#We love gruff father figures with hearts of gold in this house

[bojjiphrog]

Bebin canonically being good with children melts my heart

[levis-petras]

RIVETRA AS PARENTS 😭😭😭😭😭

what bey wants, she's gonna get 👀💖😌

heavily inspired by @citri-nate gorgeous artwork here

Word count: 969 (can’t decide if the 69 is there for a reason lmao)

* * * *

Petra has always known how lucky she is because, after everything, she has gotten her happily ever after. 

She's never expected to be one of the few remaining members of the Survey Corps, especially after her squadmates had been brutally killed in the Titan Forest by Annie Leonhart, or how so many of her comrades had been felled by Zeke Jaeger at Shiganshina.

Hence, after the Rumbling, she has chosen to retire to the countryside. It's odd to think that after years of fighting and war, she's more than content with the quiet life she now leads with Levi.

Having acted on their mutual feelings during the years they've stayed undercover in Marley, they've gotten married in a private ceremony at their cottage with the few remaining members of the 104th and those two kids, Gabi and Falco.

She also knows that Levi will make a good father, despite his coarse language and gruff countenance; she's seen the protective way he'd guided the 104th when they'd been part of the second Squad Levi before Marley.

So one day, after she pours Levi his favourite blend of tea during breakfast, she sits at his side and beams. "I think you'll make a good father," she announces.

"What the fuck, Ral?" Levi is gaping at her through his narrowed eye, his cup of tea is held halfway to his mouth.

"It's true," she says and slathers her toast with some marmalade she's bought the previous day. "I think, no, I know you'll be a wonderful father."

Her husband makes that tch sound, setting his tea down to look at her properly. "And I know you're fucking with me right now."

Petra almost makes a comment about how yes, she certainly is fucking him every day and night, but lets him continue. Levi certainly won't appreciate her making light of the situation now.

"Do you see this?" he knocks his fist on one of the armrests of his wheelchair. "Or this?" he points to his blind eye and runs a hand through his hair raggedly. "I'm too old for that sort of shit."

"That's the same thing you told me before we got married," Petra points out lightly and squeezes his hand. “And here we are. Who would’ve thought it possible?”

Levi’s eye soften and in a rare moment of affection, he brings her hand to his mouth and brushes his lips against her knuckles, thumb smoothing over the thin gold band on her ring finger.

In the end, he agrees and they start trying. 

Naturally, it doesn’t take long.

Truthfully, Petra knows that Levi’s hesitancy about fatherhood is more towards the direction that he’s never had a father figure.

Kenny Ackerman definitely doesn’t count. 

So when Kuchel the second arrives in the middle of summer, red-faced and squalling, it comes to no surprise that Levi hesitates to hold her (though Petra doesn’t miss the way his eye has been glued to his daughter the moment she’s born).

“No. I might drop her.” He shies away, hands in the air as though to ward her off but Petra is insistent.

“Hold her, Levi,” she says impatiently, holding the squirming Kuchel out. “Look, she recognises your voice.”

When the evidence of their child becomes more prominent, there are nights that Petra wakes to hear Levi’s murmured voice speaking to their unborn baby. She hears whispered words of promises, of devotion and more importantly, love.

Till now, she never tells him that she’s heard everything.

And if that isn’t enough to send her into a hormonal crying mess, it is how attentive and wonderfully patient he is.

Despite being mostly wheelchair-bound, he’s always within reach should she need anything. When Petra had been approaching her due date, resulting in her back aching and her ankles swelling up, Levi had taken to wheeling her around their house with her and her burgeoning belly sitting on his lap.

Once, upon visiting, Gabi had cheerfully likened the great Captain Levi to an overprotective mama wolf sheltering its pups. Thankfully for Gabi, Falco had hastily dragged her away after seeing the murderous intent in Levi’s eye.

“Petra,” he growls, looking at Kuchel warily as though his newborn daughter might be a titan in disguise. “I can’t—”

Making sure that her husband is paying attention, she ignores his protests and gently lowers Kuchel into his arms, ensuring that he’s supporting the back of her neck.

“Petra.” Levi sounds strangled but all of his hisses and glares go right over her head as she treasures the image of him holding onto their baby. Her eyes mist and she thinks her heart is actually overwhelmed with so much joy and love, and tears are now spilling down her cheeks.

“Fuck,” Levi swears reverently as he gazes down at Kuchel in awe. His jaw goes slack, and the tension in his posture is released when he fully embraces her, hands cradling the precious bundle in his arms. He doesn’t say anything else, but the way he looks at his daughter tells Petra that she’s right.

Levi Ackerman will be a good father.

Though, Petra makes a mental note to get her husband to curb his filthy language around Kuchel.

Of course, the door bursts open and the crowd of well wishers come tumbling in. 

“She’s beautiful,” Mikasa gasps, eyes wide as her dark gaze zeroes in on the baby in Levi’s arms. The younger girl then pauses, mouth curled into a sardonic smirk. “Though that’s surprising considering you’re her father.”

Levi scowls, his lips curling. “Shut up, brat.”

“Oh, she’s so cute! Can I hold her, please?” Gabi all but begs as she crowds to his side. Already, her hands are reaching out for Kuchel but Levi bares his teeth in response.

“Don’t you touch her with your fucking grubby hands, kid!”

[hermankopusortizorsumshite]

Darlin'

Warnings: the Punisher themes, blood, gore, violence, kidnapping, Agent Madani (cause she's a trigger warning for me XD), sweet Frank

Word Count: 9095. This is a long one. Buckle up! MINORS DNI!

Her father looked at her with his heart in his eyes, her face bruised and marred.

“Darling, I’m so sorry.” He whispers, patting her hand. She smiles at him.

“It’s okay.” She croaks, cracking her cuts on her face when she smiles bigger. He pats her lips with a paper towel, applying a couple drops off water to her mouth. “Chapstick in my purse, dad.” She coos, giving him a chuckle.

“Of course, baby.” He smiled, kissing her forehead and digging into her purse for that little tube of chapstick. She takes it, putting some on and sighing in relief. “I hired a bodyguard. Don’t fight me this time please. A different bodyguard; one more your style. Maybe you won’t run away from this one.” He chides, giving her a half-unimpressed look.

“Pop, it’s not my fault. He was old and boring.” She whines.

“Well, you can rest assured this one is not old or boring.” He chuckles, waving someone in. This beast of man, with broad shoulders, a strong jaw, and a dark look walks in. Her eyes drink him in. His all black apparel, tee shirt, cargo pants, military boots.

“Wow.” She whispers, “definitely not old.”

“I thought you might enjoy his company more. Since he doesn’t talk and he can’t be persuaded to take you out onto the town at three in the morning for waffles.” Frank chuckles. “Can you be persuaded to take her to get waffles at three in the morning?” He asks, jabbing a finger at the man.

“No, sir. I just think it’s funny that a bodyguard could be, sir.”

“Great. Military.” She heaves a sigh and rolls her lips together.

“This is my daughter, Kat. She’s my baby. I need you to promise you’d give your life to keep her safe.” Her father explains, her eyes watching the gold watch on his tan wrist.

“Sir, can I speak to you in the hallway?” He asks, looking at the door.

“Sir, you know who I am right?” He asks, looking to the man with a partially confused look.

“I’m Frank Castle. I killed so many people the US government lost count and gave me a new identity. But please justs call me Frank.” He explains, and her father’s eyes widen for a moment.

“You are Frank Castle. Wow.” He whispers.

“Yeah.” He nods.

“Alright, well. My daughter, Kat, she’s my world. Do you understand that?” He asks, looking to Frank and seeing him nod.

“Yeah, I get that.” He swallows hard.

“Good, now. My daughter is my whole existence. I love her with everything I have. She’s in the hospital because some men were looking for me and she wouldn’t give me up. If you’re ever in that situation, and she’s with you, tell her to give it up. Okay? My life is not valuable if I lose her. Understood? So if she’s ever kidnapped with you, please, give them whatever information they ask you for, okay? And when she gets released today, I’m putting the two of you in a safe house so she can heal.” He offers giving her a smile through the window, waving. Something about the sweet woman laying in that hospital made Frank almost feel weak. His stomach seemed to turn.

“Okay, and who’s supposed to be posted anywhere else near it? I’ll kill on sight if I don’t know them.” He states as calmly as his own name. Her father, Gianno, grins and claps Frank on the shoulder.

“Your huge. You’re a killer. And it’s sweet.” He chuckles, leaving Frank outside for a moment as he goes to talk to his daughter.

“Honey, I need to tell you something, okay? When you’re released in a few minutes, I’m going to have you quietly placed in a safe house away from me. Okay? Until you’re healed. Please don’t be mad.”

“Mad? Is Hercules going?” She giggles, pointing to the large man with his back to the door. Her father just nods and laughs. “Then I am not mad. I’ll be holed up in a one bedroom apartment with that sweet, huge man and I cannot wait.” She explains.

“Wow, you know you can’t sleep with him, right?”

“And if I did. I’d never tell you. Who’s packing my stuff?” She asks, looking at him quizzically.

“Lyla is, currently. I figured if any girl knew what to pack it’d be her.” He laughs. The door opens, Frank nodding to her father.

“Hello! I’m Doctor Haas. I’m here with the paperwork for you, dear.” The woman nods with a gleaming smile. Handing over a clipboard, Kat signs the paperwork in record time and happily changes out of the gown. “We’ll grab a wheelchair from the hall and--”

“No! No, please. No wheelchair. Between pop and Hercules I’ll be fine. Honestly. I wanna walk out on my own.” She whines, standing on quaking legs.

“Alright! No problem.” She smiles, giving her a nod and sending her on her way.

“Honeybun, maybe you should think about using the--”

“No! Pop, I’m not using it.” She gingerly steps into the hallway. Frank looks down at her for a moment, taking in the situation. Before he can say a word, she looks up with shimmering grey-blue eyes and a pleading smile. “I can’t use a wheelchair. I have to walk out of here.” She whispers, gripping his hand.

“Okay.” He whispers back. With a look at her, he tucks her under his arm, holding her up at her waist to keep her on her feet. Even when her legs start to give way at the exit door, Frank holds fast and gets her quickly to the car.

“You can do it.” He whispers as the steps get closer and closer, the car only a yard away. “Come on. If anyone can do it, you can. You didn’t take a wheelchair because you know you’re strong.” He coos, getting her to push through the last ten steps before collapsing into the SUV.

“Thank you.” She whispers, hugging his neck as he lifts her onto the seat. He climbs in next to her, buckling her in.

“Safe house.” Her father states as he gets into the passenger seat with a little smirk on his face.

“Tell me, Hercules. Where are you from?” She asks, gripping his bicep and gleaming up at him.

“Queens.” He smiles, his eyes scanning around them while he talks to her.

“You married?” She asks, looking at the necklace that hangs around his neck.

“I was.” He states, looking out the windows for suspicious cars.

“Ah sorry. Divorced?”

“Killed. My wife and two kids.” He states, looking to her with pain in his eyes.

“Oh, shit. I’m so sorry.” She coos, patting his shoulder. “God I’m tired.” She murmurs, tipping over onto his shoulder and falling asleep. He gently leans her to the other door onto the padded seat back and sits back up, eyes scanning again.

“Mister Luccianni, that silver grand am to your right, has been following us for the past two miles.” He states, grabbing for his weapon. “Gimme the go, I’ll smoke em.” He offers, narrowing his sights and putting his finger on the window button.

“Stand down. They’re your test. You passed. Good eye. Is she asleep?” Her father asks as they pull into a parking garage.

“Yeah.” He nods, the car coming to a slow stop in a parking spot.

“The silver car has her things in it. It’s the most common car in the state of New York it seems. So, Lyla, her best friend is in the car. She’s sex-crazed and will probably hit on you. She’s got Kat’s things and she can help put them in the apartment. Now. Next, I need you to carry her in, as unsuspecting as possible. It’s midday and people are out and about. Try not to give yourselves away. Lyla is dressed in a mover’s uniform. Short brunette, pencil straight hair. There will be neighbors out. You two are newly married until you get in that door.” Her father debriefs him with a smile and gives him a nod.

“Got it, sir. Is she to stay in the apartment all the time? Will she sneak out? What do the men look like who did this to her?”

“Don’t keep her cooped up the whole time, she’ll go crazy. Call a driver first. The driver confirms with you. You bring her out as your new wife. You get into the car. She will sneak out. Lyla will probably convince her to sneak out so they can go wine tasting or something. Lyla’s a good girl, but she’s crazy. The men who did this? They look dead.” He answers all the questions and he nods. Frank found her interesting. “She’s been engaged, but never married. He was killed, much like your family.” He coos, looking at his daughter with a loving, sad smile. “Alright, it’s time to go in.” He smiles, letting Frank get out first, scooping her out of the seat and starting towards the door.

“What-what’s happening?” She asks. Half awake, half asleep, the jostling is all to familiar and she kicks out, diving to the ground and waking up immediately. Frank stares down at her with wide eyes and a little smirk.

“You good now?” He gruffs, sticking out a hand. She takes it, allowing him to pull her to her feet.

“Yeah, I’m so sorry.” She whispers as he tucks her under his arm.

“It’s okay, hunny. Those men can’t hurt you again.” He states out loud, his big hand covering the side of her face and holding it against his chest. “We’re married when we leave this aparment.” He hushes as they walk, never missing a beat.

