"And I will never have that," you stressed. Gaze more frantic than before. You shook your head at the thought. "I never would but I still wanted something to be mine. For me to hold and love and cherish but there is nothing I can do now but sit and ponder the "what ifs." But at war, I am not meant to dwell on them."

"Yet here you are, asking about them anyway."

That dreaded silence fell between you once more. It did not escape her that the lives of innocents were at stake while this war met on the steps of each great house. Her son, Helena's son, good men, and kind women were killed for nothing more than fodder.

It was moot; the tragedy of errors.

“I loved him,” your repeated. “I loved him dearly.”

"Tell me," she tried to offer a tight-lipped smile. "How did it begin?"

"Oh, Rhaenyra," you bemoaned. Sniffing and trying not to focus hard on the spot where he fell on his sword. "I do not-"

"But I would like to hear it," she got up and joined you at your side. Rhaenyra took one of your hands in hers. "I do not wish to hear all the details, however."

You envisioned him in your memory. His eyes, smile. How in the shadows of your chambers he was a different man than he one who served your father, your sister.

He was magnetic and quiet.

Erryk was a lover and a fighter.

You laughed and she smiled. "There was something about men in the cloak..."

"I would have to agree," she said. Her eyes gleamed with a memory of Harwin. She loved him. "Dutiful men indeed."

"It felt so scandalous... but he served me."

"In more ways than one," Rhaenyra blushed and you knocked her shoulder with the back of your hand. She had given birth to five children and still remained a form of pious when broaching the subject.

Your tears still fell but Rhaenyra felt the joy of love bloom.

“I was simply jesting,” she started but you gave her a cutting, mischievous glacé.

"Did you not say you wished not to hear of it? Do you want me to tell you all the details? He was quite good, you know? A very fine fuck indeed."

"Oh Gods!" Rhaenyra laughed loudly and for once, you forgot the pain. "Please, spare me of it!"

“He was b-“

“Please!” She spoke your name in a shriek. “I do not wish to think of you in that way!”

"You truly did not know of it?" You questioned her in a striking bewilderment. You never thought yourself to be shroud in secrecy but surely someone had to have noticed your folly in his presence.

He was your father's, then her own, sworn sword.

"I had my suspicions on occasion," Rhaenyra admitted. "It was Harwin who first spoke of it. I did what I could to protect you. It was not long after the wedding. Harwin said he had crossed paths with him," she smiled sheepishly, "though he was not sure of which twin at the time."

Rhaenyra heard a small intake of breath from you. You squeezed her hand.

"But it happened more than once. The happenstance was too peculiar to not think of it in that way, sister. But Harwin was the one to believe it was Erryk. After a while it became easier to tell them apart and he appeared sure."

"I truly did not think it that hard."

Rhaenyra gave you glance of disbelief yet you had been serious.

"Laenor favored him, as did Harwin. That is why I knew he could be trusted. Not only as a fine Kingsguard but with my sister's heart as well."

"Rhaenyra," you sighed in kindness. A tear from your eyes dropped onto your intertwined hands.

"Harwin spoke of his candor. How devoted he was. Yet he broke an oath for the sake of his honor."

"As we all do."

Rhaenyra hummed and thought of her own indiscretions for the sake of love. How Daemon had taken her to the Silk Streets at the same time you were discovering womanhood with one of the Kingsguards. A peculiar life; one caged and riddled with power.

"I would have married him... had he wished to break his oath," you admitted to her and the sheen in your eyes returned. Kingsguard were only released from their duty in death. "But the Gods had other plans it appears."

"I do not doubt it," she replied in turn. "Do you think father knew of it?"

You shrugged your shoulders in indifference. "I fear the Hightower's may have. Even more so now. It takes much to strike a Dragon so deeply. Surely their motives were amplified when he deserted their cause."

Rhaenyra nodded, looking at the children's toys on the rug. She wanted to find the good in the gloom.

"Tell me of him. Tell me of the Ser Erryk I did not know."

“Rhaenyra…”

“Please,” she nearly begged. “Let us find a happiness. As you spoke there had been nothing but pain. There is a part of you that I do not know of and I wish to know now.”

You were not sure when to begin.

The first time you met? The first time you spoke? Those times were trivial and basic. She did not want to hear of your scandals in detail but you could start at the night where it changed. Where womanhood came to you in a way you were not expecting and the wine settled too deep in your bones.

You should have known it was doomed to fail because on that same night, a man died at Rhaenyra’s wedding feast.

But you were too wrapped up in Erryk’s arms to notice that evil lurked in the Red Keep.

The wedding of Rhaenyra and Laenor was no small affair.

It was said that an entire week was to be planned full of tourney's, feasting, and ending in the penultimate betrothal of your sister to your cousin, Laenor, who had all but been absent for the entirety of both your childhoods.

He knew nothing of her but appeared kind.

As the drums beat and the violins soared in the great hall, the two-to-be-wed danced a traditional Targaryen dance that entranced the scope of the room before the guests who dreamed of dancing on the same floor as the heir to the throne joined them.

You sat at the table as Alicent conversed with her uncle in the corner and Daemon squandered his late wife's relative with the pad of his thumb. You downed your goblet of wine as Gerold Royce backed away in embarrassment and Daemon smirked in victory.

“Do you not feel sorrow for your late lady wife?” You asked Daemon who’s look always reminded you of being hunted.

“We were not fond of each other. So, no, I do not.”

"You are a cunt, Daemon," you cut. Your father made a noise of objection and Lord Hand Lyonel Strong choked on his wine.

Daemon laughed. He spared you a glance before turning it back to where Rhaenyra was dancing.

You knew of her infatuation with your uncle. Her eyes kept darting to the table as if no one would see.

Viserys muttered your name in dissatisfaction.

"Brother," Daemon snickered, "it is fine. The Princess was just expressing her admiration for me."

You scoffed as a squire refilled the goblet to the brim. The wine spilled over and the young man went to make apologies but you brushed him off with the wave of your hand.

The wine was gone faster than it had taken to refill it.

"The ire may lay elsewhere I inquire," Daemon gave a smoldering squint of his eyes. "Tell me, good niece, how it feels to be second in a tourney where you have always been first? Seeing the heir of the throne marry before you?"

"You overstep, Uncle," you cut.

"But I am a cunt, remember?"

You sat back in your seat as the air around you became uncomfortable and suffocating. Alicent returned with a strained greeting to which she received nothing in return from you.

It perturbed you that a girl, years your junior, had become your stepmother.

The squire returned to fill your cup but nearly spilled it over your hand as it covered the top of the goblet.

"Squire," Daemon's playful voice was etched with a sinful glee. "I do not believe the Princess needs any. She needs something a bit more sturdy to lift her spirits." He motioned with his pointer finger up to the sky lewdly. “A good fuck would do you well.”

"Daemon," your father spoke and Alicent looked away in a rose-colored blush.

"All in good fun, Brother," Daemon defended as he said your name in a question. The squire escaped quickly from the table; the music changed in the room and the dancers from noble houses joined at a more jubilant pace.

Lord Lyonel eyed the floor as his son, Harwin, danced with Rhaenyra.

Daemon leaned into Lyonel's personal space with a quiet voice.

"Have you been to the Silk Streets, Princess?"

"Daemon!" Viserys ordered loudly. His voice caught the attention of the Velaryon's at the end of the table. "I will not have such talk at this table on this day! It is my daughter's wedding!"

"Of co–"

"It's alright, Father," you turned to him as the weakened look on his worn face became more present. "I believe the eve has gotten the best of me."

Rising from your seat, Viserys objected and Alicent latched herself to your hand.

You felt an evil burn your skin.

"You mustn't go," she pleaded on your father's behalf. "It has only just begun."

"I assure you tomorrow will be a much better day," you told her and wiggled your arm out of her grasp.

Viserys sighed in defeat. He scoured the room for Ser Criston to escort you to your chambers but you had not allowed him the chance to speak. You turned away and stepped down from the risen floor and towards the exit to the left of the Iron Throne. In his sight, Ser Erryk caught his attention.

He could only tell the difference because his helmet had been removed.

"Ser Erryk!" Viserys barked.

Ser Erryk had been a Kingsguard for near three years with his brother, Ser Arryk, alongside him. They had been nothing short of loyal to Viserys in the time since their joining.

"Your Grace," Erryk stopped before the King as he turned around and pointed to his eldest daughter's escape from the Throne Room.

"The Princess wishes to retire," Erryk turned his head to watch you disappear beyond the archway. "Please escort and stand watch until Ser Thorne can return to his station outside of the quarters.”

"Yes, Your Grace."

Erryk did his duty and followed obediently after you. Daemon remained laughing quietly as the reminders of you were left. Wine on the table, a plate untouched of food grew cold as the night wore thin.

You traced your hand along the stones of the hallways of the Red Keep. Ancient and sturdy, the ancestors who crafted these corridors knew not of the stories they would tell; how much each turn of the stone would witness as the years passed and the shadows became ingrained in its pattern.

The wine you had been drinking began to catch up with you.

It had been not more than three cups and you felt flushed and warm. Still with your senses, you felt angry and jolly at the same time.

Yet the frustrations of your family still lingered heavier. You felt the steam roll from your shoulders, loosening itself into tendrils of anger as the sounds of jubilance became faint and the halls became darker and filled with the candlelight of night.

You continued to walk in slow steps as the weight of tiredness fell upon you.

Sounds of armor approaching caught your ears, nonetheless.

You breached the foyer of the grand staircase and turned to rest against the stones. Hands grasping the corners behind your back, you looked down the golden hallway to the armored guard approaching.

"Ser Erryk," you acknowledged as the light illuminated his features before you.

You felt the danger dissipate from your body.

"Princess," he spoke. His accent was notable among those who rallied between common-folk and high-born in the Crownlands.

In the years he and his brother Arryk had served the crown, your paths have crossed. They both presented a fine and reputable record of loyalty and devotion to the cause.

They were good men. A rarity, in the world as you lived it.

But Erryk had always captured your attention more than his brother had. Taller and more attentive to your sister and yourself, he had always caught your eye. You wasted countless minutes of your life simply looking at the knight in hopes that he would look back.

You had memorized his face in a matter of seconds.

"May I ask why you are following after me in such a haste?"

"Your Grace has asked me to escort you, Princess," he continued his approach without explicit permission.

As he came into a closer view, you took stock of the man. A strong face with determined eyes; lips plump and shoulders square yet fitted by the silver of his armor. He had a mole on the left side of his cheek above his lip.