“Well, alright then.” She giggles loudly, letting him keep her against him. As her father lets them into the apartment, Frank almost has to peel her off of him. “Aw, c’mon hunny! I’m not done cuddling.” She whines, making grabby hands at him. “You’re so warm.” He just chuckles, heading into the room with her father and other guards to discuss what the next plan is. A knock at the door has Frank’s undivided attention. Peeking through the peephole, he sees the described woman who was bringing her things in. He waves her over, signaling to be quiet.

“Is this Lyla?” He asks, covering her mouth as she gasps. She nods violently, grabbing for the handle. Frank’s hand is faster, tugging hers away. “Go over there.” He hushes, pointing behind the couch. Huffing, she rolls her eyes and wobbles to the couch. Frank carefully opens the door and finds a petite woman with a cart full of suitcases. “Name.” He barks, hand resting on his pistol.

“Lyla. I’m here for welcome party.” She grins so widely Frank finds it odd, but when he peeks out, he sees a neighbor looking over at them.

“My wife must’ve invited you! C’mon in!” He cheers, waving her in and shutting the door. “The arsenal arrived.” He chuckles, waving Kat over.

“I’m so happy to finally see you!” She cheers, gripping her best friend in a warm, tight hug. When Kat groans at the slight throb in her ribs, Frank’s head flips back to them.

“You okay?” He asks.

“Yeah.” She assures, heading into the bedroom and Lyla follows, dragging the bags along with her. Frank laughs, heading back into the room with her father and guards again. She curls up onto the couch after waving goodbye to her best friend. Frank had tossed his jacket onto the couch with his duffelbag and when she saw his coat, the only blanket-like thing near her, she draws it to her and covers up with it.

“But we’ll head out so you two can get better acquainted. The fridge and cupboards have been stocked up for you. Drinks are in the island, as well as wine in the cabinet. If Lyla tries to kidnap her, just shmooze her with wine tasting.” He chuckles, kissing his daughter atop her buised head and stepping out.

As she wakes from her nap, she sees the most glorious sight. A glass-walled shower with frosted glass and her bodyguard’s naked body in said shower. He climbs out, wrapping the towel around his waist. Combing through his hair, he feels eyes on himself and looks out the open door to see she’s awake.

“Hey, hot bodyguard.” She gives an awkward wave, jaw still on the floor.

“Hey, Kat.” He waves, dropping the towel just outside of her eyesight, returning a moment later dressed in a gray tee shirt and jeans, hearing a audible groan.

“It’s Frank, by the way.” He chuckles, offering a hand.

“It might be wise to know my newly wedded husband’s name. In case the neighbors ask.” She laughs, patting the couch with an inviting smile.

“You should shower.” He ruffs, helping her to her feet. “Doctor said first night you shower, try not to lift your arms too much. So I’m the best you got.” He smiles, a little excited to see her naked, frosted glass or not.

“Great. So you’re name is Frank, you’ve known me twelve hours, and now you’re going to see me naked? This is a fucking treat.” She rolls her eyes, but Frank just laughs.

“You didn’t think you’d be the only one to get a show, did you?” He asks.

“Hey now! I happened to wake up at the right time. That’s not my fault.” She laughs, defending herself as she gives a grin.

“It is now, c’mon, doll.” He chuckles as she digs through the suitcase for underwear, a bra, and a shirt. She’d found shorts already.

“Did you just call me doll? Should I call pops and tell him you already have a crush on me?” He just rolls his eyes as she walks to the bathroom. Tugging off her sweatpants and underwear, she feels exposed, but she can’t get her shirt off. Snapping her fingers, she hooks the t-shirt’s collar onto the towel hook and tugs the shirt off, sobbing when her arm is raised so high. Frank comes through the door.

“You okay?” He asks, looking around her to find her shirt hanging on the hook.

“Yeah. I’m fine.” She nods, letting Frank’s eyes drink her in. “Actually, Frank? Can you unhook this? I can’t get it.” She whines, pushing on her bra with one hand.

“Sure.” Unhooking her bra, his knuckles brushing her smooth skin, his eyes travel down the gauze pads that pepper her back.

“Those have to come off too.” She whispers, meaning the gauze pads. He peels each one off gingerly to find a variously shaped cigarette burns on her back.

“What the hell?” He whispers, his finger running between the burns. She shivers at the intimate touch and he jerks his hand away. “Sorry, I-”

“It’s okay.” She whispers, putting Frank’s hand back on her shoulder and letting him trail down again.

“It looks like a constellation.” He whispers, pulling away his hand.

“Thank you.” She coos, letting the hot water start.

Frank washes her back and shoulders, gentle around her burns.

“Thank you.” He puts the loofa down and steps out of the bathroom giving her a little privacy and himself a little space. He didn’t know why he felt this way, but he wanted so badly to kiss every little mark, trailing down her back. Huffing to calm down his nerves, he heads to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. Not finding any, he mixes up a couple mugs of hot chocolate.

“So, uh, no coffee. But, I found some hot chocolate.” He smiles. Offering a mug of steaming hot cocoa.

“No coffee?” She asks, looking at him like he’d just sworn at her.

“Right? No coffee.” She pulls out her phone and sets up a delivery for starbucks in the morning.

“I probably shouldn’t drink any, anyway. It’s late, ya know. I should sleep.” She groans as they finish off the hot chocolate.

“Yeah, you hit the bed. I’m on the couch.” He explains, pointing to the bedroom.

“No, no. I can’t sleep there while you--”

“It’s my job. Okay? So you get in there and go to bed.” He orders, letting her get up and walk to her room.

Almost an hour passes when he hears her voice softly muttering under her breath.

“Darlin’?” He asks, looking into the dim room to see her thrashing on the bed, a scream filling the room. He bolts to her bed, grabbing her shoulders and hugging her against him. “IT’s not real. It’s not real. You’re in a safehouse. You’re name is Kat. You have a bodyguard named Frank. Your father is a mob boss.” He whispers things that are real as she comes out of her nightmare.

“Thank you.” She sniffs, curling into herself. He sits gently on the edge of the bed and draws her against him.

“No problem. Sometimes I get ‘em too.” He ruffs, looking at her with a small smile.

“Really? How do you make them go away?” She asks.

“I killed the men responsible.” He offers a crooked smile and she laughs. “Go to sleep.” He coos, smoothing her hair as she starts to drift.

“Oh, Frank? Tomorrow morning there’s supposed to a delivery driver at the door. I ordered coffee for the morning.” She smiles, letting him hug her against him, resting his chin atop her head.

“I’ll try not to kill them.” He hushes as he hears her lightly snoring. Sleep starts to push his eyelids closed and slowly, he leans back against the headboard, exhausted. Soon, she’s climbing on him in her sleep, cuddled as close as possible under his chin and on his chest. His arms curl around her instinctively. Safety washes over her as she peeps through one sleepy eyelid to see Frank so close to her asleep. Smiling, she tucks her head back under his chin and goes back to sleep.

A knock sounds at the door, waking them both out of their comforting bubble.

“Ssh. Don’t move.” He rises, scrubbing his face and stalking silently to the door. She takes a ten from her wallet and slides it under the door. “Put the coffee down, take your tip and walk away.” He demands, never opening the door. Once the man’s out of sight, she slips out and snatches the two coffees and the small bag of coffee grounds.

“Frankie!” She calls, handing him a coffee when she finds him standing in the kitchen making breakfast.

“Yes, coffee.” He chuckles, taking the cup and sipping the hot caffeinated drink.

“Thank you for last night. Ugh, sounds weird to say like that, but you know what I mean. I didn’t have a nightmare when you slept there. Can-I just-well-sorry. It’s stupid.”

“Nah, ask.” He assures, sliding a plate across to her.

“I just wondered, you know, if maybe--if you wanted to--possibly sleep in the same bed again. It doesn’t have to get weird. I just--that was the first night in almost two weeks I didn’t have another nightmare. It was exhilarating.” She stammers, so afraid of what the big brute might say.

“That’s fine.” He nods, sitting down to eat, but not before he pats a hand to her shoulder.

“So tell me something about you.”

“I was in a special forces military ops.” He offers, finishing his plate in record time.

“Wow, that’s explains your nightmares.” She wags her brows, almost halfway done with her plate.

“No, it doesn’t. My family was shot in a park. While I was there. It was meant for me but they didn’t get me. They got my son, my daughter, and my sweet wife.” He husks, his throat starting to close. Springing from her seat, fork clattering to the plate with a glass ‘ting’ she jumps into his arms, wrapping her arms around him and gripping tight.

“Christ, I’m so sorry. My husband was shot down while working with my father. The bullets were meant for my father, but the killer got the wrong info.” She whispers, and Frank’s arms wrap around her, hugging her tight to his hard body.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers, letting her hold him for what seems like hours.

“Frank? Can you promise me something?” She asks as she leans back a little.

“Sure.”

“Promise me you’ll do everything you can to stay alive. Okay? You’re a good man, Frank, and I don’t want to be the reason you die. I--You could walk out and I’d understand. You can leave.” She assures, elbows resting on his shoulders. Frank rises to his feet, towering over her and grabs her chin in his thumb and first finger.

“I’m not leaving. I’m not going anywhere. I already made a promise to your father to keep you safe if it kills me, so his negates yours. Sorry, hunny.” He hushes, grinning at her.

“Ugh, no fun.” She whines, tugging her face away from from his warm, firm grip and finding a sweatshirt to put on. It was chilly, Frank found it soothing, but his roommate not so much and she came back into the room in his black hoodie, almost drowning in it. He couldn’t hide the the small chuckle. “Hey Frank? Do you think we could go out today?” She asks, rolling the sleeves once so she could use her hands.

“No. I think we could not.” He mocks in a high pitched voice. She crosses her arms over her chest and pouts. Frank huffs, not sure if he should take her out. Grabbing his phone, he dials her father. “Why do you need to go out? We have coffee now, what else do you need?” He asks.

“I want fresh veggies from the market. I’d love to make something for dinner but all we have are like--lettuce and carrots.” She complains through a hand at the fridge in exasperation.

“Lettuce and carrots, fresh veggies! By the way! And you’re complaining.” She grabs his hands and gets right up to his chest.

“C’mon sweet husband of mine. Don’t you want to go out with your new bride?” She asks, jumping a little in excitement.

“Darlin’. Listen to me-- Yeah!” He answers his phone as her father calls him back.

“Hey Frank! You rang?”

“Yeah, your daughter wants to go out to the market right down the block. She wants to buy some veggies. I’m on my A game, sir. If you’re fine with it, I’ll take her.” He offers, shushing her with his hand clasping over her mouth. She looks at him with a smile, Frank feeling his heart swell.

“If you believe you can handle it, I don’t care if you two love birds go out.” Her father chuckles. “Put her on quick.” Frank puts the phone to her ear.

“Hello?” She asks.

“Hey baby. Listen to me. I don’t care if you two leave, but you have to stay at Frank’s side. You have to stay glued to him. You understand?” He asks into the phone, his expressions matching his words as if he were speaking to her face to face.

“Yeah, pop. Like glue. I love you!” She smiles into the phone, her father saying it back before they hang up.

“You ready?” He ruggs, offering her an elbow after letting her put on her white Gucci sneakers with her shorts and Frank’s sweatshirt. Sweater paw on his elbow, they leave arm in arm. His grips her hand as they step out. “Also, I’m Pete, your Honey.” He smiles, earning a half-upset look from her as they get into the elevator.

“Alright Pete.” She coos as they get into the car waiting for them. Driving them the two blocks, Frank gets out first, eyes scanning the perimeter. Finding nothing alarming, he nods to let her out. Her sweater paw reaches for his arm, but his hand cups high on her hip, pulling her against him as they walk through the market. “Aw hunny, over here! Some tomatoes! And some fresh basil, oregano, thyme, and ooh! Parsley!” As the two pay for their vegetables at each stand, Frank notices the man a few yards back, following them. Frank tries to hurry her along, but she’s intrigued by every stand and wants to look at everything. With two bags of veggies, a bag of chicken, and a grin as wide as Frank’s chest, he convinces her to get in the car just as the man reaches for her. Frank’s hand comes down hard and fast. When the man sees Frank’s face, his heart hits the floor and he turns, running away.

“Hunny, did that man just run the other direction?” She asks, looking to him as he shoves her into the car and they get into the apartment as fast he can. Once in the door, Frank’s hands graze over her body to be sure of no injuries, but she laughs it off.

Stepping into the kitchen, she opens the cupboard and heaves a sigh of relief.

“Thank god they brought cooking wine.” She assures, reaching but not quite grasping it. Climbing onto the counter and grabbing the wine bottle, her hand slips and she falls backwards but she and the wine bottle, never hit the floor.

“You are so clumsy.” He chuckles, righting her small frame and handing her the wine. “What are you making?” He asks, looking to her with a smirk.

“Chicken cacciatore, my nonna was the best at it, but I try my best.” She smiles shyly as she starts cooking.

As Frank takes his first bite, his eyes roll back and he moans. His reaction catches her offguard and she looks at him with a confused smile.

“It’s good. What can I say?” He shrugs, giving her a smile.

“Right, thank you.” She coughs, going back to eating her own. It didn’t taste like home but it almost did. She was happy to have it. She thinks back to earlier when the man trying to attack her saw Frank and ran away. It was remarkable yet a little unnerving. “Hey, Frank? Why did that man run away from you?” She asks as he takes a bite of dinner and looks up from his plate. His eyes are calculating, not sure what he should say. He assumed she knew about him. Since her father had found out, he assumed that she knew.

“I uh, I killed a lot of people. Bad people, but, still alot of people.” He wags his brows, holding his breath.

“How many?” She asks, taking another bite as if this were small talk.

“Thirty five.” He coughs, trying to disguise it. She looks up for a moment and a grin crosses her face.

“Wow, thirty five? My father’s record for one day is only ten.” She blabs, continuing to eat.

“It wasn’t in one day. I killed all the people responsible for my family’s deaths. Everyone.” He hushes, looking at her as she continues to eat. When she glances up, her eyes meet his and she gives an apologetic smile.

“I’m sorry, Frank. Holy shit!” Her fork clatters to her plate and she jumps to her feet. “Frank Castle! Holy shit! Oh my god! You’re Frank Castle! Holy fuck.” She stammers over and over, staring at him with wide, loving eyes. “Sorry, most girls crush on celebrities, but not this one. I mean, you are a celebrity, a dead one. But still, wow. You are beautiful.” She coos, staring at him. “I can’t believe I didn’t recognize you. Wow, Frank Castle. I gotta call Lyla! She’s never gonna believe this!” She crows like a teenage girl, fumbling for her phone. “We used to watch your news pieces and when you killed all those people in prison, amazing.” He plucks the phone from her hand and he laughs.

“No out calls.” He laughs, trying to compose himself.

“Oh come on! I just made the discovery of a century, and you won’t let me call my best friend?” Whining, she stamps a foot like a child and he gives her a half smirk.

“I’m sorry, darlin’.”

“Stop calling me that.” She huffs, her playfulness gone for a moment.

“Why?” He prods. A knock sounds at the door, making both of them jump. His hand grips her wrist across the table and he creeps around, putting her against the wall. Sneaking to the door, he looks through the peephole to see Lyla standing there, but instead of her giddy self, she’s rather squeemish, shifting from foot to foot, looking around nervously. Frank carefully opens the door, but it comes blasting in on him, sending him soaring into the couch.

“I’m sorry!” Lyla sobs as three grown Russian men shove in, grabbing Frank and throwing fist after fist into his face. Looking for her, one Russian reaches over the counter to grab her, but she stabs him with a knife in the arm. The man growls, yanking his arm back. Dislodging the knife, he tosses it aside to find she’s gone. Hunting for her while they kick Frank. A gun shot echoes and one of the Russians falls to the floor. Lyla stands with the gun in her hands, tears in her eyes as another Russian jumps on her, grabbing her by the hair and throwing her into the wall. Kat finds a gun in Frank’s bag and she shoots the large man beating on her best friend and just as she points the gun at the one on Frank, she sees the man’s dead body flop over onto another of the Russians. Frank rises to his feet, blowing air out his nose, blood spraying as he did so. Foot steps slow and calculated as he walks to Lyla, her scared whimpers enough to break Kat’s heart as Frank grabs the front of her shirt and drags her to her feet.

“You brought them here?” He growls low, his voice dark and feral.

“I-they were gonna kill my mom and me if I didn’t tell them.” She whimpers, tears falling down her face.

“And they almost killed you and her.” He barks, pointing to Kat, who stands in shock, quaking with a gun in her hand. Frank limps to her, slowly drawing the gun from her hands and placing it on the couch. “It’s okay.” He whispers, letting her drop her head to his shoulder. She hiccups and then sobs, gripping the back of his blood soaked shirt.

“Frank--you--you’re--” He covers her mouth with a bloody hand, shaking his head.

“I’m fine, darlin’.” She huffs and smiles, tears staining her cheeks. When her eyes lift over her shoulder, she sees the front door still wide open. Giving a shriek, she slips from his grip and slams the door, locking every deadbolt and chain before running back to Frank and gripping him tight.

“Frank, you-you’re bleeding.” She coos, carefully taking him to the couch. Appearing a moment later with a kit in her shaking hands. “Lyla, grab the bottle of rum from the cupboard. Also, it’s Frank fucking Castle!” She cheers as Lyla brings the bottle to her. When her eyes finally meet the man’s face she gasps.

“Holy shit. Your serial killer boyfriend is real.” She laughs, trying to calm her down. Taking a couple swigs from the bottle, she offers it to Frank.

“You want any?” She asks.

“Nah. Really I’m fine.” He hushes, letting his hands cover hers.

“Shut up, Frank.” She nips, swatting away his hands. Cleaning up his face, she puts a couple butterflies on the cut on his forehead, and a bandaid on the little ones on his cheek and chin.

“Darlin’ c’mon. Stop it.” He huffs, pushing her hands away. Jabbing a finger into his chest, earning a groan.

“Quit. Calling. Me. That.” She bites, clapping the kit closed and stomping to the bathroom to put it away.

“What’s her problem?” He huffs to himself, grabbing his cellphone and dialling her father.

“Yeah?”

“So the friend we thought we could trust, not so trustworthy. I need a discreet clean up crew.” He explains, when he sees her appear again. She hooks her arms under the man’s arms and drags him over to the pile of two more bodies and groans in disgust. “Hey, quit touching those.” He hushes, covering the mic on the phone.

“No! I want them gone.” She cries, tears starting to fall down her face.

“Ssh, it’s okay. Calm down.” He cuddles her against his strong body and coos in her ear.

“Clean up crew is on it’s way. Now, tell me my daughter is okay.” Her father’s voice calls to Frank.

“She’s fine, sir. She was cracking jokes earlier.” He chuckles, giving her shoulder a squeeze.

“Good. The clean up crew is four men. They’ll bring a laundry cart up, say they’re here for pickup. You let them in.” Her father says as someone knocks on the door. She dives for the pistol and points it at the door, quaking as Frank carefully opens it to find a two laundry bins and four men.

“Sorry, she’s still scared.” He offers, reaching out and pulling the gun from her hands.

“It’s okay, sir. We just want to remove the bed bugs and get you cleaned up.” The man informs, putting the bodies into the carts and cleaning up in less than an hour. A deep breath escapes her as she sags against Frank, relaxed. His arm closes around her shoulder and he pats her clothed back.

Two Weeks go by, fun had by the two holed up in a small New York penthouse.

“Hey doll, I’m gonna head down for coffee. Don’t let anyone in, okay?” Frank’s gravelly voice washes over her for a moment as he walks through the door. “Lock all of these. I’ll knock twice and call out to you.” He smiles, patting her arm before stepping out and shutting the door. Frank listens as the door locks click, breathing out softly. He was nervous to leave but he hadn’t heard a sound, and there were other men posted outside the room and the building.

He gets to the bakery just down the street and orders her coffee, and his, getting a strawberry turnover with a little smile. Paying for the items, Frank looks at the bag and coffee cups in his hand and he gives a chuckle. He thought to himself, for a moment that he could have this. This life could be his. Getting coffee and turnovers in the morning like some kind of domesticated husband, the kind of husband he wanted to be for Maria. He chuckles, shaking his head. As he gets up the stairs, he sees two guards knocked out, laying in a pile.

“Shit.” Sprinting into room, the coffee hitting the tiled floor and splashing out, splattering up onto the bottom of the sofa where they sat comfortable in each others silence for almost four weeks. His eyes drop to the blood on the couch and the blood on the table, smeared like fingers grasping for the edge. His breath hitches, trying to breathe, but he can’t. “Kat! Kat!” He shouts, screaming at the top of his lungs.

“Frank Castle. It is Castle, right?” A voice calls, and when he turns, he finds a small woman standing before him, Agent Madani.

“What the hell are you doing here?” He barks, voice low and eyes on hers like lasers.

“Saving your little girlfriend you’ve been playing house with. She’s safe. Undisclosed location. Thinks her father is in questioning. No worries, nothing incriminating. But, tell me, Frank. What would you do if I weren’t watching this place, huh? I need to make a deal with her father, but he needs to know it’s the FBI. He will go to a maximum security prison for the rest of his life, but he and his daughter will be safe. The safest she can be, which I think is a little important to you.” She informs, arms crossed over her chest, watching Frank stand there, his chest heaving.

“You have her? Is she under surveillance? Can I see her?” He barks, storming towards her like a black cloud.

“After you get me a meeting with her father, Gianno Lucciani.” She retorts, not letting up. Frank steps closer, hand gripped around Madani’s neck, ready to squeeze, but he doesn’t.

“I’ll see.” He whispers, yanking away the hand around her neck he grabs his phone, calling her father.

“Frank?”

“Yeah, Gianno. Listen to me, man. You gotta come down here to the safehouse.” Frank tries to be calm but his voice wavers slightly.

“Frank, what’s wrong?” He demands.

“There’s some FBI agents here. They’re questioning Kat. They want to cut you a deal. They said they’ll let Kat go when you’re here.” He informs.

“Okay. I’ll be there in five minutes.” He barks, hanging up.

“You gotta handcuff me. When he gets here, he’s gotta think you busted in and got me down first. You’re gonna wanna bring Kat back in too.” He offers. “If his daughter isn’t here, he’ll kill everyone in here if he doesn’t see her face.” He shrugs, putting his hands behind his back and letting them cuff him. They cuff his ankles too for good measure and just as they drop him onto the ground her father comes bursting into the door.

“My daughter.” He growls, gun jammed into Madani’s head. “Unlock him. He’s just her bodyguard. Pete Castliglione. You’re name is Pete right? Why is he handcuffed?” He barks, jabbing a finger at Frank on the floor.

“Yeah, listen, Madani knows. I’m Frank fuckin’ Castle. Okay? We need to see Kat now.” He barks as they take the cuffs off.

“Bring her in.” Madani calls, waving to a couple agents as they head out, returning with his sweet Kat.

“Shit.” He whispers as she piles into him, clinging to him like a lifeboat in the middle of a raging sea.

“Frank, Frank. They broke in. They-the government. They took me to a room. Questioned me. Frank, I--”

“Ssh. Ssh. Ssh. It’s okay, darlin’.” He whispers, her father stepping out into the hallway with Madani.

“Frank I said--”

“Don’t call you that, but it’s important today. Okay?” He coos, grabbing her and kissing her forehead. Her father walks in just in time to see Frank holding her tight against him. His big arms wrapped around her, making her look small and frail.

“Kat, baby, you okay?” She twists around in Frank’s grip. As he starts to let go, her hands grip tightly to his forearms and she chokes on a sob.

“It’s okay. I’m right behind you.” He coos, tugging his arms away as she stumbles to her father.

“Baby, you’re okay. Listen, daddy’s gonna be going away for a while. Okay?” He coos calmly, as if he’s still talking to the same little girl from twenty years ago.

“Daddy, what--”

“The government woman is--”

“Quit talking to me like a child!” She shrieks, screaming at him and stamping her foot.

“I’m taking your father into custody for all the money laundering, the murders of five men, and for running a drug ring underground that we now have you admitting to.” Madani informs loudly as they cuff her father and start walking him down, out into the parking lot. “Put a vest on her, call it protection, whatever you need to do to put her into safety. We’ll shoot her. Take her as crossfire. The Russians and the Cartel will be down there. He’s safest in prison. And we’ll get him there. I need Frank removed safely. Once we’re out of here, they’ll load her into a body bag and get her somewhere safe with Frank. No one tip off Frank or the father. If they know something’s up they’ll take her, whether they think she’s alive or not.” She informs her agents as they load Frank and her father into cars. When she screams at them, the firing of pistols and semi-automatic hand guns fills the air.

“No! Daddy!” She screams, running to the car, but as the car pulls away, an agent strategically shoots her in the chest twice, Frank’s heart hitting the concrete.

“No!” He cries, shaking violently in his cuffs as he tries to get out. Slamming his head into the window, he doesn’t even crack it.

“No! My baby!” Her father screams, following Frank’s actions. They leave her lying on the concrete, tears falling down his face more and more as he fights harder. Madani draws Frank from the car and drags him kicking, into another building.

“Listen!” She shouts over Frank’s heavy, deafening breathing.

“Madani, let me outta these goddamn handcuffs or I swear on Christ I’ll kill everyone in here. You too.” He growls low and hard, his eyes dark burning into the agent as she stands her ground.

“Frank. Frank, calm down.” She coos as they roll a stretcher in with a body bag. “Frank, her father’s going to a white collar prison, he’ll be safe. Frank. Calm down. I’m gonna take these off but please--”

“The bag. What’s in the bag!?” He screams. As the cuffs come off, his hands wrap around Madani’s throat, squeezing until hse’s gripping at his hands, his knuckles white.

“Frank?” Her soft voice takes his breath from his lungs and he drops Madani on the floor, her gasping just quietly in the background. “Frank I’m right here.” She whispers, rising from her bag like a zombie.

“Darlin’. Baby girl. Holy shit.” He whispers, gripping her and holding her against him.

“Frank, my dad. My dad, he thinks I’m--”

“Your father thinks you are dead, and that’s the safest thing for him to think right now. He’s going to a good prison, where he’ll be safe, but he wanted you as safe as possible, and if he, the Russians, and the Cartel believe that his only daughter is dead you are in no danger.” Madani explains, giving her a soft smile.

“My father thinks his only daughter is dead! He’s being arrested and sent to a prison? Frank?” She looks at him with betrayal twinkling in her eyes and Frank chokes, grunting at the pain. She’d never looked at him like that before. “Did you know?”

“Yeah.” He whispers.