He was beautiful. You were not sure you had ever seen a man with such refined beauty before he had joined the Kingsguard some three years ago. In the times his eyes caught yours in the midst of the chaos of your house, your opinion did not change.

You felt your heartbeat pulse faster.

There was something alluring about his eyes. So focused and intent on the subject upon whom he was speaking to, the unwavering devotion of his trade ever present beyond the armor he wore.

"I see," you muttered. "And what of Ser Thorne? He sees to be my escort often."

"Occupied, Princess. It is a busy evening for the family."

Erryk used your title in a way the others did not. He held it in such high regard, you felt.

You hummed and turned back toward the direction in which you were headed originally. The stairs loomed in the darkness like a warship approaching its moor. The wine that had settled let a small chuckle escape your lips.

"I do wish there were magic in these walls, Ser Erryk. Then I may simply float into bed and there would be no need to leave the nice party."

Erryk was not sure how to respond. He knew you not to be a silly woman. The eldest of Viserys' daughters had always appeared to him to be attentive and near motherly in the wake of Queen Aemma's death.

In the times he had spoken to you, you never feigned such girlish impulse before. It was new. And it surprised him.

Therefore, Erryk took his own leap of difference.

"Princess," he caught your attention and in the light, he wished he had never taken the oath.

Your eyes gleamed with such delight; pupils blown wide from what he deduced to be the wine of the evening and lips plush and slightly parted. The bodice of your gown fit every curve and plush part of your skin in an entrancing way that sent his mind to the places he neglected to attend to.

He knew of what the men in the Kingsguard did. He listened to the conquests of his brothers, both blood and by sword, while he refined himself to his oath.

But his heart nearly stopped at the sight of you. It had never happened before.

He felt ashamed for feeling such a way. For him to imagine what it would be to feel your skin above and below your skirts, listening to the soft sounds of content as he let his lips draw new patterns on your collarbones.

You were a Princess. He should not have such thoughts.

"If I may speak plainly?" Erryk asked you and you nodded for him to continue. He cleared his throat, shifting on his feet.

"Dragons exist in this world. I do not see why magic could not exist as well. There are whispers of such people amongst the townsfolk. Though, I cannot say their rumors are true.”

The sides of your lips began to quirk up into a smile. "Yes. I suppose you are right about that."

You smiled at him and he could not look away. The sides of your eyes creased in delight in regard to the silliest of items: a childish want to be lifted into bed because your feet were too tired.

It was not often that a naive nature still remained in adults.

"Do you not wish to return to the celebration?" You queried. “I saw even Ser Harold tap his feet at the music.”

"I have a duty to you, Princess. The celebration will not miss me."

Erryk did not miss nor question the way your eyes flicked between his lips and his own eyes. He could not resist the urge to do the same to you.

You wet your lips with your tongue in a small jut. Your top teeth tug the bottom lip in before releasing it gently. Attention falling to the chest of his armor before you blinked in a rapid succession and he felt your body radiate a warm sensation.

You pulled the back of your hand to your cheeks to sense the heat.

“My,” you said breathlessly. “I seem to have let the wine get the best of me.” Sheepishly looking down, your gaze returned to him with doe-like admiration.

He felt the blood rushing. Erryk swallowed his nerves.

“It does happen, Princess.”

Your heart beat rapidly against your ribcage—you felt as though it were going to explode.

His eyes were piercing you. Dim in the light of the hall, you could barely decipher where he was truly looking but you felt the stare. You could have felt it a million miles away.

“Ser Erryk—“

Gustily, he cut you off. “Erryk, Princess. You may call me Erryk in confidence.”

It was your turn to swallow the nerves that built up in your throat. You observed him again and in the way he stood. An arm limp on his side while the other held onto his sword tightly.

There was no fear, nothing helpless within you.

Your curiosity painted what his hands looked like under the white gloves. How strong and handsome they must be to match the face of the man. You wondered how they’d feel pressed against you; holding you in ways no woman should wonder.

The feel of them on your breasts, the way they’d play differently than your own in the dead of night.

You released a staggered breath from your nose and he caught the shake that emitted from your chest.

“Erryk,” you clarified your previous mistake. "Please use my title sparingly, then. I wish to be informal when able."

"Of course," and he tried your name on his lips for the first time.

For the first time, you felt at ease.

"I've never asked, but do you enjoy the Kingsguard? After all that is asked of you, your brother, and those in the cloak?"

"It is a honor," he stopped himself short of using your title. "I cannot envision a life outside of it."

To be one of the seven to protect the family was the most profound honor. Only the finest of knights were bestowed the honor.

"I suppose you do get to sleep in the most grand of castles," you quipped.

"And you? Do you like being the daughter of a King?"

Erryk observed the way you pondered deeply. Even if he spent every waking minute with a family of high stature and of the utmost importance, he would never truly understand the perils that came with great privilege.

"Would it be silly if I said no?"

"No," he shook his head. "There are many who wish to be you, however."

"I do not envy them," your gaze saddened at the prospect.

"What is not to be envious about?"

"Freedom... or the lack-thereof it."

The wine was making you feel all sorts of ways that evening.

"Freedom," he reiterated. "That may be more rewarding than both of our positions, Princess."

You narrowed your eyes at him to which he returned with a sly, small smirk and his own look was playful. Erryk was subverting your expectations beyond a reasonable doubt.

Your heart leapt at the idea that he was dallying with you.

You were both young and engaging in a fools errand.

Down the corridor from which you originally came, footsteps began to heighten. You could barely make out the silhouettes of more guards making rounds.

"I wish to retire to my room, Ser Erryk," you called out loudly enough for those to hear.

In an instant, a wall had gone up between the two of you and the wine was drained from your body. Erryk offered his arm in the way a Lord would as you conquered the steps one by one.

The guards surpassed you by changing their route and following down another corridor as the two of you made it to the middle landing of the grand steps.

"Oh," you feigned in their absence.

"There was nothing improper of our conversation, Princess," Erryk reassured you.

Everything and the Gods were improper for a high-born lady–even one unmarried and passed over as an option of heir.

"I know," you replied, feeling the cold metal of his armor simmer the heat of your palms.

You continued up the stairs with him and did not let go once the journey was complete.

"Do you see me a spinster, Ser Erryk?" You asked him and once more, he found himself a loss for words in your presence. No other high-born lady would give conversation so willingly. Yet you always had in your short meetings together.

“Spinster?”

“I am a few years beyond my sister. I am unwed and untethered. Not ideal for a husband to seek, no matter if my father is the King.”

"I do not believe it appr–"

"I really do not mind," your face concentrated on the passage of doors and miscellaneous objects littering the living quarter hallways. "You are not a stranger."

"Nor am I a friend," he felt the need to clarify.

"Then what are you?"

You stopped in the middle of the hall and turned to look at him. The skirt of the dress twirled and scuffed his hand. His fingers twitched to grab onto it.

"I am a sworn member of the Kingsguard, Princess. I have a duty to your name, to the crown."

"And such forsakes you from being a friend?"

Lust.

"Do you wish me to be your friend?" He asked boldly.

In the same moment, a rumble of thunder roared through the sky. The open courtyard that found itself in the center of the wing of the keep whirled with a ruinous swirl.

You opened your mouth to speak but nothing voiced itself into words.

“I do not believe that would be appropriate.” You completed his previous sentence.

The earthy thunder echoed in the sky.

"What would be appropriate?" Erryk tested the waters.

He sensed the colors of his white cloak becoming sullied by his own greed. He took a step forward as the rain began to spill from the clouds above.

"My young sister is to be married," you cautioned. "Before I am to be and I–"

"I cannot take a wif–"

"No," you shook your head and sighed. "I do not wish to marry."

"Princess."

"I do not want to be the wife of a Lord twice my age. I want to make my own choices."

Erryk saw the determination in your eyes. He and Arryk had the same as they left home and declared themselves to be willing trainees for the Kingsguard. They gave everything to live a life of stewardship.

"The guards spoke of your abstention," Erryk admitted. "How you abdicated your inheritance and now Princess Rhaenyra is heir to the throne."

"I am clear of the understanding that you cannot take a wife, nor bear any children. I do not seek that either."

Erryk breathed in deeply. "What do you ask of me, Princess?"

Your observances were flicks of nervous ticks. The way your gaze was scattered across the hall; shades of gray became wet with rain and the fires that lit the way began to waver.

"I fear I ask something the Gods deny me."

Freedom.

The two of you stared at one another for seconds before you turned away and returned walking in a wade of self-destruction.

As the rain poured heavy, chaos erupted in the Great Hall as it did in the quarters above. Erryk looked to the sky through the pillars of stone to listen for a sign.

The Gods rumbled in fury.

But Gods be damned.

The clang of his armor filled your ears faster than the force of his hand encircling around your bicep and spinning you around without much warning. His other hand grasped the bottom of your jaw, filling the space of your cheek and brought his lips impatiently to your own.

You could not hear the rain when time ceased to move.

Erryk's hand let go of your bicep and wrung an arm around your back to meet the top of your dress' bodice. His fingers gripped the back of it and you could feel the fabric of his gloves itching against your skin.

The giddiness of the anxiety that had formed with you made your hands shake. They found purchase on his chest plate. Erryk's thumb caressed your chin and then exchanged its position to the back of your head.

You broke the kiss in breathlessness before he brought his lips to yours again.

Your body buzzed without thinking.

There was no returning to the therebefore.

Not a year into Rhaenyra's marriage to Laenor did she give birth to her first son, Jacaerys, who appeared more like a common boy than a Targaryen.

In the following years, another boy was born with the same complexion and you questioned it not as she had come to you nine months prior and declared her third pregnancy happily.

It was an unkempt secret.

It was also one that you were fortunate not to share.

Ten years to the date of the wedding, both your and Rhaenyra's lives were inexplicably changed. Your father's condition worsened to where it was a battle to walk from bed to door. Alicent's ascent into her own form of motherhood rivaled Rhaenyra's as you kept your distance the best you could.

Alicent made efforts to get to know you better as an adult but you saw what she was. She was a devil disguised as a saint.

She was younger and tried yet to replace what your mother left vacant inside of you. You ignored her with what snide nature the Gods had granted you as you had gotten older.

It was your solitude that kept you sane as the keep grew louder.

That, and the life you kept in the shadows. Though, your nephews did bring a smile to your face.

"Jace!" You shouted with a laugh as the boy stumbled in the courtyard. His wooden sword went tumbling out of his hands after one strike from his brother, Lucerys.

They were so little and innocent.

"You must hold onto it if you want to be a great knight!"

"I was!" His little voice argued back as he went to pick up the word and Lucerys lifted his fist in victory.