“You knew? You helped them?” She cries, grabbing his shirt and shaking him.

“It isn’t what it looks like. You’re father--”

“Your father needed to be safe, and taking him into a facility where the cartel and Russians can’t get him is as safe as he can be.” Madani tries to explain. Kat turns, a fire in her eyes that Frank might’ve been scared of any other day. He folds his arms around her, constricting like a boa, holding steadfast as she begins to kick and hit, screaming at the top of her lungs for Frank to let go.

“I’m gonna kill you, bitch! I’m gonna kill you!” She screams, kicking and slapping at Frank’s stony arms. “Let go of me!” She cries, pushing his arms away and running for the door.

“No! Don’t go out there!” Madani yells. “There’s a Russian mob and a mexican Cartel being arrested right now with the help of your father’s information and willingness to cooperate.” She stops in her tracks and faces Frank.

“You-you knew about this?” She whispers, shaking her head in disbelief. “I trusted you, Frank.” Shaking hands run through her hair as she stands near the door, unsure of what to do. “Frank, how could you?”

“Hun, I just-I wanted to keep you safe. You’re father asked for safety. This is the best I could offer him. I’m sorry.” He explains.

“Me too.” She grabs the handle of the warehouse and walks out into the daylight, pushing her way through the throng of curious eyes and speculating lips.

“Kathryn?” A voice calls, and when she turns, a gun is jabbed into her side she knows she’s messed up. “If you move or set off that Castle, I’ll kill ya for real this time.” The thick Russian accent gruff and low in her ear.

“Eyes on the bait! Eyes on the bait. Moving southeast with a russian, six feet five inches, short black hair, two tattoos on his hands, can’t make out what they say. Getting into a van now, license plate echo-six-bravo-nine-two-eight.” Frank listens quietly before he grabs the nearest gun and charges out the door.

Eyes scanning the vans, he sees one pull away from the curb and follows it.

“Castle is on the move.” Madani calls into the mic.

Frank sets into a sprint as he follows the van. Getting into the warehouse, he listens to hear her give a scream.

“Tell us about Frank Castle.” He growls, stabbing a small pering knife into her thigh. Crying out, she looks around and something about the empty warehouse didn’t feel empty.

“I don’t know any Frank. And that’s saying something, I’m Italian.” She giggles through harsh breaths as he slaps her. The crack across her face sends Frank into a frenzy of rage, killing every man but the man who stands between him and Kat.

“Pete!” She exclaims, rattling the chair legs on the ground. The Russian man’s eyes fall to where hers are locked he raises his brows, gulping audibly.

“Castle.” He growls, looking to Frank as his eyes narrow and he tries to put on a dangerous front. When his eyes meet Frank’s he finds something feral there, something predatory, and he steps back. Frank raises a gun, shooting the man between the shoulder and heart, dropping him on the ground. Gasp. Gasp. Frank ignores the man as he draws Kat from the chair.

“You okay?” He coos, leaving her with a giggle on her busted lips.

“Yeah, I’m okay. Punisher.” She laughs as she hugs his neck, pressing sweet little kisses to his cut face. Frank Castle, the Punisher, New York’s scariest vigilante, and yet these arms that had strangled, hands that killed were comforting her; they were carressing her body with such comfort that tears fell down her face. “Are you okay?”

“I just--I’m so mad at you, but I love you.” She whispers, sniffling. He sucks in a sharp breath.

“You mean that?” He coos as he walks her to his car. Stiffening, he looks at her rigid form and stops them, looking to her with a grin.

“I--”

“I love you too.” He assures, kissing her forehead as he meets Madani at the a roof top across town. Pulling into a parking garage, he leads her to the roof where Madani waits, a small bag in her hands.

“This is yours.” She hands the bag to Kat with a smiling nod. Skeptical and mad, she snatches the bag and hands it to Frank without a second glance.

“No, darlin’. It’s for you.” He smiles, handing it back. Glaring at the bag, she tugs it back to her and opens it. Drawing out it contents, she reads over them carefully.

‘Marriage Certificate

Katalina Jane Foster and Peter Michael Castiglione

Were married at Wilson City Courthouse

July 15th, 2010’

Among the items in the bag was a social security card with her new name, and a driver’s license, passport, and the deed to a house in Atlanta, Georgia. Frank looks at her with a smile.

“Well what if I didn’t want to marry you?” She asks with a challenging smirk.

“Then I’d have to take this back.” He pops open small, velvety red ring box, exposing a dainty piece of silver jewelry with pretty little blue sapphires in it. With a huge grin on her face, she jumps into his waiting arms and kisses his face. Madani watches on with a smile as Frank loads his new bride into a car and they drive away.

[thisisthehardestthing]

18+

GOLD

TENDŌ SATORI X FEM!READER

Pleasant & Strider Present: Fantasy AU Writing Collab. This is a loving dedication to my favorite fairytale as a child: Rumpelstiltskin. 9k words of smut, I apologise for it’s length, but it has to mirror Tendo’s big dick energy, y’know. wordcount: 9,300 Warnings: yandere-ish, virgin reader, oral (receiving), fingering (receiving, penetrative sex, one derogatory word (whore), cheating (this is just to be safe). Nothing too wild, but it’s hella dirty. Tags: @joyousandverywarlike​​ I love you wifey, thank you for beta-reading before we both crashed. Thanks for the eternal hype @whats-her-quirk​​ you make my heart sing! @pleasantanathema​​ , @present-mel​​ and @linestrider​​ . I am so, so happy to have met you three xx

> MASTERLIST HERE <

GOLD.

You pace the small space of your house, the wooden floorboards creaking beneath your weight. The King summoned your father three days ago, and by your calculations, he should be back any minute with news. Your eyes are downcast, watching your bare feet shuffle across the floor, the tattered hem of your skirt rustling with each movement. You sigh, smoothing down the white of your apron and catching a glimpse of your reflection in the polished tin on the wall.

Huffing, you turn away and close your eyes, not wanting to see the worry laced in them. You are a pauper, your father a poor miller. There must’ve been a terrible reason for his presence to have been so urgently demanded at the court. The land has been in crisis for a while now; businesses have started shutting down, and you fear that it is now your small family’s turn to be thrown out onto the streets.

The doorknob twists and the heavy door swings open as your father steps across the threshold, removing his grey cap, cheeks sallow. His best clothing no longer looks dapper but rather worn in, lackluster.

“Father! Welcome home,” you exclaim, throwing your arms around his neck, bringing him in close to smell the lingering scent of a mare and travel. You can tell something is off from the way he half-hugs you, grip weak around your waist. You pull back, that gnawing fear in your gut itching its way up your spine.

“Pray, tell me, what did the King want? Must we shut down the mill?” you ask, helping him to undress, taking his single-breasted coat from his frail shoulders. Was he this small when he left? He chokes back a sob, clutching his chest with one hand to cup your cheek with the other.

“Oh, daughter, my sweet, beautiful daughter,” he begins, his palm sinking to your shoulder, his voice watery as he continues, “that was his original intent, yes.” You feel the weight of his hand pull you beneath the earth, yet there is some hope in your chest as you suck in a sharp breath.

“And what of now?”

“I’m sorry, my darling, I’m sorry,” your father repeats his words, hanging his head before meeting your stare with a shaken one of his own. His lower lip trembles beneath his thick moustache, and you clutch his hand in a vice, it’s ice cold. “I don’t know what I was thinking, it’s madness.”

“Tell me, please.”

“The King asked me if I had anything worth more than the mill to barter with, to absolve us from not affording the tax, and I replied with you, my daughter. You’re worth more than any precious metal to me.” Tears begin to pool in your fathers eyes, and your hands tighten around his, unsure of where the conversation is heading.

“I had told him that you are the most beautiful maiden in the kingdom, however, he cares not for beauty but for material possessions, and without thought I exclaimed that you could spin straw into pure gold,” he says. You gasp, releasing his hand as if made of ice, the cold burning you.

“Father!”

“I am to send you to him by tomorrow evening. You’re to leave on the morrow. I will pray that your beauty is enough for our King to be merciful.”

Merciful? The King is anything but. You feel your world begin to crumble. How are you to spin straw into gold? That is a power only the Fae possess, and you tremble at the thought of what will happen once the King realizes your father has lied.

***

The looming gates of the castle are opulent, brass shining bright in the late afternoon, glinting against a peach and lilac sky. You have ridden on your father's mare through the day and can feel your thighs twitch from the exertion. You’re weary from the hot sun, the travel, and your frantic nerves twist knots in your stomach. Soldiers in fine armor stand to attention, and although they do not move, you can see how the men leer at your features, feel the difference in status crawl over your flesh like spiders.

Although you are wrapped in a dark green cloak, you feel bare beneath their stares, as though they can see the beige shift dress. Clutching its opening tight against your body, you keep your eyes straight ahead to avoid contact with any lingering gazes. You dismount, giving your horse a final stroke before you follow servants into the stone castle.

They walk fast, and you struggle to keep up, taken aback by the marble floor. The stained glass windows litter a rainbow of colours against the white stone, dancing across your skin as you walk through it and into a large hall where King Ushijima is waiting for your arrival. He’s handsome, but the scowl on his features twists your intestines, knotting them intricately. As you move closer, however, his eyebrows begin to relax and lift, his eyes widen, only slightly, taking in your appearance. You keep your head bowed in respect, eyes on the tips of your leather slippers peeking out from beneath the cloak.

The servants excuse themselves, and the doors close. All you hear is the beating of your heart and the drumming of the Kings fingers against the armrest of his throne.

“Lift your chin, girl.”

The King’s voice is gruff, commanding, and you find yourself obeying and straightening up tall so that he can see your face. He huffs, standing up and walking down grey stone steps that seem to glitter in the candle light and the last of the sun. The red of his coat is akin to blood, and it sweeps graciously around his tall frame as he stands over you.

“I thought your father was lying when he said his daughter was the fairest maiden in the Kingdom, yet he has proven me wrong. It gives me hope that the other claims he has made are not false and you may not hang in the morrow after all,” he announces, peering down over his nose at your frame. “Follow me.”

“Your Majesty,” you curtsy, and trail behind the King as he leads you through the high ceiling hallways of the castle, up and up and up the stairs, to a wooden door.

He pushes it open, the weight of the door pulling a groan from the iron hinges and steps aside for you to enter. The smell hits you first, earthy and overpowering, and you see towering piles of straw completely covering the floor and walls. In the center sits a spinning wheel in a pale birch. Your heart drops to your stomach and you feel the colour drain from your face. This must be a dream, a cruel, cruel dream.

“You have until the sun rises to transform all this straw into the finest of gold, or I will have to sentence you for trickery.”

With that, the King shuts the door. You hear the lock turn with a resounding clank. The room is shrouded in darkness and you fall to your knees, sobs uprooting in your chest at the predicament you find yourself in. You tug at the ribbon of your cloak, letting it fall open to the floor as you cry, the tears silver in the light of the full moon shining through the window.

You sob for a while, tremors shaking your body as you curl in on yourself. You barely notice the door open an inch, pale fingers curling around the side before a head with hair the shade of pomegranate peers at your sunken figure.

“Oh, ho ho! What have we here~?” a lilting voice shocks you. Your head snaps up to watch a figure bound into the room. He is tall, waif-like, with heavily lidded eyes. Your breath is snatched away as you gaze upon his hair that seems to stand on end, as though wind travels through the air, but the room is still and the window shut. The door was locked, how did he enter?

“Why are you crying, little girl?” The strange man asks, bending over at the hips with his long fingers reaching out to lift your chin up, wiping at the tears under your eyes. You swallow, your mouth suddenly dry, feeling embarrassed for your weakness, and being called young. You are of proper age at three and twenty.

“I have to spin all the straw into gold before the sun rises or I will be hanged. It’s an impossible task and I’m not sure what to do!” you begin to cry again, the tears streaming down your face and slipping down the nimble fingers that hold your jaw. The stranger tuts, tilting his head as he regards your solemn appearance.

“It’s not impossible. What will you give me if I complete this task for you?” There’s a smirk on his lips, and a glint in his garnet eyes that ensnare you to fall into them.

“I have nothing on me to give, I am a pauper,” you whisper, ashamed of your low class. The hand withdraws and you see him stretch up, a hand on his hips as he waves at your body in a grand gesture, fingers seemingly bending backwards.

“False, you have your beauty, and I am a lover of beautiful things~,” the song in his voice then drops an octave as he asks again, his eyes narrowing as if you’re prey, “so what will you give me in return?” You ponder his words, feeling blood flush your cheeks at being complimented by someone so boldly.

“I can only gift you a kiss,” you finally say, pushing up to stand. He eagerly grabs your arms, tugging you close, against his chest. You smell spice and the green of the forest after a heavy rain, transporting you to a far away land, an escape.

“I accept this trade~.” His lips crash against yours, soft pillows melting into your skin. He tastes like molasses, sweet yet dark. The kiss is bruising and his hands wander across your back and down to your waist, pulling you ever closer, letting you fall drunkenly into the taste that is him. He pulls away too soon and you have to bite the protest from escaping your lips.

Humming an odd tune, the stranger sits down at the spinning wheel, picks up a handful of straw and weaves it into a glittering gold thread. It takes only three turns of the wheel before the bobbin is full and he picks up more straw. Like this, he works throughout the night until all the straw has been transformed into precious metal. You’re still drunk from his touch, mouth agape at his elegant movements, and when you next blink, the work has been completed with plenty of time before the sun is to rise.