Ser Harwin Strong stood on the sidelines of their small battle circle as you took a seat on the bottom step not far from their escapade. The yard was full of workers and knights, both those of the Kingsguard and City Watch.

"Not strong enough, My Prince," Harwin gave him a stern glare that sent Jace into a rigid stance wanting to prove his worth.

The boy was ten yet he wished to be a knight at that very moment.

"You must listen to your Aunt if you want to be a good knight," Harwin pointed at you to which you shook your head, scoffing at his words. "She has fought many a battle; can swing a sword as furious as an axe!"

Harwin laughed as you rolled your eyes.

You could see why Rhaenyra loved him. Why she would risk her entire being to bear his children in absence of Laenor's.

"You lie!" Lucerys accused him.

Harwin knelt down beside Lucerys. "I jest, My Prince. But you should know," he leaned his face closer to his sons, "your brother has a weakness..."

Harwin's voice went quiet and Jace put his arms up in defeat. You went to stand but as you gathered your skirt in your hand and went to push upwards, a hand was presented to you.

You looked up nearly blinded by the sunlight that peaked through the clouds and was met with Erryk's face.

He too had changed over the years.

His hair long was reminiscent of the Targaryen tradition of not cutting it so long as they remained the winner in battle. A beard now flocked his face in full but his heart remained the same.

"Princess," he mumbled as you took his hand, lifting yourself from the stair.

It had been two days since your last meeting but for both your hearts, the beat had not changed since the first night.

"Ser Erryk," you greeted. Lost in yourself, you neglected to drop his hand. "Thank you."

"I bring news. Princess Rhaenyra has begun her labors," he alerted you. “She has asked for your presence.”

You looked to Harwin and the boys, the prior already staring in your direction, eying Erryk with inspection. You dropped his hand in an instant.

"That is wonderful news," you replied with a kind smile. Erryk scanned your face for a sign of dejection at the admission. You noticed he had been doing that as of late and it irked you.

Harwin approached in heavy, quick steps.

"Ser Erryk," he greeted with a nod. "Are you to train with the boys today? Ser Cris–"

"I would not call this training," you clarified. The boys were but 10 and 6. "Play fighting may be more applicable."

"I came to tell the Princess that Princess Rhaenyra has begun her labors, Ser Harwin."

Erryk watched as Harwin's eyes contorted in a way he knew nothing of. A sliver of hope, joy, he was not sure. But it changed the way he felt inside.

"May the Gods grant the Princess good will," Harwin declared.

"Yes indeed," you added. Harwin glanced between the two of you as Erryk's eye-line focused on Jace and Luke putzing in the dirt.

“The Princes’ are most excited to meet their sibling. They have talked of nothing else for the past few days.”

“Speaking the truth, Ser Harwin,” you chuckled. “I pray it not be another boy for her sake. I do not know if she can handle such behaviors.”

Lucerys began to hit the ground with his stick in hard, deliberate strokes.

"I should distract the Princes then," he spoke lowly. "Thank you, Ser Erryk."

"Lord Commander," Erryk bid Harwin farewell as he walked back to the boys. Jace was occupied hitting the wooden sword on his feet and Lucerys came running towards the two of you.

"Ser Erryk!" The boy called jubilantly. "I took down my brother!"

"Oh?" Erryk responded in kind. "A very fierce battle ensued, I am sure."

"Yes! And I will do it again!" Luke smiled at him and it made your heart grow three sizes. “I wish to be a fine knight as you are, as Ser Harwin is.”

“One day, My Prince.”

"Luke," you looked down at the boy to which he put his small hand in yours. "I think it is time to choose an egg for the babe.”

The small boy's eyes lit up like a holiday. "Do you think so!?"

"I do," you squeezed his tiny fingers. "Go to your brother. Tell Ser Harwin that he must take you and then return you to your chambers once the egg has been collected."

Luke hugged at your leg tightly before running off to his brother with a screech.

"Take me to my sister," you told Erryk. "I must be with her."

"Of course, Princess."

Every corner of the keep was filled with spectators as the news of Rhaenyra's labors filtered through the castle. Erryk walked steadfast on your heels as your pace became more quick with noises of her strain making itself known.

"Gods," you said exasperated by her shouting.

"It will be alright," Erryk reassured quietly.

“I am inclined to say you have never seen a labor.”

“No,” he said quietly as you passed a guard walking in the opposite direction. “I have not had the privilege.”

“Far from a privilege, Erryk. It is gruesome.”

As her labor chambers came closer with your steps, the fewer guards and people were permitted in the hall.

"The Septa's once told us that boys were never easy. I fear this one will be a repeat of before."

"A boy?"

Without thinking, you replied: "the genes are far too strong."

But Erryk knew what you meant because in the corridors behind the walls of the keep, Harwin and Erryk had crossed paths in their escapes on more than one occasion.

He spoke your name and pulled at your arm to come to a stop outside of her chamber door. You could practically feel her pain emitting from the wood.

There were no guards standing watch outside of the door which you knew was the fault of the Queen.

"All will end well. Rhaenyra will see it to be true. Your sister is a hearty woman."

You nodded at him. "I know it to be so."

And you planted a quick kiss on his lips.

"Come find me tonight," you pleaded. "I wish to see you."

"I will do my best, Princess," Erryk glanced down the hall before cupping the back of your head and kissing you tenderly. "I will do my best."

"Oh," you gasped. The breath had been taken from your lungs as your airway cast a shudder. One of your arms around his shoulders, hand snaking itself to cradle the nape of his neck under his hair while the other hand danced along the side of his face and its thumb traced the line of his lower lip as a set of trembling pants melted together to make a seamless one.

Erryk's hands, worn and calloused from a day's work, trailed the sides of your body and traced the curve of your hips to your thighs. His grip wavered between the harshness you had craved for and his gentle mask.

“These days,” he grunted, teeth clenched tightly together as his jaw flexed with concentration, “have been unforgiving, Princess.”

It had taken him five days to find time with you after the birth of Prince Joffrey.

And so much had changed in those five days.

You lifted yourself up in a rhythmic careen as your heart began to pound against your chest. His eyes seldom left your face. Erryk watched for every bated breath and each staggered exhale while his hands helped guide your hips in genteel rolls.

Between your legs, the feel of his cock was slick and hot. Entering in and out, in and out as he helped try to ease the burn of your thighs working toward elation.

Your hand fell from his face down to his arms. A ghostly light dusting to meet his right hand that had been assisting your movements.

Loosely bringing his hand to your mouth, Erryk’s lips parted as you covered all his fingers with your own except the middle, and brought it to your lips. You kissed the pad of his finger gently.

As you kissed his finger, you lifted yourself from his cock to the tip. He waited for the cool air to hit but it never came as you sank back down and opened your mouth with a mewl as he filled you again.

At that moment, you took his middle finger into your mouth and wet it with your tongue.

He could not speak. For his words were lost in the warmth of your cunt and mouth as your tongue swirled around his digit with a wanton pant. Erryk let his head fall to your chest; lips lingering on the skin of your breasts with nipples taught and pert beckoning to him.

Erryk’s other hand loosened from your hip and grasped your left breast. He palmed the skin before squeezing and letting his palm run over the nipple. You sucked on his finger a bit harder at the sensation.

The hairs from his beard scratched your skin in an insatiable pattern. It was familiar in an exact moment where the past was no more and the future was everclear.

You wanted it memorized. You wanted it traced upon your body.

He tilted his head lower to latch onto your nipple before letting go with an audible “pop” against the lewd sounds of the room. It was morning but the whispered breaths of lovers and the sound of their coitus woke with the rising sun.

You released his finger from between your lips and he lifted his head. His eyes met yours and they glimmered with the same refractions of light one gets as the sun peaks between curtains.

His heart was as large as the sea.

“Lay down,” you wet your lips and held his hand no different than before.

Erryk used his free hand to keep you steady as he laid back on the bed. He bent his knees and planted his feet against the duvet to give you leverage.

“As the Princess commands.”

You bit back a smile. The butterflies in your stomach never ceased to exist.

With your hand eclipsed with his own, you guided his now wet finger down to your clit and he needed no further instructions. The pressure of his finger felt like a lightning bolt shooting through thunder. You gasped as your legs quivered in delight.

And then you smiled fully. Erryk smiled in return and Gods, did you feel the world open up before you.

You placed a hand on his chest before leaning down to kiss his lips still quirked upwards in a sheltered grin. The ministrations of your pleasure not stopped at the joy.

Erryk laid back against the ends of the pillows and watched you lift yourself back up, hand grasping his wrist of the hand to your clit, and began to move faster. He could not help but become entranced in the way his cock disappeared in your core. Your tightness aching for him as it became more slick every passing second.

You breathed in deeply. A hitch in your timber sent his eyes back to yours and you rolled your body deeply—feigning coy in the smoked out candlelight. He could not his gaze roaming the way your breasts moved with every bounce.

The sun was rising behind you.

Enchanting or entrancing, he was captivated as always by his royal woman.

With his hand on your hip, he raised it to trace your spine and felt your muscles begin to shake. Bumps on your skin from his touch made him groan.

You faltered and leant forward. Hands now planted beside his face, your eyes met his own and Erryk gave a small nod. He removed his finger from your clit and ran both hands up your back as you laid your weight on him.

He held you tightly and began to move his hips at an aching pace. Your eyes closed as you hummed in content. Erryk let his face fall beside yours, mouth beside your ear.

"Is this alright, my darling?" he barely whispered and you smiled, he could feel it.

"Yes," you gasped. "Yes."

He laid a kiss on your earlobe in response. With your eyes closed, you could feel bursting colors inside of you. You imagined them swirling behind you eyelids in intertwined wisps of reds and pinks. Yellows of happiness adjoined with the blues of bliss.

In the years you laid together, Erryk was not one to speak loudly nor much during those times. He admired you in its absence. Watching and waiting with bated breath of what pleasure would bring you and he to follow.

It was when he held you close that he felt the oaths he sinned against were foolish.

The touch of a woman, the touch of you, brought him a fantasy he'd never thought of chasing.

You inhaled deeply, legs shaking as he worked you to your orgasm with precision. You turned your head to capture his lips with yours; swallowing his groans when you utilized the last bits of your strength to move your hips at his actions.

Crying out as your body jolts, your right hand snaked itself into the hair that fell on the side of his face.

"Gods," you whimpered. There was little more you could do to hang on.

Erryk's low grunts matched his thrusts the faster they came.

He gripped the back of your thigh and brought your leg upwards, changing his angle. Your shoulders tensed at your growing inability to hold on. A string was snapping inside of you, waiting for it all to be enough.

And at once, it became enough.

You tilted your head upwards with a high-pitched gasp; the sound elongating the second he felt your muscles tighten around his dick and loosen a second later with a fury. He continued to thrust through your tremors. The jerking of your body erupting his own orgasm and with three thrusts, his breath became staggered and wanton.

Against his chin, you rested your forehead uncomfortably to gather yourself. A droplet of sweat beaded from your breasts pressed against his chest and to his skin.

As he recovered his own breathing, a hand of his own rubbed careless lines on your back. Erryk could feel the pulse of blood rushing to your center. He took his hand away from your back and brought it to your face to turn it to him.

Your breath was hot against him as he was certain his own was against yours.

"I apologize," his voice had grown ragged. He spoke softly yet you could hear the hoarseness of his throat. "For not fulfilling your request."

"Come find me tonight," you pleaded. "I wish to see you."

"No," you brushed back hairs from his face. "It warrants no apology."

Erryk sighed deeply. You moved a finger to trace the edges of his beard lightly. He looked at you with a furrowed brow. You pressed a finger to the worrying crease.

"What worries you, my love?"

He appeared hesitant to speak freely in that moment. The comfort of guilt had been eating at him as of late. Act that soiled his cloak in sin, he had forsaken his duty to chase what he had denied himself for so long.

It was the evening chatter amongst the Kingsguard as they sat for supper that churned in his stomach.

"I do not worry," he answered. You did not believe him.

"Your face tells different story, Erryk."

"Do you regret this arrangement, Princess?"

You stopped your movements and locked eyes with him. Just as your heartbeat had started to slow, it picked up again at a rapid pace.

"I– " you paused to find your words. "Where might have gotten that impression?"

"No impression," he clarified. "It was simply Princess Rhaenyra's children–"

At the mention of your sister, you lifted your hips and removed him from you with a shallow shudder before rolling to your side and sitting upright in search of your dressing gown.

"I do not wish to speak of my sister while I lay with you," you informed him. It had never been a subject discussed in the decade of knowing one another. "That is the last person I wish to think of."

"I do not mean it in that way."

"Then in what way do you mean?" You gathered the gown from the floor and put it on in rapid movements.

"It is no secret that the King continues to search for a Lord Husband befitting of your status," Erryk spoke as he sat in the bed you shared. "I never imagined–"

"What?" You drew defensive immediately.

Something deeper lingered inside of you. He knew nothing of the matter.

"When I swore the oath of the Kingsguard I did not imagine being the one who stands in the way of the King's desires."

"He does not know, Erryk. I stand in his way. I refuse the proposals."

"Because you love me."

"Yes!" You exclaimed. "I told you that I wished to carve my own life with what little power I do have of it. This," you stuck both hands outward to him, "is that power."

"And if he were to find out, my fate would be far more severe than being exiled to my homelands."

Ser Harwin left yesterday morning at the instruction of the King.

Rhaenyra would not see anyone in her quarters for hours.

You did not question his comment.

"Have you found someone else to warm your bed?" You asked an impossible question. Erryk let the sigh of disbelief pass his lips.

"I would not inflict such pain on you. Do you truly question my devotion? After what I risk to love you?"

A piece of you constricted with the knowledge you held. How this was likely your last morning together for some time and you were leading it to a deep crevice of spite.

"You question my own devotion for what cause?" You countered. "I do not regret this. I will never so long as I live because we chose to do this, together."

Erryk moved off the bed and slipped on his trousers and linen shirt with the ties undone.

"I do not ask out of a want to be removed from my circumstance."

"Then why ask it?"

"Do you never feel guilt? Of allowing me to besmirch your honor–"

"Please," you begged him and sat on the settee that was littered with books of old. "I do not wish to hear it."

You did feel some guilt. Guilt of a secret that had been eating away at you for a day.

The troubles of life had long settled itself within the walls of your chamber. These conversations had been occurring more often as of late and you knew not the cause but had a rousing suspicion that his honor, duty to the crown levied a darkening cloud over his consciousness.

The culpability of a sin unforgettable to his stature buried him. Now having witnessed the removal of the Lord Commander, and Hand of the King, for the consequences of lust weighed like torture.

A dam of large proportions was meant to break in the keep.

The blood of Rhaenyra's childbirth was still being washed from the halls and with it, the stones cracked under pressure.

Erryk picked up the pieces of his armor from the floor and laid them before himself on the bed. Ingrained in his mind, he assembled each piece to the best of his ability before moving toward you as the birds began to chirp outside of your windows.

The cool breeze of autumn filtered in through the curtains.

It was then he saw the wetness of your cheeks. A silent cry had formed in his wake and he had not seen it. He had given no time for care; he feared your needs were not satisfied.

Before he could stumble out words, you coughed out the admission.

"Rhaenyra is leaving for Dragonstone on the morrow."

Oh.

"She asked for my council... to go with her."

Erryk felt a terrible wall grow in front of him.

"I do not wish to leave you."

"Are you to go with her?" He asked.

A part of him knew the impossible task. He and his brother were inseparable. Being twins, perhaps it was expected of him to be close as thieves but the bonds of a sister had tethered two souls closer than even he could ponder.

He would die for his brother, as you would your sister.

"Yes," you cried. A sob escaped your lips and you let your head fall into your hands.

Erryk tossed his armor back onto the bed, kneeling before you and wrapping his arms around you as his heart stung.

"It is not my place to beg you to stay," he admitted. "You must do as your future Queen commands of you." Spoken like a knight.

"What if my leaving is the last that I will see of you?' You questioned. You lifted your head and cupped his face. "I love you, Erryk. I do not regret my actions."

"And I you," and instead of Princess, he said your name soothingly. "I speak in fear. You speak of what little you have, but with what I do have, my body and soul are yours to keep."

"I do not think I can bear being parted for long. I will not take a husband, I will not take another lover," you declared.

You made your sentiments known. He was not going to question it again.

"Nor I," he agreed. "Nor I."

You pulled your lips to his own.

"I wanted to tell you," you wept, “but I could not find you. I wished not for this to be our parting ways. I do not want to you to remember me this way."

"In what way?" He hummed with a strained, sorrowed smile. "You are as beautiful as the day we met. If this is to be our last moments together, my only regret is not holding you longer."

You let out a wet, sad laugh.

"We will find each other again," he reassured you. His blue eyes shining in the golden glow of morning as the sun blessed the skies in a red and pink dream.

"I swear it, by the old Gods and the new."

You rubbed your thumb across his cheek to catch a tear most of the Kingsguard would never admit to falling in the presence of their lovers. You nodded at him.

"I love you," you whispered.

You wouldn't see him for another six years.

The gates of King's Landing were tall and colored in an ugly terracotta.

You peered out the slim slivers the grated windows of the caravan allowed as it trudged the rocky roads along the shoreline of the city. Glimpses of a cooling fall air, the sun was shielding itself behind clouds with every inching second that wheels churned closer to the keep.

"Surely the city cannot have changed that much since our departure, good sister," Daemon's words were shrouded in a snicker. His eyes are always cutting and looking for a battle.

Eyes tearing themselves away from the outside, you looked at Daemon as he studied you.

"It has changed greatly, Uncle," you retorted. "Perhaps if you had spent more time canvasing it during the light of day you would be able to say the same."

Daemon's lips lifted themselves into a sly, cunning smirk as Rhaenyra shook her head.

"Must we bicker as such? Play civil for only a day and then we shall return home. Might we find some excitement beyond the boor?"

When Daemon became Rhaenyra's husband after Laenor passed, you wished your dragon would swallow you whole.

Rhaenyra said you were being dramatic.

"Vaemond is a peddler," you reassured her, taking her hand in yours and peering back outside of the slits. "Your sons have little to fear."

In the years that have passed over Westeros, every soul had been changed by the tenants of the Red Keep and those who watch over them like vultures at a feast. Rhaenyra's ascendance to Viserys' heir should not have been a catalyst for the pain suffered by those in their watch but yet it could not help itself.

Your fingertips ghosted the wooden edges of the carriage as the latches of the gates began to swing outwards and opening themselves up to you once more.

Rhaenyra understood that her sons had nothing to fret regarding their futures. Viserys had turned a blind eye for years and the sentiment would not change so long as he remained on the throne for the years to come.

She squeezed your tender fingers with her own.

Daemon's eyes wandered from the trusted hands of two sisters to his wife's face.

"I do wonder," Daemon cleared his throat and adjusted in his seat. His sheathed sword knocked the golden accents of the interior. "If there is something of worry for you, good sister."

Rhaenyra's face twitched. A challenge, he imagined.

"I've heard that the Queen has been looking to secure a marriage match for her children."

"Daemon, you forget yourself," Rhaenyra spoke. Your eyes were lost in the courtyard that began to form around you.

"She has evaded such for years," Daemon defended. "I know of no other high-born lady, a princess, who is beyond marrying age and still remains relevant. Alicent is playing chess against an enemy that stays hidden on a cliff."

"Why is the concern so pressing?" Rhaenyra questioned, her eyes narrowing as her hand gripped yours tighter.

"You said it yourself, if Vaemond has the will to bring into question Jace and Luc, then the family will fall into a pit before being able to hoist itself up again. A match may not be out of the question to cease the concerns of other houses who question our ability to rule."

"No." Rhaenyra shook her head. "My father-"

"Knows nothing. The green bitch does his bidding. We all know about it."

The wheels of the carriage struck a bump causing the three of you to lean in one direction before falling back. The sounds of Kingsguard and City Watch members clambering for the arrival of such a caravan began to make themselves known.

"Where do you hear such secrets, Daemon?" You tired of hearing your life being planned without your consent. You narrowed your eyes at the blonde man. "I am near twenty years elder of her children. I am far too old to be the wife of–," there was a part of you that could hardly speak it.

And Daemon chuckled at the prospect.

But then again, he was older than both you and Rhaenyra.

It may have been the proper way of great households, but it was one that you detested. You had seen what marriage had done to your sister, your family, and closest friends. So many lost to what they had known for the sake of alliances and duty.

The memories of your trysts lay present in your mind. He was there.

A piece of Rhaenyra and your mother's stubbornness had harbored itself into you for the last sixteen years when womanhood had finally made sense to you.

There had been a glint in Rhaenyra's eyes at one time and you'd be dammed if you let your family take that from you as well.

"Besides," you diverted. "Father has tried many fine men of great houses to force my hand and yet," you lifted a hand void of jewelry besides a golden dragon that slithered up ornately on your pointer finger.