Wordlessly, he rises from his seat to tower over you, cupping your face delicately between both palms, he plants a lingering kiss to your forehead. He resumes humming, a devious smirk on his mouth as he saunters out of the room and the door closes behind him, the click of the lock echoing in the stillness.

The sun rises, and the King walks through the door with a purpose, expecting for you to have failed at the test. When he sees the glittering gold in the morning light, his eyes darken and a smile splits his face in half as greed consumes him.

“You can live for another day, but do not think you are liberated yet. I will need you to prove it to me once more as this could be the work of illusionment and fade throughout the day,” King Ushijima booms. Turning on his heel, he strides out the room, ordering you to follow.

He leads you into another stone room, this one larger than the previous, filled with even more straw to the top of the ceiling and you start to feel dread claw up your ribs, piercing your skin. There’s no telling what would happen the following morning.

“Turn all this straw into gold by the morrow and I will let you live,” the King states, and curtly exits to leave you alone with the scraps of your freedom.

You spend the entire day in the room, pacing and crying at the thought of failure. When night falls and casts its shadows, you hear the door click open and a familiar tune carry through the air. The handsome stranger from the night before curves around the door, peering at your frightened yet hopeful body. The moon is brighter tonight, almost full, casting a glow around the room and onto your skin.

“Miller’s daughter, you need not cry~,” he sings, making you freeze at the mention of your father’s profession, but the tears continue to pour down your face. He closes the distance between your bodies with two steps of his long legs. His flaming hair wafts around him as he wipes the salted water from your cheeks.

“What will you give me tonight if I spin this straw into gold?”

He notices your brow furrowing and sees how you swallow down your nerves. It makes him want to chuckle at the depravity of his question. You are so innocent, and so desperate for help.

“You are a maiden, are you not? Unwedded, unbedded?” The stranger asks you and he feels how your cheeks warm beneath his palm, letting his smirk twist into a wide smile. You nod, shifting awkwardly under his hold. He drops his cool hands to your shoulders and his skin is the colour of porcelain in the moon’s light. “Then give me your first sexual death in return.”

You step backwards, bewildered, unsure of his advances. You can’t let a man defile you in a way that is meant for your husband, yet here he is, requesting something so perverse. The memory of his lips against yours, the weight of his palm into your waist, flood your mind and you forget to breathe. The straw seems soft enough, your head swims. The King’s warning echoes in a chill up your spine, so you agree to his offer, which is met with a cunning grin.

Either you weigh less than a feather or he’s strong as an ox when he lifts you by the waist and over his shoulder, the round of your ass in the air, which he playfully taps and elicits a squeal from your tear-swollen lips. He hushes you while spreading a pile of hay with his foot.

“You cannot be too noisy, little girl~” he sings, placing you gently on your back, crouching between your ankles, “we wouldn’t want anyone to hear you.”

He seems utterly feral as his deft fingers ghost over your calves to thumb the hem of your simple shift dress. The fire in his eyes burns with impatience as he bunches the fabric up over your knees, to the gentle curve of your thighs where the hem of your breeches end, until it's on your waist. He takes a deep breath, you hold yours, and with your heart beating in your ears, the drawstring of your undergarments comes undone.

You realise he’s humming that strange tune when you shimmy out of your modesty, and the song hitches in his throat when your untouched cunt comes into view. It turns into a low moan and then a whistle, throwing the cotton pants behind him.

“Your sheath is as beautiful as your face, cunning as it calls out to me.” There’s no hint of rhythm in his voice, but rather a deep vibrato as lust takes over and he licks his lips. It makes your heart throb, pounding in your chest and in the delicate skin of your sex.

He lets his strong, long fingers knead the flesh of your thighs, smooth and supple under the glow of the moon, inching them upwards. You bite your bottom lip to keep from sounding out, sure in the fact that a guard may pass at any moment. The wine-haired man shuffles forward, pulling apart your legs until you’re spread for him, accessible. You can feel the blush start from your pubic bone and catch fire all along your body to heat the very top of your head. His intense stare summons your need to shut your knees but he lays down to his stomach, wedging his body so that you are at his whim.

“Has anyone ever touched you here before?” he asks, the palms of his hands so large they cover the meat of your inner thigh, his thumbs ghosting over your outer labia. Your head falls back in shame— no, anticipation. His movements are precise, teasing, and you shake your head to answer him.

“No one, you are the first.” You say silent thanks to the Lord that your voice is unwavering, breathy, and the strange man’s eyes darken to sangria.

“Lucky me to be the first to taste the sap of your fruit, your ripe nectar~!”

His thumbs glide over the soft casing and into the fold between your inner lips, unfurling them, your clit jutting out as the skin pulls taught. You suck in cool air as the nerves tingle against his warm breath. A second passes, and then three more and you’re almost tricked to relax when you feel a wet muscle press against the opening of your cunt. You shiver as he moans, the tight muscles tingle within you; your spine lifts into a delicate curve in response.

He wastes no time in making you writhe, lips encasing the displayed clit and sucking powerfully. You feel yourself drop into him, hands flying down to grab his hair, fingers burying themselves in his locks. There’s immense pleasure, instantly. Tiny shockwaves travel outwards from his mouth into your feet, and they curl in the straw, bending, snapping, folding them beneath your toes.

Soft whimpers escape, struggling to keep them contained as you bite down on your lip. No sooner than a minute must’ve passed for you to feel the heat building in your chest, the tips of your ears burning and your core clenching.

It feels as though a spring winds itself, tighter and tighter, your walls oscillate and spasm around nothing and his warm tongue laps at your slick and sucks at your clit. It draws alphabets and circles, spinning you into a dizzy haze and when he inserts the tip of one of his long, magical fingers, you lose it, snapping that cord within you.

The moan you’re holding back releases, freeing your soul as your eyes roll to see the stars in your mind, a bright light, la petite mort. Your body goes rigid and you can only see black, think of nothing but your own ecstasy as it rolls through your body, tremors in your skin.

The finger withdraws, the mouth gives a final suck, jolting you, and then a lick to lap up any remaining juices before the nymph-like man in front of you sits back onto his haunches. He leaves you trembling in your orgasm, analytical eyes absorbing the far away look on your face.

“And how did death feel~?” he asks, likening your orgasmic wave to an ascension to heaven. His voice returns to a playful tune, coaxing you back to earth.

“I’ve never known such pleasure,” you admit with tears in your eyes and longing in your voice. There’s a small bout of shame in your chest from greed at wanting another, from him.

“Now, you do, hmm,” he hums, trailing off into his signature beat as he stands and begins work on the straw.

You watch him from the ground, tugging up your undergarments with heavy limbs and smoothing your shift down. With three spins of the wheel, the handful of straw is transformed into a full bobbin of gold. The curve of his spine hunching over the machine ignites a curiosity in your mind. Who is he? What does he want? Why is he helping you? But the focus in his eyes, the cheery tune he hums and light tapping of his feet forbids you from asking him these questions.

He’s a savior of your life, there’s no need to know the reason.

The nymph works until two hours before dawn, at some point you drift off into a light, sex-induced slumber, but wake the moment he stands and stretches his popping spine. He gives you a final look, sucking on the finger that was in you, before skipping out the door, humming. It shuts with a click, the lock back in place. You are to live another day.

***

You hear a cock crow thrice before the door opens and the King stands, almost as broad as the frame. The gold in the room reflects in his amber eyes and in the glint of his adornments on his cloak and crown. You curtsy low until his voice booms.

“Arise, girl. You have kept your word and so I will keep mine, your father is free from his debt.” He rubs his chin, rings catching the rising sun as he muses out loud, “however, with a daughter like you, it’s a wonder there were dues to be paid.”

You curtsy again, saying your thanks, expecting to leave the castle and be back in your village by the following day, but King Ushijima has other plans. The sight of all the gold has swallowed his mind with greed, and the thought of being the richest King in the world is a goal that is so near, so attainable. He peers at your frame, slender from malnourishment, your simple garb, the way you instinctively shrink under the gaze of someone with so much of a higher rank than your own. It’s enticing.

He leads you to a third room in the granary, larger than all the others, the center of his stores. He sees the confusion and worry on your features, waving his hand around the room as he explains.

“Turn all this straw into gold by sunrise tomorrow and I shall take you as my wife.”

The glint in the Kings’ eyes is dangerous. He thinks that even though you are but a miller's daughter, low born, he will never find a richer wife. There’s no room for refusal as he turns to leave, ruby red cloak flurrying behind his tall frame and the door shuts for the third time that week.

You’re dazed, swaying uncontrollably as you fall to your knees, the stone floor bruising. The thought of becoming queen makes you giddy, nauseous, terrified. Although you’ve had help these last two evenings, what’s to say the stranger will appear again? And at what cost will it be? Tears prick your eyes, and you think of the last time you were happy; when you weren’t trapped in an exchange for your life.

The sky melts into orange, geranium, the sun falls below the skyline. Your heart follows, dropping to your stomach as it turns and you dry heave. The lock clicks, the door swings open, and that familiar, welcoming hum returns. The stranger practically hurtles into the granary, fingers like the crest of a wave as curls and swings from the ends of his arms.

“Innocent girl, why are you crying again~?” he sings, stooping low to cup your tear-stricken cheeks. His fingers are cold against flushed skin.

“I am to turn all this straw to gold by sunrise. He will make me queen if I succeed and if not, I cannot bear to consider the consequences!” you wail, peering into the quizzical vermillion eyes of the waif, nymph, or whomever this magical being is. His laughter echoes in the room, deafening your ears with it’s cadence.

“And what will you give me if I complete this task for you?” the question is not a surprise, but you have no answer, shaking your head as your lower lip pinches between your teeth in regret.

“There’s nothing left to give.”

The hands on your cheeks grip harder, fiercer, beneath your jaw to pull you up to standing.

“Nonsense, you are a virgin, are you not? Let me do this for you and in return, give me your maidenhood.”

His request is so shocking, so taboo, that it takes you several seconds to comprehend. Your mouth drops, heart hammering away at an unfamiliar beat in your ears. You tremble. There’s no way you can give him what is meant for your husband. He seems to register that thought as soon as it flies through your mind. His hair crackles like lightning, standing on end, his eyes are dark and stormy, and although he speaks with a song, his words are dangerous, dragging you beneath the waves.

“Surely, your virginity is not worth your life?”

With nothing to barter with but your body, you wonder if there is an alternative. Will the King realise you have been tainted if the marriage is consummated? You hope he does not. The stranger's tongue clicks, his hands fall from your face to leave the skin cold and you feel the desire for their return coursing through your veins.

“Time is wasting, Miller’s Daughter, do we have a deal?” his question flips over in your mind, your fingers wring together as you stare up at the looming figure. There’s impatience in his eyes.

“Yes.”

He claps his hands together gleefully, before interlacing them and stretching overhead. Tonight, he doesn’t collect preemptively, sitting down at the spinning wheel to begin. A hand full of straw is scooped up, the wheel spins thrice and the bobbin fills with glittering gold thread. It clatters to the floor as he begins on the next spool, his work methodical and timely. You watch him for a while, the way his heart shaped face is complacent, as though it was second nature to practise this magic. He hums that strange tune. His skin is milk under the pale glow of the moon, and suddenly, you’re thirsty.

Memories of the previous night play through your mind, clear as though a mirage. The way his eyes surveyed you over your mound, the obscene noises you made when his tongue dipped into your tight hole. It leaves you dizzy, breathless, and the enormous room is all of a sudden too small, too confined. You begin to pace. He never stops his humming. The sound bleeds into your pores, into your veins and pumps through you. It calls you to touch him. It’s wrong. You can’t. The night drags on and you don’t notice his song stops, or that he’s standing behind you.

His hands snake around your waist, pulling you back against his chest so that your head hits the firm muscle beneath his tunic. His nose finds refuge in your hair and with his inhale, your breathing stops.

“Mmm, you smell like fresh snow,” he mumbles into your skin, the meaning behind his words not lost on you: uncorrupted, untainted. It sends shivers down your spine and there’s a crackle in the air as every muscle in your body freezes.

His palms drift lower to rest on the meat of your thighs, digging to inch the fabric up slowly, methodically, until the hem is in his grasp and he pulls it over your head to leave you near-naked in the gold-filled room. Your bloomers are tied in a simple bow that loosens with a tug, the cotton dropping down your legs. You haven’t taken in oxygen yet, your lungs screaming at you to breathe, your knees trembling under his shadow. You gulp air hastily.

It is not that you do not want him, in fact, your body craves the very touch he bestows. You’re frightened, anxious at the implications of the act you’re about to perform. He spins you around, and you find those ruby eyes glinting down at you with ravishment, devouring the apex of your nipples in the full moonlight before tracing the length of your collarbones, the line of your neck and jaw, and feasting on your lips.

The way the lid of his eyes wilt, pupils widen, instinctively ushers you forward and into his waiting kiss. Your lips barely touch before his tongue darts out to swipe yours, tasting you impatiently. He’s waited far longer than he usually would to take what he wants, and he’s almost reached his limit. You’re pliable in his grip, body bending and arching with his palms, pressing your bosom flat to his chest. With rough fingers, he trails them up your spine, inciting a moan from your throat, filling the room with a richer sound than the clinking of golden yarn. He almost falls apart at your whimper when his teeth nip at your lips.

His hands advance up, scorching before touching the base of your skull, fingers wrapping around to grip the soft skin of your neck beneath your ears. His palms are so large, manipulating your body so that your jaw tilts up, away and you lean back onto his forearms. His lips slide from yours, trailing fervent kisses down the column of your throat. It’s all you can do to keep up with his strokes. Your lack of experience is evident when your hands dangle lifeless at your sides, almost touching the floor as he bends you backwards to lay down on the hard stone.

It’s sobering, clammy, welcome against your heated flesh. The stranger continues his descent. You feel gravel pressing into the blades of your shoulders, and you shift unpleasantly. All is forgotten when your right nipple, trembling and painfully erect, is captivated by a silky, moist touch. Your saviour suckles, bites, licks, and the static in your skin begins to crackle at his touch, threatening to spark. Luckily, there’s no more straw to ignite a fire. Your left breast is stimulated by massaging presses, five fingers gripping roughly, but not enough to bruise. No, there will be no trace of his defilement on you tonight, for now.

The other hand trails down between your legs, dipping experimentally into your slick folds, testing the waters. Your wetness had begun to grow when your imagination raged earlier, in truth, you don’t think it disappeared from the night before. You bite back a moan as a finger toys with your clit, the shivers current your spine in small convulsions. There’s a warning that you might come undone with just this, and he feels it too, the pulses of your walls contracting the muscles of your lower abdomen.

As though controlled by the impending orgasm, your body moves. Gripping his wild hair harshly, your jaw goes slack, eyes rolling to see nothing as the explosion rips through your body. He does not stop sucking at your nipple, flicking the bud harshly, a finger tracing lazy circles to your clit as you fall back into your body. His lips move to the side of your breast, planting increasingly desperate kisses into the plump flesh. Your grip does not loosen, it follows the winding of his head as it trails to overwhelm your collarbone, your throat with heavy licks.

You can feel a fresh burst of slick drip from your slit. He catches it knowingly and his face lifts from your skin to peer into your eyes. He brings his coated finger to your parted lips, pressing your nectar onto your tongue. It’s tart, musky, unlike anything you’ve tasted before. You swallow it down into your aching stomach, feeling the flames of your orgasm dwindle. You want more, and he sees it in the hungry way you suck. And oh! How he wishes it was his cock sheathed between your plump lips.

“Isn’t it splendid~?” he sings, pumping his finger in and out of your mouth, your tongue curling around to massage the individual knuckles automatically. There’s a heavy silence in the air, your breast is squeezed. You realise he’s waiting for you to answer, even with your mouth full.

“Yesh,” you fumble with the syllable, warmth spreading to your cheeks and he seems glad with the answer. Removing his finger for his palms to push up a knee, he leaves a gentle kiss on the bruise from your morning fall into despair.

You’re spread for him. He only then realises how clothed he is. He retracts his touch, tugging his tunic over his head to reveal smooth, unblemished skin that reflects the golden thread and garnet hair. He’s a stained glass window of colours, an inferno burning bright. It’s breathtaking. There’s a trail of red hair, enticing you to look lower, beckoning you to discover what is underneath. He doesn’t remove his breeches completely, choosing instead to loosen the leather lacing on the front, the fabric splaying open to unveil phallic gold. It makes you squeal, the implications of what is upcoming ramming into your chest, your body humming with ferocity. An eyebrow quirks up in response, along with a simpering chuckle.

“How amusing,” he quips, wrapping his large hands around an equally thick and long cock.

“Will it fit?” you can’t help but ask. Surely not. His laugh is raspy in response, erupting from deep within him rather than on the tip of his tongue like his usually lilting words.

“It will. Or I will make it.”

There’s something in his tone, in his ambitious stare, that sends your skin into overdrive, shivering and vibrating with anticipation. You’re openly waiting, nerves fissioning and calling out. He answers. Your mouth drops open, gasping in shock. It's so soft. And wet. The head of his cock slides up between your folds, tapping your sensitive bundle of nerves teasingly. He’s teasing you, making your hips shake and twitch. A hand comes to stabilize you, pinching the bone. Your eyes are wide, heartbeat in your ears and cunt and when you lock stares, time freezes as his hips move.

You’ve never seen a wider grin on someone’s face. It’s wild, face splitting, imitating your stretching slit as he slowly inches in. There’s a low whistle, a hum, turning into a chuckle as you feel a pressure unknown begin to build within. It’s choking, your throat swelling and with no inhibitions, you moan. Heaven above, hell below, all listens attentively as the desire to be sinfully fucked explodes in your womb. Your hands scramble to grip onto something, him, slinging them around his neck to pull him low. There’s a grunt, his breath tickling your ears, and a jerk of his hips as he sings,

“How needy, how desperate, How infinitely tight and perfect~”

It melts into your skin, the same rhythm as the hums you’ve grown accustomed to. The wind of his words fan flames, your eyes rolling back to escape the heat. But oh, how it’s inside you, boiling in your veins and you clutch on tighter as his hips rock into yours. Each pulse of your walls around his cock makes him vibrate, giddy as he pulls out an inch, only to sheathe himself in completely once more. He hears your whimpers against his neck, so soft, so delicate, not enough.

He sets into motion, plucking your limbs from around his neck, pinning them above your head as each snap of his hips jostles your being. Your simpering cries turn into moans and before you realise it, you’re screaming out for God and his Angels to witness the rapture happening within these stone walls. The man keeps a hand on your wrists to secure you, the other to your sensitive breasts, pinching and massaging as he grins salaciously.

Those fingers trail down the soft skin of your stomach, watching as it leaves indents against your skin before the flesh plumps back up. He raises goose-pimples, your shivering spine clenching your cunt tighter. Each thrust sends a ricochet through your body, bouncing it up before it falls back in rhythm. His blunt nails trace from bone to bone of your hips, lowering until it runs over the tuft of hair on your mound.

There’s enchantment in his eyes, reeling you in deeper, lulling you into a sense of security. A thumb finds your hooded nerves, grinding down until you see stars on the roof of the granary, past the glowing face of your savior. Has the ceiling fallen away? How magnificent. They reflect in your eyes, in the shine of drool on the corner of your lips, your tongue darting out to lick it up before you suck down.

“More.” The words are a caress to his ears, and the smile on his face splits wider until it swallows you whole. All you know is his touch.

He can feel you slipping beneath the waves, your silken walls oscillating around his girth. He leaves your wrists to grab your right thigh, lifting it so that it rests on his shoulder. With your hands now free, they fly out, pressing into the stone floor like trying to stay afloat as the swell of the ocean begins to ripple within you. It’s torrential, the rain within, and unlike before, when it was just his fingers, the dam explodes.

You feel perfect wrapped around him, dragging him down into the depth of the sea along with your desire. He doesn’t want it to end, no, he can’t let it end. He pistons his hips, the rhythm knocking the air from your lungs as he nears his release. The stars above give way to black, then white, and he sees it in your face as you reach a higher plane of existence, one he knows only he can provide. That fire returns, lighting up your insides, evaporating the spray of the ocean, making room for the foam of his seed to take place and fill you.

His hips slow, the fluids within you stirring around until you’re dizzy. Your thoughts can’t be strung together, mind blank. Satisfaction ripples in every corner of the room: carnal and raw. It can be tasted on the air, like the salt on your skin. He withdraws from your swollen walls, adamantly watching as the efforts of three days trickle out of you. His pounding, soaring heart drops as he thinks of the morning. He’s grown addicted to you, he realises. You’re his. This cunt should be no one else's, he’s ruined you for all men, he’s sure of it. It’s dangerous, this feeling in his chest, the plan hatching in his mind. You will not be able to forget him soon.

The rise and fall of your chest is soft, your body exhausted and blissful as you’re already in a post-orgasmic slumber. He traces your skin with open palms, seeing the way you react, even asleep, to his touch, committing your curves to memory. You’re angelic, surrounded by gold. His gold. He stands, limbs heavy, before snapping up to stare at your splayed out frame from above an upturned nose.

“I’ll see you soon, Queen,” he hums beneath his breath, waving his hands so that you’re dressed again, clean and tidy, prim and proper for the King to inspect the room within an hour. He skips out the door, the bounce in his step a little more pointed, sharper, and the lock clicks back in place.

***

You’re sour, like wine stored in the sun. Once married to the King, he promised you that you never had to work another day in your life, the gold spun from straw enough for twelve lifetimes over. And he was right. Your days are spent doing nothing. You have time to spare, and more often than not, you find your thoughts drifting to a red haired stranger, his face contorted in lust, desperate for the taste of your skin. It has been a year since your encounter with him.

It’s midnight, a waning half-moon. There’s no sleep. It has been avoiding you every night, so you lay awake next to your husband. The rise and fall of his deep breathing does little to lull you, and your body is charged with a sexual fire. You’re unsatisfied; richer than you could’ve ever dreamed, but unsatisfied.

Like many nights now, your fingers creep beneath the silk bed sheets to swirl at your ignored sex. A soft sigh kisses your lips as your nerves tense up at the touch. Before you can stop yourself, you hum a familiar tune that melts into your skin as you stroke to the rhythm. With your eyes closed, you picture that strange man that brought you to a place of such intense pleasure, something you had not felt since that night. The next morning when you woke, you had only the residue of what he left behind between your legs. That was the only proof that it was not a dream.

Like the swell of a wave, it begins to crest. You spread your ankles slightly wider, tapping the King’s legs delicately. He stirs but doesn’t wake. He never does. Your hums come out in ragged breaths as you imagine every thrust, every pinch against your body. And when his hands grip around your neck, you almost break against the shore of your orgasm. The familiar smell of forest wafts around you. Are you so starved that you can conjure up scents and touch?

Your eyes fly open, staring up at twinkling rubies above. A dark grin is spread onto a face you had not seen for a while. A cool hand is against your throat, floating up to palm your lips and halt a squeal that would’ve flown from between them in shock. He raises a finger to his lips in a signal to keep quiet, eyes darting to your husband face up next to you. He hums lowly before he whispers to you.

“What do we have here~?” his voice carries a jovial, teasing tune, releasing your face to peel back the edge of the sheets and reveal your naked form. You cover your breasts with one arm, the other snaking down to press flat against your quivering sex. Your orgasm had been so close before it was snatched away, the thoughts blazing through your mind nothing except immoral.

“Does the King not satisfy you, millers daughter?” he pokes at your thigh, hard fingers trailing up, leaving burning lines that sink into your pores greedily. You swallow down the rising heat in your body, the shame of being seen touching yourself.

“I am queen now,” the husk in your voice doesn’t go unnoticed by the strange man.

“Ah yes, but you are still your father’s daughter,” the pinch of your hip jolts your being, and you snap your legs shut, the bed bouncing slightly. King Ushijima grunts, rolling to face away from you and the intruder. You let out a shaky breath that you hadn’t realised you were holding.

“What are you doing here?” you ask the man, slowly sitting up right, shielding your lower body once more with the covers. His grin falters at your actions, feeling a tightening in his gut at how you hide what’s his. He swallows down his fury, standing upright. His form blocks out the little light trickling in from the moon outside the window.

“I had come to steal you away from the comfort of your new life,” his eyes flicker to the back of King Ushijima, his voice hushed and low, disdain dripping into his words, “it’s the only proper way to pay for my skills, afterall.”

You swallow down your nerves, feeling a pooling of heat between your legs at the thought of being carried far away, somewhere wild and unknown. It’s an escape you would not be against. Long fingers reach to caress your hair, picking up a strand to twirl it. He inspects the way you shiver under his touch, feeling pride at the reactions he can evoke from your body, but his eyes are hesitant. You may very well not want to leave behind all you have gained in the year.

“Please do.”

That same grin reappears on his lips, splitting his face wide open with giddy pleasure. Oh! How he was not expecting the night to unfurl like this at all. He can feel the desire roll off your skin in waves, and he drinks it in. He can’t give you what you crave so easily, he must play a game with you first.

“Oh ho ho, miller’s daughter, how desperate you are! I can taste it.” he sings, palms boxing either side of your thighs. The touch doesn’t dip the bed, as if he is made of air.

“I will give you three nights to find out my name, or I will leave you here with your eternal longing for more than what he can bequeath,” he propositions, the words dancing around you. How badly do you want to feel such pleasure again? You barely have to think.

“Three nights,” you agree.

With a squeal, he leaps away from your bed, skipping over to the door of the chambers. It’s a miracle the sleeping King besides you remains asleep. Or it’s magic. Head swinging around to looking at you with such intensity, you almost melt as he says one last thing.

“Don’t touch yourself until then.”

***

That night, you have no rest. All the names in the world run through your mind, but how are you to know which one is his? You spend the day compiling a long list, feigning it as names for a future child with the King. ‘You are getting old, I must have an heir within the year.’ It was a curt discussion, not one open for arguing. It is also why every night has been loveless tumbles, only leaving your core soaking with his seed, but nothing grew inside you.

The sun sets below the horizon, the moon rising and you sit next to a warm fire in your chambers. The King is passed out on the bed, fast asleep and unaware of your musings. You can feel how the slick inside you trickles out, unwanted but you resist the urge to wipe it away. It is your wifely duties, after all. Instead, you focus on calming your nerves, trying to untangle the knots in your belly before the strange man visits. He enters, skipping soundless as he hums under his breath.