"Trying times call for trying actions."

You needn't respond to Daemon for him to understand the conversation had ceased. Rhaenyra put pressure on your hand once more before removing it and placing her own back on her belly that grew another child of her and Daemon's.

Outside the caravan of black banners and red sigils, the scattered sounds of court disappeared behind walls rattled with the hooves of the steeds. The carriage came to a rough stop and Rhaenyra gave you a stressed smile.

There was no fond greeting for those who escaped to Dragonstone six years ago.

"I sense the welcome is not as it once was," you whispered to her. Her brows furrowed as she had not paid any mind to the sounds and sights beyond her small party. A sinking feeling landed at the pit of your stomach.

The clatter of tools and wooden planks stopped as the caller announced the members to descend the steps.

And as you thought, the welcome was as the keep had become: vacant of the reverence it once had.

Each member of the Targaryen's who had been nothing short of exiled for their own safety waltzed into the pit of a raging green beast with a poor reception on behalf of the crown the heir expected. It spoke plainly of the disagreeable nature floating between two sides.

With a creak, the doors to the Keep's entrance opened and one soul, Lord Caswell, looked ridden with worry which struck a chord within Daemon, Rhaenyra, and yourself. He approached the heir with a solemn face before bowing.

"Welcome home, Princess."

"Lord Caswell," Rhaenyra responded in kind. His eyes bounced between each of you. He hadn't welcomed any of you to the keep in six years time.

It was as though a century had passed in a second.

"The King is anxious for your return," he continued. "He spoke of nothing but for these past two days. As well as to see his grandchildren, so grown and presentable." Lord Caswell nodded at them.

"Take us to him, if you please, Lord Caswell. It has been a weary journey," Rhaenyra began to walk off as he stuttered.

"Surely you would like to rest first, Princess? I will have your things taken to the visiting quarters."

"Visiting quarters?" Rhaenyra questioned, stopping in her tracks. Daemon was on her heels and her eldest son, Jace, halted with the rest of the children beside you.

Your eyes danced around the courtyard in a silly hope to find a pair.

'Of course he would not be there,' you scolded yourself.

You wondered if you had changed since your last meeting. Would he be able to recognize the woman you had become in the desolate castle?

"The Queen has taken residence in your former quarters, Princess."

Rhaenyra paused before speaking with an understanding that while here on the business of securing her son's legacy, her bygone friend has seized more than just your father.

But as you took in the surroundings you envisioned a world differently than the one that presented itself to you now. One of freedom and without greed; no one playing a long game of power and where lives were not seen as pawns, but as people.

Rhaenyra took a deep breath. She held her hand to her stomach and rubbed a thumb across it gently as the overcoat she wore buried the chill with everything she had lost inside. She glanced at you as your eyes looked everywhere but hers and followed as they met every Kingsguard in the court.

She saw the light dim in the slightest.

"Lord Caswell," She spoke clearly, "take us to my father please." 

Seldom would have prepared you for the state your father was in.

Forced with an eternity of pain, Viserys was a shell of himself in the bed he laid. Each minute he suffered in the stillness of the Milk of the Poppy and it guided him only to lead him astray; every swing of an ax, a sword in the courtyard, would bleed the remnants of happiness that lingered in his dusty room.

He barely recognized you as you held his hand.

It struck your soul when he mistook you for your dead mother.

"Aemma," he croaked as though it took all his strength to talk."

Rhaenyra stilled beside you. You put on a brave face.

"No, father," you reminded him of you. "We are all here now."

He repeated your name brokenly.

"Sister," Rhaenyra approached you with her own son, Viserys by name, on her hip.

You had resigned yourself to inspect the dusty model of King's Landing that had once been a prized possession of the man who could not will himself to stand. The disease had overtaken his body to the point of immobility.

Viserys groaned in pain in his bed.

It was a sound you wished not to hear once more.

"Why don't you find your nephews and reintroduce them to the Keep?" She proposed. Her attitude was emitting more positivity than it should.

"I am sure they have already made their way," you took a finger and swiped it through the dust.

"And they could do well with a guide," she pressed.

You sighed, taking a glimpse behind you and surveying your father as he hid behind the curtains of his bed and cooed at Rhaenrya's other son, Aegon.

"He will be alright, sister."

"I do not share the same confidence, Rhaenyra."

She bounced Viserys on her hip. The boy played innocently with her hair without worry of the world evolving around him.

It was turning sour.

"Go to them," Rhaenyra ordered. "I would start at the training ground... you know how my boys are."

You heard the sound of swords before you saw them.

For once Daemon had been right about the Red Keep: it truly hadn’t changed from your time spent away. The same people found themselves completing the same mundane tasks each and every day until the Father called them home.

At the top of the long steps, you took in the sights you had missed.

It smelled of shit and metal. The people were loud and crowding around a scene of two men sparring along the edges of the yard. In your vision, Jace and Luke were fumbling through the materials they reminisced of as young children.

A chunk taken out of the stone, the wooden swords still available to train with.

You leaned against the barrister of brick. Below, just out of sight, two knights sparred in their time away from the king. Their fierceness caught the eyes of the two Targaryen boys who were in awe of the sights around them.

“Look,” Jace put his arm around his brother and pointed to Erryk and Arryk’s valiant efforts.

The eldest was in awe of such gallantry.

“It is just as we remembered, isn’t it?”

Luke watched as everyone stared at them unabashedly.

“They have always been valiant fighters,” Jace continued. “I remember Ser Erryk helping us adjust our stances. We were all but six and ten.”

"That was not Ser Arryk?"

Jace laughed. "Ser Erryk was the one to help you after I pushed you into that pile of horse shit when you were four. He gave the best advice about watching your opponents."

“And what good did that bring you?” Luke jested and received a slap on the head. He caught you monitoring them from above on the landing of the steps.

“It seems motherly is untrusting of us on our own,” he told Jace who clocked you watching before the sounds of metal swords clanging caught your attention.

“She will not object to us,” Jace picked at the swords on the cart. “She let us hit each other with these same sticks when I was not yet ten. I do not think our Aunt minds if we explore our old home.”

“I do not think she cares about us at all,” Luke spoke of you as he watched the two brothers push one another backwards.

They let up with a shake of their hands and if he could tell them apart, he would say Arryk looked up at you and paused.

“Brother,” Arryk called to Erryk as the latter went to reestablish his footing.

“What?” Erryk heaved in a tired breath. “Again, Arryk. We do not have much time.”

“Brother,” Arryk now insisted and pointed his sword upwards to the tops of the steps.

When he turned around, it was as though all life paused around him. Two worlds gone completely still because for the first time in six years, you and Erryk had finally converged to one place. 

It took his breath away.

As always, thank you for reading. Comments and reblogs, as well as likes, are greatly appreciated. I loved that this character has captured our hearts so much. There truly are no small roles.

[thisapplepielife]

Written for @steddieholidaydrabbles.

Seemed Fitting

Prompt Day 3: Jacket | Word Count: 1000 | Rating: T | CW: Language | Tags: Post S4, Eddie Munson Lives, Established Relationship, Gift Giving

Standing in the men's store, Eddie realizes he's been overconfident. He has no idea what to get Steve that he'll actually like. If Steve wants something, he just buys it for himself, and that makes gift-giving tough.

There's a green sweater on the wall that he kind of likes. It's somewhat plain in a sea of hideously busy Cosby sweaters, but it might be too plain. A green sweater? Does that really scream that he tried his best?

Probably not.

Eddie feels out of place in this store. It's not his kind of establishment, that's for damn sure. The salesman is wearing a suit for god's sake. He should just get the green sweater and call it good. Steve will like it. 

Then, he overhears another shopper asking the salesclerk about the Harrington Jacket.

Like, Steve Harrington? Does Steve have a jacket named after him? Eddie, somehow, wouldn't even be surprised in this town.

Eddie turns his head, to see what the guy is pointing towards. 

It's just a jacket, on one of those headless mannequins. But the jacket itself isn't too different from the gray one Steve wore a lot in high school. 

Eddie steps closer, and looking at it, this one is actually more similar to the jackets Eddie's seen in imported music magazines.

"Oh, it's punk. Like, The Clash," Eddie says aloud, and the guy turns and gives him a dirty look. 

Well, fuck you too, dude.

He looks Eddie up and down, "It's not punk like you."

Eddie is not punk, but he'd definitely rather be called punk than whatever the fuck this dude is, so he lets it go.

He's learned to pick his battles. To bite his sharp tongue. He doesn't want to end up running for his fucking life again. Once was plenty.

But the guy is still talking.

"It's a classic. Steve McQueen. Elvis. Sinatra," the guy says snottily in his loafers, and looks a little disgusted by Eddie's mere presence. What else is fucking new? Especially in this town.

"JFK," the clerk chimes in.

"Yeah, JFK," the guy repeats.

Eddie says nothing. He's seen it worn in magazines with Doc Martens, and mohawks. 

But he listens to the salesman try to sell it to this idiot. The funnel neck. The rain-resistant cotton. How it's a classic wardrobe staple. How it never goes out of style. 

Eddie sees the jacket with the tartan plaid lining in a different way than these two are seeing it, that much is certain. He's seen this in Brit music mags, and he sees the possibility here. Steve could wear it both ways. 

Steve Harrington is punk, even if it's mainly on the inside. Steve Harrington is also preppy, and classically fucking gorgeous.

Then he hears the kind of steep price tag. He can swing it, will swing it, no matter what. It'll just cut a little more into his cash reserves than he'd expected. 

Steve's worth it.

The two idiots are still verbally jerking each other off in front of the mannequin, and Eddie steps away.

He looks at the rack of jackets in dark, muted colors, and really likes the red one. Steve has that red sweater he looks fucking fantastic in, so maybe a red jacket christened with his last name would look even half as good.

Eddie slides the hangers, and chooses Steve's size, trying it on himself to make sure, and then takes it to the register.

The girl behind the register smiles. She reminds Eddie of Chrissy, and he feels a pang of sorrow. Of guilt.

"Nice choice," she says, folding it nicely, "Was anyone helping you today?"

"Nope," Eddie says, "just you."

And he hopes she takes the commission for selling it.

"Would you like it gift wrapped? It's free," she offers and he nods, says thanks, and watches as she wraps it way better than he'd have ever been able to do at home.

The jacket is wrapped and under the tree, and Eddie is nervous. It looks great. The girl at the register did a really good job wrapping it, and treated him like he was welcome to be there, buying their clothing. She was nice to him, and he hates that that is something that stands out these days. 