“So, miller’s daughter, what is my name~?” he flops unceremoniously onto the floor next to you, head coming to rest on your lap. His lidded eyes stare up at you expectantly, a knowing smirk on his face at just how difficult of a challenge he has given you.

You begin to list the names compiled, with each name, he shakes his head, ‘that is not my name,’. As the night drags on, he tantalises you with what you so badly want. The laced hem of your night dress is hiked up around your knees, his unabashed fingers cloying with the soft skin of your thighs, inching closer to your dripping cunt.

“Abel, Balthazar, Oikawa, Hisoka,” you recite, each name getting huskier as he teases you. He barely touches you, instead feeling the remnants of the Kings spill, before pulling back and standing. The movement jostles you.

“The sun is rising, you have two more nights.”

His usual lilting tone is gone, voice hard. He wipes the semen on his finger against the black of your dress, leaving a patch of white, and strides out the door without looking back.

The next day, you send out messengers and knights to scour the town for new names, asking every servant in the castle for theirs. As evening creeps up and your nightly tossle with the King ends, you clean up all that is left over with a dampened washcloth. The stranger peers around the door, taking in the sleeping figure of the King before floating into the room. The static of his gaze as it rakes over your skin catches flame, and the fire beside you seems to dim against the red of his hair.

He leans over you, hands gripping the arms of the wooden chair as he asks you the question. You begin to list the stranger of the names you’ve heard, Martinko, Rumpelstiltskin, Melchior, but each time, he replies that it is not his name. His breath ghosts over your face as you speak, his eyes closing to listen to the whispered cadence of your voice. Instinctively, you widen your legs for his to slot between. He falls to his knees, cheek once more pressed against your thighs, lips mumbling quiet no’s into your hips. With a deep inhale, he smells that you are clean tonight, and it makes his heart soar. His fingers come back to stroke beneath your dress, a deep forest green. You don’t stop saying names.

“This task is impossible,” you whisper out of breath. He had two fingers up to his knuckle inside you, pumping lazily as you recite. Like many times throughout the night, he stops his movements at the brink of your collapse, pulling back to suck at your nectar. He licks his fingers off fluidly, trapping your gaze in a trance.

“You have one more night, or you remain unsatiated,” his grin splinters at your will, a groan tearing from your lips in the quiet room. The crackle of the fire had stopped hours ago. The King twists on the bed, mumbling under his breath at the noise.

“Hush, miller’s daughter, don’t be so desperate.” the man warns, standing and skipping over to the door, humming as he shuts it behind him.

On the third day, you ache for sexual release. The opulent castle walls seem too small for you, and so you wander around the forest just outside the walls. With the sun shining overhead as you stroll, it warms your skin to the degree of the never ending heat between your legs. The earth is soft, and with each step, you seem to fall in deeper to the ground, wanting it to swallow you until you’re no longer charged and lusting.

You are seconds away from turning back when you hear a familiar hum, except this time, there are words. You hide behind a tree, peering out at a small clearing in the woods. Red hair dances like the fire in front of him. The stranger moves around the fire in a trance, celebrating something unknown. You strain to listen in on the words he sings.

"Today I dance, tomorrow I sow, In the evening, I will steal her away from home. And oh! I am glad that she does not know, That the name I am is Satori Tendō!”

That night, you can barely contain your gaiety. You even enjoy the love-making your under enthusiastic partner pounds you with. You take in his heavy touches, the way it doesn’t bleed into your skin, but rolls off like oil with water. It’s your last night with him after all. He’s deep asleep, you had slipped something into the drink he has after the ritual.

You’re waiting for Tendō to enter the room, humming his tune under your breath as you pour wine into your chalice. The nightdress you’ve worn is a red, like the seed of a pomegranate or the sky when the sun sets, the colour of his hair. Sturdy arms wrap against your waist to pull you back against a muscled chest. He laughs into your ear, nipping at the sensitive skin.

“Tell me, Queen,” he spits the name out as though it was too bitter for his taste, “what is my name?”

Feigning ignorance, you list names for the final time. ‘Jack, John, Harry’, hands stroke up the back of your legs, dragging the linen up until your bare ass is on display and pressing against a growing bulge behind you.

“That is not my naaame~” he sings, kissing the side of your neck. Cupping your breast with one hand, the other snakes between your thighs to swirl around at the mess he coaxes from you. You can’t hold in the whimpers, tearing up at the touch given to you after almost a year of loveless sex.

He had introduced life beyond living in those three days, and it was so close now, you can feel it between your fingers. His name is on the tip of your tongue, but you bite it back. It’s not the right time. He folds you forward, your chest resting on the table top, your head turned to see your sleeping husband, so blissfully unaware of the presence in the room. Tendō pulls at the strings of his pants, letting the leather slip down his toned thighs, lining up the head of his cock with your pulsing core.

“Daichi, Bokuto, Ryunosuke,” you mumble out, shifting back against him to feel the silken hardness poke at your folds.

“No, that’s not my name, miller’s daughter,” and he presses in. With all the strength you can muster to not scream out, your knuckles grip the table's edge at feeling so stretched out.

“Oh, fuck,” you swear, the crude word not suitable to pass from a lady’s lips. It sparks a chuckle from the man thrusting into you. He inches in, knees going weak at feeling your walls wrap so deliciously around him once again.

“What’s my name?” he asks, the snap of his hips with each word. Your body jostles against the table top. You moan, clenching around his thick dick.

“Tendō.”

He freezes, twitches inside you, and you hold your breath in anticipation. A large hand wraps around your hair, pulling it up so that your back curves, tightening the space that clamps down on him between your legs.

“Who told you?” the question seeps into your skin, chilling your bones with their weight. He begins to pound into you again, pace picking up considerably to attempt to rouse your husband from his sleep. The sleeping aid you gave him is strong, but you still worry he would see you, not that it would matter after tonight.

“No one,” you moan, pushing up against the wooden table to try and lessen the tug on your scalp.

“Lies!” he roars, fury fueling his thrusts. Although he is getting what he ultimately wants, he has lost the game of cat and mouse. You have won. Oh, how his blood boils. A hand snakes around your throat, squeezing as he fucks into you with ferocity. You cry out, whimpering his name over and over again. Each time it leaves your lips, he feels his anger dim, and instead begins to revel in how the syllables tease his ears, echoing in the room.

“Who told you, whore?” he asks yet again, not expecting you to react to the rude name. It’s all it takes to fall off the cliff within you after three days of bringing you near the edge. Your skin is on fire, being called a ‘whore’ bristles your nerves, scratches you, and you need more, another orgasm, another death to ascend higher.

“No one, I swear,” you retaliate by bouncing back against each thrust with as much vigour as what he pours into you. “I saw you- uh, in the woods, singing.”

He slows, stills, and leans to kiss at the moist skin of your exposed shoulder. With a smile, he manages to twist you around, unsheathing for a second, only to reenter when you’re seated on the table. Legs spread around his waist, you cross your ankles behind his back to draw him closer.

“A promise is a promise, Tendō,” you whisper, arms locking around his neck to pull him close to your lips. “Take me away from here.”

You close your eyes in the kiss, tasting sweet molasses, smelling rain and dirt, and when you open them, you’re not in the castle anymore. Trees reach up past where you can see, multicoloured stars shine in the night sky. You laugh, the sound bubbling from your chest, and Tendō grins, dipping to litter kisses along your neck. His hips begin to move, your fingers curling into his hair as you moan louder than ever before.

You are free.

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

fuck, this is long. sorry! I hope you enjoyed it.

MASTERLIST HERE

[remmushound]

Beyond the bay chapter 8: Home not-quite home

Tags: @brightlotusmoon @scentedcandlecryptid @selfindulgenz @digitl-art-monstr @ilo-artistry

“You’re welcome in our home as long as you need.” 

The lair the Splintersons entered in many ways resembled the one they knew. It was big and open, and as clean as one could possibly hope a sewer to be. It wasn’t as cluttered as the lair Leo knew best, and there certainly seemed to be a lot more room and space to stretch out. Graffiti was plentiful, Michelangelo’s style just as abstract and bold as Mikey’s contributions were on the walls back home. Candles were lit on raised shelves to provide a pleasant scent of lavender and spring into the air. 

“It’s lovely.” Splinter beamed ear-to-ear as he reached out with his senses to take in everything the living space had to offer. “However did you get it so neat?”

“Donnie thinks it used to be an old survival bunker back before dad found it.” Raphael commented.

“Speaking of which, where is your father?” Splinter asked, “I haven’t seen him in ages and I should like to catch up.”

It was like the very air in the room dropped several degrees, all four Hamato’s stiffening. Raphael clenched his jaw and his fists, while Leonardo and Donatello bunched their shoulders in a similarly tense motion. Splinter frowned and looked to the youngest; Michelangelo’s head ducked so low that only his eyes were peeking over the edge of his plastron. 

“He uh…” Raphael started, then immediately stopped when no words that came to mind sounded right.

“He’s taking a nap.” Leonardo assisted, a hand going out to grip Raphael’s; Raphael returned the pressure as he let himself breathe. “He doesn’t like to be disturbed.”

“Of course.” Splinter nodded slowly, tail twitching a sign to his confused sons to not question the situation further. “Us old rats certainly need our rest.”

Splinter laughed. Encouraged by the rats happy noise, Michelangelo slowly peeked his head back out of his shell with a slight giggle and smile. No one seemed to know what to say. The box turtle brothers shouldered their way deeper into the lair to start exploration of the place that would shelter them. Mikey, with Klunk in one arm, went to pluck a lit candle off of a shelf to smell; a sharp rebuttal from Splinter’s tail was all it took to correct and remind him not to touch. He still wanted to stay there to admire the plumes of smoke, but his entourage of older brothers forced him to keep going; not one of them had any plans of leaving their brother to his own devices. Not when his right side was so tight he could hardly move it. That, plus this strange new environment, made the instinct to protect the smallest brother grew to new heights. Slowly, like a herd of lumbering cattle, they made their way deeper into the living room area. Raph couldn’t help but whistle at the sight of the beautiful decor, admiring the fancy couch and neat stitch-work on the hand-made cushions. Donnie was more enraptured by the projection screen than anything else, his eyes like specks of gold in the earth as he approached the machine with eager chirps, only to be met with the same painful reminder from Splinter to not touch.

Raph gave a snort and shook his head before turning his full attention back to his friends, shifting his toothpick to the opposite side of his mouth. Michelangelo remained focused on the small piece of wood, his eyes like pin pricks at the nasty habit. He had figured Raph would eventually grow out of it! Alas, it was not to be, and here Raph was, still chewing on that nasty stick of wood.

“You all really seemed to have eh… buffed up since last we met.” Raph commented, crossing his arms.

“And you got uglier, if that’s possible.” Leonardo snapped back, lips pulling into a devilish grin.

“Leo—” Raphael started to correct, but Raph only laughed a deep, belly laugh.

“You’re just as snappy as ever, I see.” Raph gave Leonardo a smack on the back, which sent the turtle stumbling. Raph winced at his mistake and drew slightly into himself. “Oof. Sorry!”

Leonardo caught himself and laughed it off. Leo shot a glare over to Raph, who only shrugged in a ‘what are you gonna do?’ motion. Leo decided it best not to cause unnecessary conflict, so he shook his head and tried to push the altercation to the back of his mind.

“Come here, little man!” Raph opened an arm and pulled Michelangelo closer, giving him a tight squeeze. He rubbed Michelangelo’s head with his knuckles, almost choking the younger boy as Michelangelo tried to pull himself free of the bicep’s tight grip. Once he had successfully freed himself, Raph crouched down to Michelangelo’s level. “Lemme see ya! You gotten big, kid!”

Michelangelo puffed out his chest and cheeks proudly, putting hands on his hips and glowing under the praise.

“Oh, so he gets to call you little man?” Raphael asked, his voice almost hurt.

“Don’t start a fight, Raphie!” Michelangelo huffed, pointing at Raphael.

“I certainly wouldn’t want to get in a scuff wit’ ya.” Raph commented, and Raphael seemed just as proud of the compliment as Michelangelo had been. “You're as big as my Don now!”

Donnie and Raphael fell back to back with each other, Leonardo and Michelangelo both jumping on the opportunity to judge the height differences. Michelangelo scrambled up Donnie like a jungle gym to get better leverage and a more level view.

“Actually, I think Raph is a little bigger.” Leonardo said, then gave a side glance to Mikey. “What says the jury?”

“I say that’s a very big boi.” Michelangelo nodded and stated matter-a-factly.

“Heh, how’s it feel to be the second tallest, Ding-Don?” Raph smirked, nudging Donnie with his elbow.

Donnie tensed at the elbow to his side, readjusted his glasses, and said, “I don’t know Raph; how’s it feel to be the third tallest?”

Raph blinked. “Shit.”

“Language!” Splinter corrected Raph with a whip of his tail.

“Gee, he really likes doing that.” Leonardo commented, leaning over to whisper to his counterpart.

“You have no idea.” Leo laughed breathlessly, shaking his head.

Michelangelo, meanwhile, had found a new favorite game; Donnie, resigned to being Michelangelo’s plaything, held out his arm so the younger box turtle could swing on it like it was a monkey bar. It didn't cost the tech genius anything more than time, and seeing the little box turtle so happy and laughing made his heart flood with just as much joy. He remembered when Mikey had been like that, so happy to hang on his brothers like they were the most fun game in the lair. Mikey still did it from time to time, but it was different coming from another young box turtle.