But right now, he's not worried about that. No, he's suddenly scared Steve won't like the jacket. Scared he got it wrong, again. 

When it comes time to actually give it to Steve, Eddie stalls.

"If you hate it, we can take it back," Eddie stresses, still holding the gold box, reluctant to give it over. 

"I'll love it," Steve says, grinning, holding out his hands.

"You might hate it."

"Eddie, I've never wanted any specific gift from you. I've just wanted you. And you're here, so, I win. I've already won." 

Eddie wants to crumble at that. Fold. And instead just wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand. 

The number of people that have just wanted him for him, is pretty damn slim. 

His mother. Uncle Wayne. 

And now, somehow, Steve Harrington. 

It's absurd. 

It's also the best thing Eddie's ever felt, especially since that fucked up Spring Break.

Steve Harrington is actually a good dude has become his mantra. A belief Eddie holds near and fucking dear. The most solid truth he knows. 

"Here," he says, "Merry Christmas." 

Steve opens it and grins, "Oh, look at that. I love it. Thank you," he says and he puts it on. It fits, and Steve twirls around like he really likes it. Maybe he does. Maybe Eddie did good this time.

"It's a Harrington jacket," Eddie explains, "Seemed fitting." 

And Steve smiles with his whole fucking face, reaching out, pulling Eddie close enough to kiss. Steve's arm wrapped behind Eddie's neck, the soft sleeve of the Harrington worn by his very own Harrington, grazing Eddie's skin.

He definitely did good if he deserves this. If he deserves Steve at all.

And Eddie kisses him back.

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @steddieholidaydrabbles and follow along with the fun! 🧥

Notes: The Harrington Jacket was kind of fascinating to do a deep dive on. It was originally called the G9 by Baracuta, and didn't get its current Harrington name until Rodney Harrington (Ryan O'Neal) wore one on Peyton Place. James Dean, Elvis and Steve McQueen all wore versions the Harrington. In the UK, it was often worn by different subsets, including punks. The Clash famously wore Harringtons.

Nowadays, a true Baracuta Harrington is quite expensive, running $400+ - but I could not find a list price in the 80s. (There are many alternatives, like the red Drizzler worn by James Dean in Rebel Without a Cause, so perhaps if the true G9s were as equally expensive back then, which I'm assuming they were not, but if they were, then Eddie was looking at one of those alternative versions.)

They are still in style today. And I like to imagine Steve Harrington is out there somewhere right now, in his fifties, still wearing this one Eddie gave him.

(I do think Steve's blue S1 jacket is probably a version of a Harrington, but definitely wasn't tartan lined.)

[bbywhitefox123]

more content of rafe & cath during the start of their relationship pls, do whatever u want with it

love ur writing btw

Summary: how catherine and rafe made it official.

Warnings: dry humping, cheating, false accusations, mention of sexual assault, fighting

A/N: thank u<3 btw catherine and rafe used to be bad, like fucked-up kind of bad. toxic and everything. it’s after she got pregnant when they started trying to do better and even then they fought a lot.

Whenever Rafe and Catherine showed up at a party, no one ever knew what to expect. Would they make out in the middle of the dance floor, or scream at each other loud enough to get the neighbors calling the cops? Usually, it was both.

That night was no different.

Rafe punched Catherine’s boyfriend, JJ.

And that was the last straw.

Catherine completely lost it.

She liked fucking around with Rafe — hell, she loved it — but he didn’t have the audacity to punch her actual boyfriend.

The neighbors called the cops.

And there they were: Catherine and Rafe screaming at each other right in front of Rafe’s car, while the cop awkwardly talked to the party host like this was just another Tuesday.

“You don’t get to punch my boyfriend, Rafe!” Catherine slurred, high and drunk and furious, voice shaking. “I mean, the audacity—”

“Why are you yelling at me like it’s my fault?” Rafe snapped back, equally wasted, eyes blazing. “I told you not to invite the Cut’s rats here. It’s not my fault no one likes them.”

“Rafe, you punched him!” Catherine yelled again, her fingers clutching her phone so tight it was practically digging into her palm. But Rafe’s thick skull wasn’t letting the information sink in.

“You’ve wanted to punch him in the face for a month,” Rafe shot back, voice rough, eyes blazing. “I did you a favor— you should be grateful.”

Catherine blinked, brows shooting up like she’d just heard a joke. “Grateful?” she screamed, voice cracking. “You’re such an asshole!”

“And you’re a hypocrite!” Rafe yelled right back, stepping closer, his words slicing sharp. “Dating that Maybank trash, pretending you’re all reckless and made to live on the edge— but every damn night you come crawling back to suck my dick and beg me to buy you shit!”

Catherine snapped.

Her hand shot out and threw her phone straight at his face.

It didn’t hit him.

Instead, the phone slammed against the windshield of his car with a loud crack.

Rafe flinched—then smirked like it was the best damn thing that’d happened all night.

“You missed, kitten,” he teased, voice low and mocking.

Catherine’s eyes narrowed—like he’d dared her to push it further. Without another word, she spun on her heel and stalked over to the police officer, who was still chatting with Charles, the frazzled party host.

“Officer,” she said, voice calm and precise, every ounce of her fury funneled into that one word. He looked up, pen poised over his notebook.

“I want to file a report.”

The officer blinked, setting his notebook on his palm. “For what, miss?”

Catherine took a steadying breath, lips curling into a cool, practiced smile. “Sexual assault.”

Rafe’s jaw dropped, steps faltering behind her. The officer paused, pen halfway to paper. Charles stiffened, eyes flicking between them.

“Sexual assault?” he repeated carefully. “Can you tell me what happened?”

She turned, gaze sharp as a blade, and looked back at Rafe—still leaning against his car, hands shoved in his pockets, watching with that infuriating smirk.

“He… he—touched me,” she said, voice trembling with outrage she didn’t need to fake. “Without my consent. I want it on record.”

Rafe’s eyes flashed. “You’re insane,” he hissed under his breath, but Catherine didn’t flinch.

The officer cleared his throat. “Miss, I need specifics. Time, place, what exactly occurred.”

Catherine squared her shoulders. “Just now. In front of this address.” She flicked a thumb toward Rafe. “He grabbed me—punched my boyfriend—and then he got rough with me. I did not consent.”

Rafe stepped forward. “That’s bullshit—” but Catherine cut him off.

“Officer,” she said, serene and deadly. “I expect you to take this seriously.”

The officer looked between them, pen poised. “I’ll need both of your statements. And any evidence you have—photos, messages, witnesses.”

Catherine nodded, glancing back at Rafe. “I have witnesses. And I’ll have my lawyer contact you.”

Rafe’s smirk faltered for a split second.

The officer closed his notebook. “All right. We’ll take your report. Please come with me to the station and fill out the paperwork.”

Rafe’s face twisted, anger bubbling over. “That’s bullshit,” he barked, stepping forward, fists clenched. “She’s twisting everything. You don’t have any proof.”

The officer raised a hand, eyes sharp. “Sir, step back. We’re just doing our job.”

Rafe’s jaw tightened, his voice low and dangerous. “You’re making a mistake.”

Without waiting for a response, Catherine turned on her heel and marched back toward Rafe’s car. She yanked her phone from the windshield, fingers trembling just a little. A slow, satisfied smile spread across her lips.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the officer pull out handcuffs and snap them around Rafe’s wrists. His face went from fury to shock in a heartbeat, and before he could protest, he was practically shoved into the backseat of the squad car.

“Jesus, Cath,” he growled, voice low but heated as he slid inside. “You’re full of shit.”

Catherine climbed in beside him, eyes gleaming with mischief and victory. “Maybe,” she said softly, “but it’s my truth. And right now? You’re going nowhere.”

The officer climbed into the driver’s seat and started the car, the engine humming low in the quiet night. Catherine slid over beside Rafe, her hand resting lightly—almost casually—on his thigh through the denim of his jeans.

“You could’ve been getting a head right now,” she whispered, voice soft but sharp, “but instead, you went and punched my boyfriend.”

Rafe’s eyes flicked to hers, a slow smirk pulling at his lips. “Oh, don’t act like you care for him all of a sudden.”

Catherine chuckled, her fingertips tracing the edge of his belt buckle just enough to make him shift. “Oh, but I do care, Rafey,” she breathed, undoing the top button. “After all, I had him before you.”

Rafe’s gaze dropped to her, dark and amused as he flexed his cuffed hands behind his back.

“Everything alright, miss?” The officer’s voice broke the moment through the rearview mirror, his eyes flicking between them in cautious curiosity.

Catherine pulled her hand away with a sly smile, tilting her head as if nothing was going on.

“Perfectly fine,” she said sweetly, eyes sparkling.

Rafe chuckled low, the heat between them crackling, even with cuffs on his wrists and a cop watching.

The officer kept driving, the hum of the engine filling the tense silence. Catherine’s phone buzzed in her lap, a message lighting up the screen—but the cracked screen made it impossible to read.

“Having trouble texting your boy toy?” Rafe’s voice was low, a smirk tugging at his lips as he leaned over her shoulder.

Catherine rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the small smile. “JJ’s my boyfriend,” she said, eyes sharp. “You are my boy toy.”

Rafe’s smile faltered, his eyes darkening for a moment.

“And if you hadn’t made me angry, I wouldn’t be having trouble texting him,” she muttered between clenched teeth.

“If you hadn’t invited that piece of shit to the party, I wouldn’t have made you angry,” Rafe shot back, voice rough.

Catherine turned to glare at him, teeth barely gritting out, “Say one more bad thing about J, and—“

“About that rat-face loser? I won’t even waste my breath,” Rafe snapped. With that, Catherine shoved him hard.

His head slammed against the door on the other side of the car. He struggled to settle back, the cuffs making it impossible to brace properly.

The officer glanced in the rearview mirror, eyebrows raised.

Catherine caught his gaze, flashing an innocent smile, “He tried to touch me again.”

Rafe groaned, rubbing the side of his head awkwardly with his shoulder. “You’re actually insane.”

“No,” Catherine snapped, glaring at him. “I’m just sick of you thinking you get a say in everything— like, you’re trying to control everything.”

“I’m not trying to control you, I’m trying to protect you—”

“Protect me?” she cut him off, eyes blazing. “From my own damn boyfriend?”

“You really think JJ’s ever done a single thing for you that wasn’t about his own ego?” Rafe barked back, his voice rising with each word. “He’s not in your league, Catherine.”

“Oh, and you are?” she hissed.

They were nose to nose now, both breathing hard, the backseat of the cruiser charged like a lightning storm. The officer glanced back again through the mirror, his brow furrowing.

“Enough,” he muttered. He signaled, pulling the car into a gas station lot. “I need to check the tires—don’t move or make a scene.”

The moment the door shut and the officer stepped out, Rafe turned to her again, seething. “Why are you with him, huh? You think he’d ever survive your world?”

“Better than you,” she said quickly—but her voice cracked just slightly.

Rafe’s nostrils flared. “You don’t believe that.”

She didn’t. Not really. And it pissed her off.

So when Rafe opened his mouth to throw another insult her way, Catherine lunged forward and kissed him—hard.

It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t soft. It was fire and teeth and desperation. Her fingers tangled in his hair while his cuffed hands gripped the seat beneath him to stay upright.

“What the hell are you doing?” he mumbled against her lips, but he didn’t stop her.

“Shutting you up.”

The kiss deepened, messier now, and Rafe was breathless when she finally pulled back, her lipstick smeared and her smirk back in full force.

“I hate you,” he muttered, eyes glassy and unfocused.

“You wish,” she whispered back, smoothing her skirt and glancing out the window just as the officer made his way back to the car.

Rafe sat there, cuffed, flushed, and helpless. And all he could think was that she might actually kill him one day—and that he’d die smiling.

The officer grabbed his wallet from the flovebox and his footsteps faded as he disappeared inside the convenience store, leaving the two of them alone in the cramped backseat.

Catherine’s voice was low but sharp. “If you want to keep whatever this is between us, you don’t touch JJ again, okay?”

Rafe’s lips twisted into a cocky smirk. “Are you really gonna put all this effort into some loser you’ll dump for another loser?”

Her eyes flashed, fierce and unapologetic. “Have you thought that maybe I actually like JJ?”

The words hit Rafe harder than he expected. His mouth went dry, and for a second, he struggled to find a response.

Turning to face her, his voice rough, he asked, “And do you like him?”

She smiled softly, brushing damp strands of his bangs from his forehead, her fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary. “Yeah. I do.”

Rafe’s grin faltered, but the teasing returned quickly. “You like giving him money so he can buy you flowers, and then act all surprised?”

Catherine didn’t respond, just kept looking at him—right into his blue eyes—calm, confident. She knew exactly what she was doing. Having Rafe handcuffed was like a gift from God to her.

She shifted, moving over his lap, her hands trailing up his chest. “Uh-huh,” she whispered, voice sultry, full of challenge.

“Like him getting his ass kicked for you?” Rafe’s voice dropped, laced with spite and something raw. “Loser couldn’t even protect you.”

Catherine pressed her body closer, lips grazing the sensitive skin of his neck. “And who can protect me?” she murmured, a wicked smile curling her lips. “You? Handcuffed?”

Rafe’s voice dropped low, rough with need. “You’re the one who put me in these cuffs, Cath.” His cock twitched against the fabric of his jeans, desperate for release. He tried to lean in, lips brushing hers, but she pulled back just enough to tease.

“Maybe I don’t need protection then,” she smirked, nose nudging against his, eyes sparkling with mischief.

Her hips rolled deliberately against his, slow and teasing. Rafe groaned, the sound raw and desperate. “Yeah, you don’t. You know I like it raw, baby.”

Catherine chuckled, a breathy sound that sent shivers down his spine. “Such a dirty mouth,” she whispered, leaning in to kiss him soft and sweet. Then, with a wicked little bite on his lower lip, she murmured, “Can’t believe I like the taste.”

Rafe groaned again, frustration clear in his voice. He reached for her hips, wanting to pull her closer, to speed her up, but the cold steel cuffs behind his back held him prisoner.

“Dump JJ,” he growled against her lips, voice thick with need and anger. “We both know you don’t want him. You want me.”

She smirked, grinding harder against him, the friction driving them both crazy. “Maybe I like you fighting for me,” she teased, eyes flashing with that wild edge he could never resist.

Rafe’s breath hitched, the restrained heat pooling in his jeans throbbing with every move she made. “You want me to fight for you?” His voice was rough, low and full of hunger. “I’ll fight. Hell, I’ll fucking break for you.”

His hips jerked involuntarily, desperate to catch her rhythm, but the cuffs behind his back kept him tethered—only making the need worse.

Catherine leaned down, lips ghosting over his jaw, then the pulse pounding at his throat. “You’re all talk,” she whispered, voice dripping with challenge. “Show me.”

Her hands slid beneath his shirt, fingers digging into the taut muscles of his back. Rafe groaned, arching up, the friction making his cock ache unbearable. She was like fire beneath him, teasing and relentless.

“God, Cath…” His voice cracked, needy and raw. “You’re gonna make me lose my goddamn mind.”

She bit his ear, hot and sharp, before trailing a wet, hungry kiss down his neck. “You already did,” she breathed. Her hips rolled again, harder this time, grinding his cock against the denim, desperate to feel more.

Rafe fought the cuffs, twisting, straining, wanting to grab her, pull her closer, claim her with everything he had. Instead, he kissed her, sucking the air out of her lungs.

“You’re mine,” he growled between ragged breaths. “And I’m gonna make you come so hard, you’ll forget every damn name you ever called me.”

Her laugh was breathless, wicked. “Try me, Cameron.”

She dropped down, lips pressing to the sensitive skin just above his waistband, teasing over his jeans, making him shudder. Rafe’s cock throbbed painfully, aching for release, and every small touch from her sent sparks exploding.

His hips jerked up against her mouth, desperate, needy. “Fuck, Cath…”

She smiled against his skin, slow and filthy. “Beg for it,” she whispered, voice low and commanding. “Beg me to make you cum.”

“Please,” he gasped, voice thick with desperation. “Please, Cath…”

She bit his skin, hard enough to leave a mark, and pulled back with a wicked grin. “That’s my good boy.”

The heat between them was scorching, wild and raw. Even with his hands cuffed behind him, Rafe felt like he was burning alive—and Catherine was the only flame he ever wanted to feel.

She was just about to undo his belt when Rafe’s eyes snapped toward the officer stepping out of the store. His voice dropped low, urgent. “Please don’t turn around.”

But it was already too late.

The officer’s footsteps approached, steady and slow. “He didn’t assault you, did he?” the officer asked, scanning them both carefully.

Catherine slowly turned her head over her shoulder, flashing the officer an innocent, sweet smile — the kind that could make anyone lower their guard. “No, of course not,” she said softly, voice dripping with calm sincerity.

☁️

The cop dropped them off at Catherine’s house, the night air thick with tension. He clicked the cuffs open with a clink, letting Rafe rub his sore wrists. Catherine shot the officer a sly grin and asked if she could keep the cuffs as a souvenir.

The cop’s eyes darkened. “Try it, and you’ll be spending the night at the station.” That shut them both up real quick.

Inside, the mood shifted. They slipped into Catherine’s bedroom, the silk sheets cool under their skin. Rafe was shirtless, muscles tense and bare, while Catherine wore nothing but a thong. He traced slow, lazy circles on the smooth expanse of her back, every touch electric.

“Be my girl,” Rafe said, voice low, rough—vulnerable in a way Catherine never expected. Hell, Rafe probably didn’t expect himself to say it either.

She looked up at him, eyes sharp. “No.”

Rafe’s jaw tightened. “I’m serious, Cath. Dump that pogue trash and be fully mine. I don’t want to share anymore.”

She hesitated, biting her lip. “You think it’s that simple? You think I just toss him aside because you say so?”

Rafe’s jaw tightened. “You know it’s not simple. But you want real — real fights, real passion. Not some dead-end with that loser.”

Catherine’s breath hitched. “And you? You’re all that?”

He smiled, a little cocky, a little vulnerable. “I’m all you’ll ever need.”

She traced the line of his jaw with her finger. “You better be.”

[bitchesgetriches]

{ MASTERPOST } Everything You Need to Know about Retirement and How to Retire

How to start saving for retirement

Dafuq Is a Retirement Plan and Why Do You Need One?

Procrastinating on Opening a Retirement Account? Here’s 3 Ways That’ll Fuck You Over.

Season 4, Episode 5: “401(k)s Aren’t Offered in My Industry. How Do I Save for Retirement if My Employer Won’t Help?”

How To Save for Retirement When You Make Less Than $30,000 a Year

Workplace Benefits and Other Cool Side Effects of Employment 

Your School or Workplace Benefits Might Include Cool Free Stuff

Do NOT Make This Disastrous Beginner Mistake With Your Retirement Funds

The Financial Order of Operations: 10 Great Money Choices for Every Stage of Life

Advanced retirement moves

How to Painlessly Run the Gauntlet of a 401k Rollover

The Resignation Checklist: 25 Sneaky Ways To Bleed Your Employer Dry Before Quitting

Ask the Bitches: “Can I Quit With Unvested Funds? Or Am I Walking Away From Too Much Money?”

You Need to Talk to Your Parents About Their Retirement Plan

Season 4, Episode 8: “I’m Queer, and Want To Find an Affordable Place To Retire. How Do I Balance Safety With Cost of Living?” 

How Dafuq Do Couples Share Their Money? 

Ask the Bitches: “Do Women Need Different Financial Advice Than Men?”

From HYSAs to CDs, Here’s How to Level Up Your Financial Savings

Season 3, Episode 7: “I’m Finished With the Basic Shit. What Are the Advanced Financial Steps That Only Rich People Know?” 

Speaking of advanced money moves, make sure you’re not funneling money to The Man through unnecessary account fees. Roll over your old retirement accounts FO’ FREE with our partner Capitalize:

Roll over your retirement fund with Capitalize

Investing for the long term

When Money in the Bank Is a Bad Thing: Understanding Inflation and Depreciation

Investing Deathmatch: Investing in the Stock Market vs. Just… Not 

Investing Deathmatch: Traditional IRA vs. Roth IRA

Investing Deathmatch: Stocks vs. Bonds 

Wait… Did I Just Lose All My Money Investing in the Stock Market? 

Financial Independence, Retire Early (FIRE)

The FIRE Movement, Explained 

Your Girl Is Officially Retiring at 35 Years Old

The Real Story of How I Paid off My Mortgage Early in 4 Years 

My First 6 Months of Early Retirement Sucked Shit: What They Don’t Tell You about FIRE

Bitchtastic Book Review: Tanja Hester on Early Retirement, Privilege, and Her Book, Work Optional

Earning Her First $100K: An Interview with Tori Dunlap 

We’ll periodically update this list with new links as we continue writing about retirement. And by “periodically,” we mean “when we remember to do it.” Maybe remind us, ok? It takes a village.

Contribute to our staff’s retirement!

Holy Justin Baldoni that’s a lot of lengthy, well-researched, thoughtful articles on the subject of retirement. It sure took a lot of time and effort to finely craft all them words over the last five years!

In case I’m not laying it on thick enough: running Bitches Get Riches is a labor of love, but it’s still labor. If our work helped you with your retirement goals, consider contributing to our Patreon to say thanks! You’ll get access to Patreon exclusives, giveaways, and monthly content polls! Join our Patreon or comment below to let us know if you would be interested in a BGR Discord server where you can chat with other Patrons and perhaps even the Bitches themselves! Our other Patrons are neat and we think you should hang out together.

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[marie098887]

"Put on a show and make it nasty, Desert Eagle in the backseat."

Festival Date AU | Sunset | Mechanical Bull | Country Y/N

Part 3: Ness, Hiori, Shidou, Kaiser, Niko, Sae,

📝 Requests: OPEN

The sky’s golden. That soft kind of gold that makes everything feel warmer than it should. Country music’s playing, loud, messy, heavy bass under the beat. Kids are running around with funnel cakes. Couples crowd the food trucks. The sun’s sinking and the lights are just starting to flicker on. You’re walking with your boyfriend, sipping lemonade, talking about nothing. Then you see it. A mechanical bull set up near the back fence, kicking up dust, looking flashy and out of place. You pass him your drink and climb up in your denim shorts like you’ve done this a hundred times, fixing your cowboy hat. The attendant opens his mouth to speak but you’re already gripping the rope with one hand and tossing your hair with the other. The music hits. And then you ride.

And he forgets how to breathe.

Hehe this one is for my country gals (as someone whos from Texas) and trust there will be more of me writing for the South <3

🎀 Alexis Ness

He didn’t laugh when you said you were riding the bull. Just blinked once, smiled small, and said, “Okay.”

You handed him your drink and walked off like it was no big deal. But the way you climbed up, confident, fluid, focused, told him it was. Then the music started. And so did you. Hips rolling. Back straight. Eyes forward, hand in the air. Ness didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stared. The crowd started cheering. He didn’t join in. Didn’t even flinch when some guy said, “She’s making that thing look easy.” Because he wasn’t watching the ride. He was watching you. How comfortable you looked in your skin. How everyone else could see it, too. When you jumped down, cheeks flushed, hair a little messy, you walked back to him with a spark in your step.

“Still holdin’ my drink?” you asked, voice sweet with that drawl he loved. He handed it back. Calm. Careful.

“You were amazing,” he said quietly.

“Thank you, baby,” you said, brushing his hand.

He nodded once. Said nothing. But the way he looked at you? Soft. Devoted. And then his gaze flicked out, scanning the crowd, slow and steady. Eyes calm, but cold. Like a quiet warning. Look all you want. That’s all you’re getting.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

🩵 Hiori Yo

You pointed at the bull with that look on your face.

He blinked. “You serious?”

You grinned. “Dead serious.”

“Alright then, darlin’.”

You handed him your drink and climbed up like you were slipping back into something familiar. He leaned against a fence post, sipping slow. Didn’t say much. Just watched. Then the music kicked in. And his eyes widened. Smooth. Confident. Strong. One hand gripped the rope, the other in the air, hips shifting like the bull was following your lead, not the other way around. His jaw clenched. His chest got tight. He didn’t cheer. Didn’t speak. Didn’t even blink when someone beside him whistled. He just looked at you like you were a sunrise he wasn’t expecting. You jumped down, cheeks flushed, and walked up to him smiling like nothing happened.

“Well?” you asked, sipping your lemonade. “You proud?”

He nodded, slow.

“You already know I am,” he said, voice low and soft with that drawl. “But you gone and made it real hard for me to be polite right now.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That so?”

He looked you over once more, slow, focused, then murmured,

“Mhm. Real hard.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

🩷 Shidou Ryusei

He was mid-bite of a corn dog when you said it.

“I’m gonna ride that.”

He blinked, turned, grinned.

“Yeah you are.”

You rolled your eyes, handed him your drink, and climbed up like it was nothing. He was still chewing when the music started. Still grinning when your hips began to roll. And then? Silence. Mouth open. Eyebrows up. Body moving like you wanted to wreck someone’s life. One hand gripping the rope. The other in the air. Back arched. Hips snapping with precision. No hesitation. He stared like he was seeing religion. Said one word under his breath, low, ragged:

“Damn.”

People were cheering. Phones were out. And Shidou?

Eyes locked. Jaw tight.

Because the second some guy near him muttered, “Damn, she’s hot,” Shidou turned his head. Slow. Sharp.

“What’d you say?”

The guy blinked. “Uh—nothing.”

“Yeah. Thought so.”

When you jumped off and came back, flushed and grinning, he still looked wired.

“You okay?” you asked, teasing.

He tilted his head, smiled wide, all teeth, no peace.

“You know how evil that was, right?”

You batted your lashes. “What, me?”

He looked down at your hips, then back up with heat in his eyes.

“You are so not doing that in public again.”

Then leaned in, voice low, almost feral.

“Unless I’m the one you’re ridin’ next time.~"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

👑 Michael Kaiser

He was already annoyed by the dust.

Then you said, “Hold my drink,” and walked toward the bull.

He blinked. “You’re not serious.”

You climbed up without a word. And when the music started?

You weren’t just riding. You were in control. Every move was sharp. Deliberate. Balanced in a way that made it impossible to look away. And Kaiser hated that he couldn’t. You weren’t even looking at him. And somehow, that made it worse. The crowd started cheering. Some guy near him whispered something under his breath, something that sounded way too admiring. Kaiser shot him a look so sharp it could’ve cut glass. You hopped off the bull, all flushed and glowing, and walked back over like you hadn’t just dethroned him in front of an audience.

“You’re mad,” you said, laughing.

“I’m not mad,” he replied, voice smooth. “I just don’t like sharing.”

You raised a brow. “That serious?”

He didn’t answer. Just stepped closer. Real slow. Eyes locked on yours, voice low enough to sting.

“Don't do that shit again.”

You raised a brow. “Why?”

He didn’t blink.

“Why should people see what’s mine.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

🖤 Niko Ikki

You didn’t ask if he cared.

You just handed him your drink and said, “Be right back.”

He assumed you were going to grab something. Then he saw you climbing onto the bull. And froze. You weren’t giggling or playing it up, you were focused. Balanced. And once the music hit? You moved. Sharp. Steady. One hand in the air, the other gripping the rope, hips rolling with the rhythm like you were built for it. Niko didn’t say anything. Didn’t shift. His hands stayed in his pockets. His jaw stayed tight. His eyes? Glued. People around him were reacting. Whistling. Recording. Saying things they shouldn't be. He didn’t speak. Just stared straight ahead, cold. And when you finally hopped off, smile wide and cheeks flushed, he handed you your drink without looking at you.

You sipped it, grinning. “Good?”

He nodded once.

Then looked out over the crowd again. Quiet.

“They looked too long.”

You raised a brow. “Who did?”

He didn’t answer. Just leaned in close, voice low.

".. Don't worry about it."

He mumbled before gently wrapping an arm around you and walking away. But under that controlled attitude, all he could think of was you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

❤️ Sae Itoshi

You didn’t ask him before getting on. Just handed him your drink and walked toward the bull like it was nothing. He watched. Silent. Then the music started. And you started moving. And every single person in that crowd stopped to look. Your control. Your body. Your confidence. All of it on display. Sae didn’t react. Didn’t flinch. Just watched, still, quiet, unreadable. When you finished and came walking back toward him, smile soft and cheeks flushed, he handed you your drink without a word. You sipped it, still a little breathless.

“Say something,” you teased.

He glanced down at you. Then said, calm and flat:

“Don’t do that again.”

And turned. Didn’t explain. Didn’t look at you. Just started walking, expecting you to follow. And of course, you did.

But if he were being honest with himself, all he could think about was you and how you rode it.

And those thoughts were not innocent.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[cipher-grailwar]

Greetings, my fellow magi!

I hope you all are faring well. If you've recieved this message, that means that you've become a very special candidate for a very special ritual! The Cipher Holy Grail War! I am your Overseer, @lapithae, and I hope with my heart of hearts that this ritual proves both successful and enlightening.

Now, I understand you may be skeptical. Within magus society, the concept of the 'Holy Grail War' has been rather… controversial. A hoax, some would call it. Some strange esoteric ritual that promises an item that may or may not exist-- but I assure you, friends, this Holy Grail does exist! And you can win some of its immense magical power!

This ritual is simple. Easy. Back to basics. Seven Servants are to be summoned to fight for the Grail. Saber, Archer, Lancer, Berserker, Rider, Caster, Assassin. There will be an Extra-Class Servant presiding, but if things go smoothly it will be like they won't even exist, and they have no desire for the Grail itself. You will be in command of these familiars as they fight for your sake, and your splendid reward.

However, you may be asking… if multiple magi, much more than the standard seven, are participating… what is the reward? 'We cannot all share a Grail, that'd be ridiculous!'-- I can hear you saying. And I agree. The logistics don't add up in that sense. However, I've come up with a compromise.

Each member of the victorious team will receive a fragment of the Grail. Now, do not fear, that is a great reward in and of itself. The Grail itself possesses near-infinite magical energy, and thus even a piece of it should sate your greatest dreams or kickstart your magecraft research easily. Certainly it won't get you to the Root in a snap, but it will provide you with wisdom, power, and whatever else you could desire. And due to the nature of this War, no physical harm will befall you!

Now, if you wish to slay each other for the other fragments on your own time, that's fine as well. I am only your Overseer in the context of this war.

Regardless, the goal is simple. Participate, win, and gain an immensely powerful artifact. Certainly, even for the most skeptical of magi, you should be a little intrigued, no?

The magecraft of this ritual is driven by 'Approbation', or to put it more simply, your favor. Your favor is channeled into magical energy, which in turn is funneled into the ritual and your Servants. Forgive me if I don't go into much further detail about the inner workings, I'm not keen on giving my secrets away so freely. Of course, things aren't so cut and dry. Servants possess unique skills, traits, and Noble Phantasms.

You will also be in charge of deciding which of these warriors will be summoned. You will submit what servants you would like to see, and then a lucky few of them will make it onto the Summoning Polls, in which you will vote for which familiar is summoned.

Submit HERE! Submissions will close late Wednesday (3/19), so speak up and speak fast!

So please, rejoice! You stand on the precipice of a revolutionary magical ritual! You are the key to this ritual, so boldly step forward, as now you have a chance to make your greatest desires come true!