Michelangelo swung several more times before he launched himself off of Donnie’s arm, flying through the air and landing perfectly on Leo’s shoulders. Leo flinched at the sudden weight on his shoulders but, when he recognized Michelangelo, he gave a smile and left the turtle to his devices. From there, Michelangelo jumped to Raph, who had been expecting the change and caught the little turtle in one arm. Michelangelo started to climb over Raph like a spidermonkey, giggling the whole time, before he got to Raph’s shoulders and launched himself at Mikey.

Mikey’s immediate instinct was to reach out with his Right arm.

“Mikey, wait—“ Donnie tried to warn.

Mikey caught Michelangelo—and immediately cried out. His arm bulged, veins looking ready to burst at the strain. It took all the focus of his training to not drop Michelangelo outright, instead carefully lowering the younger turtle to the ground before falling against the wall clutching his arm. Klunk scrambled from Mikey’s grip, terrified of the sudden commotion.

“Nnngnnoo, Klunky…”

Donnie was with his brother in seconds, supporting Mikey’s weight while whispering low and urgent to the mutant. Before he realized his feet were moving, Leonardo was there too, helping to calm and stabilize Mikey as the box turtle writhed and cried. He immediately started to guide Mikey and Donnie toward the medbay, and the rest of the mutants followed like lost puppies. They stopped at the threshold of the sterile environment, staring helplessly inside as Leonardo and Donnie guided Mikey to a bed do he could rest.

“Something happened, didn't it?” Leonardo whispered to Donnie, hopefully low enough where Mikey couldn’t hear them.

Donnie gave a weak nod, keeping his voice just as low. “Partial seizure with overall shaking and hypertonic after-effects on his right side.”

“Does your family know?”

Donnie shook his head. “I haven’t told them yet. They know something happened, just not what.”

“Alright.” Leonardo nodded, “What triggered it?”

“I… I don’t know. We've been having a lot more bumps and falls lately. And there was this light…”

“Dudes.” Mikey said finally, his voice weak. “I’m fine. Seriously!”

Leonardo and Donnie exchanged unsure looks before Leonardo turned his attention back to the patient.

“I know you are.” Leonardo said with a bright smile, “But it might help the big softies back there if you let us give you a quick workup.”

Leonardo nodded to the crowd at the doorway, who were all finding their own space to peek in and watch with eyeridges creased in concern. Mikey leaned to get a better view of them, and then fell back into place.

“Okay.” Mikey relented. 

“That’s the spirit.” Leonardo nodded, and then stood up so he could better address his eldest brother. “Raph, maybe you should get everyone situated?”

Raphael took the hint with a gruff growl and started to usher everyone away from the doorway to leave the medics and their patient in peace. 

“Well eh…” It took Raphael a second to think of a new subject, “Sleeping arrangements! I was thinking your Raph and Mikey could take over my room, Leo and Donnie can share Donatello’s room, and you, sensei, can take Leonardo’s room.”

“Oh, we couldn’t!” Splinter tried to dismiss, “Just a couple blankets and pillows should suffice!”

“Nonsense!” Raphael bellowed, “It’s my house, and I’m gonna treat my guests however I want, and I want you all to be comfortable while you’re staying here! Besides, I can’t let an old man sleep on the floor! Leonardo’s bed’s the most comfortable for… your eh… for your back…”

Raphael trailed off, off-put by the sharp, dark eyes of Splinter. Raph and Leo both covered their mouths with a sharp intake of breath, eyes bulging as they quickly divulged away from Splinter.

“I’m not old.” Splinter said in a tone as if he was daring Raphael to contradict. “I’m fifty-seven. Fifty-seven is not old.”

Raphael’s head started to shrink into his shell and his lips pursed in a pouty face. “Am I in trouble…?”

With a kick of his foot, Splinter caught his sandal in a hand and held it out to Raphael with a knowing look. No more words had to be exchanged for the meaning to get across. Splinter replaced his sandal.

“Well… you should still take the bedrooms!” Michelangelo insisted, “That’a way me and my brothers can have a big ol’ sleepover in my room!”

The box turtle struck a happy pose, one leg in the air and his hands clasped together as he beamed. Splinter took one look at him and sighed; he couldn’t say no to that face.

“Thank you for your generosity.” Splinter gave a bow of his head to Raphael, “I promise you we will leave your home in as well of a shape as we found it.”

“Yeah, it’s no sweat.” Raphael said.

“I’ll have Shelldon sanitize and prepare the rooms.” Donatello declared as he typed a message onto his wristband.

“Who?” Raph asked.

As an answer, a force whizzed by his head, with a voice to match. “BOOYAKASHA!”

“What was that?!” Leo gawked, not sure whether or not it was appropriate to grab his swords.

“That was Shelldon.” Donatello said simply, reaching over to close Leo’s mouth for him.

Raph stared after the drone, shaking his head. “Don’s gonna have a geek-gasm…”

~~~

Donnie’s immediate reaction upon seeing the drone was to geek out, and to then try to contain the excitement when he remembered how easy it would be to harm the drone if he wasn’t careful. Instead of actually touching Shelldon, he found his hands hovering over the drone and his breath hard to catch.

“Say hi, Shelldon.” Donatello urged.

“Heyyy!” Shelldon’s voice carried a familiar, robotic tone that one would expect for artificial life, but it also held a sort of ‘surfer-bro’ charm to it. Donnie certainly melted over it.

“Heh. He’s kinda like your drone, but interactive.” Raph pointed out.

“Yeah…” Donnie breathed, and only once he was able to break from the paralyzed state of his body did he flip his goggles down over his eyes. “Hi… I’m Donnie. Oh gods you’re beautiful…”

“He enjoys scritches behind all nine of his ears, located here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, and here!” Donatello pointed out all of the audio sensors on Shelldon’s body.

“Ohhh…” Donnie finally brought his hands to two of the pointed-out hot spots, carefully massaging along the sensitive sensors. When Shelldon began to purr, Donnie automatically returned the noise. “This is the greatest day of my life…”

Raph crossed his arms. “Aaaaaaand he’s gone”

~~~

Everything was wrong. Everything was dark and wet and it was hard to breathe, the smallest drip quaking him to his core. All he could smell was putrid filth, and all he could see was black, and all he could hear was the water around him. He was up to his waist in water, thick with grime and waste, and the fumes wafted up to suffocate his nose. The air burned his lungs in the worst possible way, but he had to keep going. He had to find his troop and harvest the mutagen. He had to find his commander and he couldn’t stop until he had new orders to follow. For the republic!

[yikesharringrove]

Not sure if you’re still taking prompts but can you maybe write something about Billy and Steve and the 5 love languages please? Thank you!

1. Giving and Receiving Gifts

Steve just stared at the box.

He had found it in his mother’s closet, obviously placed in there by a maid.

His birthday was next week, and his parents were giving him a record player.

The same one they had given him last Christmas.

Steve figures his father’s assistant picked it out. He’s had four since Christmas.

He sighed at the box. Maybe he could sell the record player, maybe he could buy himself something with the money.

He knows he’ll end up giving it to Dustin, or maybe Will.

-

There was a carton of cigarettes on the kitchen table.

Unopened Marlboro reds. Next to a plate of pancakes. Susan’s yearly peace offering.

Billy slid into the table quietly.

“Thank you, Dad.”

Neil just hummed.

2. Physical Touch

Steve sighed as he sank into the crisp sheets.

His parents’ bed was huge, far larger than two people needed.

He had sprayed his mother’s perfume on one of the pillows, curled up in their silk sheets.

If he pretended hard enough, he could imagine being held.

Someone caring for him enough to touch him, run fingers through his hair, pet down his back.

He set up one of the down feather pillows behind him, felt like someone was there.

-

Billy spat into the sink.

His tooth had chipped, but hadn’t come out completely.

His lip was split and he could feel the bruises forming on his back.

He rinsed the blood out of his mouth, cataloging dark fingerprints on his wrist.

He should head to the quarry, be alone for a little bit.

He pushed out of the bathroom, nearly colliding into Max on his way to the door.

She reached for his wrist, the one already marked by another hand.

Billy dodged out of the way, kept going to his car.

3. Acts of Service

“Look, I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t an emergency-”

“Hey, don’t sweat it. You know I never mind driving him.”

Mrs. Henderson sighed in relief.

“Thank you, Sweetheart. You’re a life saver.”

It was true though, he really didn’t mind driving Dustin around. Gave him something to do. Helping felt good, made him forget about things for a little while.

-

He had only been in Max’s room once before.

It had been to yell at her about stealing his Walkman.

It hadn’t changed since then, still just as cluttered, still as California beachy as before.

He placed the skateboard on the unmade bed.

He noticed her wheels were getting torn up on the shitty roads, installed new ones for her.

It was as close to an apology as he could get.

4. Quality time

Steve’s house was empty.

And he hated it.

No matter how loud he turned on the television, no matter how much music he played, or how many lights he turned on, it was still an empty house, with no one but a sad lonely boy rattling away inside.

-

Billy doesn’t like sitting in silence.

He guesses Susan doesn’t either, as she shakily tries to fill the dinner table with a poor anecdote from her day.

Billy smiles where he should, and eats quickly, but not too wuickly, and compliments Susan’s cooking, and only leaves the table when his father dismisses him.

He retreats to his room, listening to music to drown out whatever game Neil’s watching in the next room.

5. Words of Affirmation

“You’re not stupid.”

Billy’s brows were furrowed.

“Yeah, I am. But it’s okay though I’m-”

“No, you’re not.” He said it with an air of finality. “Your mind just works different. But you’re really smart.” Steve smiled weakly. “I mean it. You’ve got this creative brain, always thinking outside the box. You have a knack for detail other people miss. You’re smart”

It was the first time anyone ever told him that.

Fitting, as he’d had a lot of firsts with Billy already.

-

“You’re not a monster.”

Steve’s voice had an air of authority. His eyes were wide.

“Steve, I, I hurt-I killed so many-”

“You weren’t you, though. You were, were possessed. You couldn’t have stood a chance against that thing.”

“I should’ve fought it sooner.”

“It took all your energy to fight it off. And you did, in the end. You saved us all. You’re not a monster. You’re a hero.” Billy’s nose twitched. “You’re selfless, and brave, and a fucking hero.”

4. Quality Time

Steve’s house wasn’t empty.

And he loved it.

Billy seemed to take up every room, fill the space with snide remarks about the decor in Steve’s house, or laugh loudly at family portraits.

He had put music on in the living room, and turned on lights as he looked through his house.

Steve felt warm, and for once, for fucking once, he didn’t feel lonely.

-

Billy likes the quarry, although he would never say that to another human being.

It’s quiet there, and if he closes his eyes, he can pretend the water lapping at the rocky shore is the ocean, that he never left California.

But then he looked to his left, and smiled at the sight.

Steve was always pretty, but something about moonlight made him ethereal.

He was quiet, looking out over the water.

Billy liked that Steve knows when to let the moment sit, when quiet is okay.

3. Acts of Service

“Noticed your breaks were starting to whine, so I changed your break pads. Ended up doing the oil and wiper fluid, too.”

Steve stared at the car.

“You didn’t have to do all that.”

“Good for pt.” Billy’s hands were working much better, he had more articulation these days.

And rebuilding things, fixing things, it made him feel better than any talk session ever had.

It was nice seeing Billy like this, a little closer to his new self.

It made Steve’s stomach flip over.

-

“I finished unpacking your stuff while you were out applying places. I don’t know how you like things organized, so you’ll probably want to redo it I just thought-” Steve was rambling away, all nervous.

“Thanks, Stevie. I appreciate it.” Steve’s face went red.

They had moved into a two-bedroom apartment in the shitty part of town. Billy’s window opened onto a dingy parking lot, while Steve’s showed the gas station below.

“I was just finished, thought I would move your along, too.”

He tamped down the way his gut rolled, the way his heart pounded against his ribs at Steve’s slight flush.

2. Physical Touch

“Do you, uh, do you think I could sleep in here?”

Steve felt like he was going to throw up his heart, hands still shaking from his nightmare.

“‘Course.” Billy’s voice was gruff in the darkness, but he held up the side of his blanket.

Steve slipped underneath it with him.

He was still breathing too fast, stiff as a board on Billy’s bed.

“It’s okay.” And then Billy’s arm was around him, and his back was against a warm, solid chest, and it was all too easy to melt into the touch, maybe let a few tears fall.

Billy was warm, and grounding.

And Steve felt a tiny bit better.

-

Billy tossed himself down onto the couch.

It was two small for how both of them sprawled across it at once, their bodies pressed together.

Steve wiggled his way out from under Billy, leaning against his side, legs tucked up under his hips.

“Long day?”

Billy never replied.

He turned his head to look at Steve, and he was so close, his breath fanning over Billy’s cheeks, dark eyes nearly going cross eyes as they dropped down to look at his lips.

His hair was soft as Billy sank a hand into it, guiding their kiss.

It was a long time coming, the soft brush of their lips.

Steve pressed his body closer to Billy, who let out a desperate whine.

Steve’s hands were soft and warm, one cupping his cheek, one gripping his wrist.

They took shaky breaths after parting, still close enough to feel the other’s breath, neither boy wanting to break their soft little bubble.

They kissed all night.

1. Giving and Receiving Gifts

“Happy birthday, you pain in my ass.”Steve laughed as he accepted the small box from Billy.

“You’re a terror.” He leaned forward to press a kiss to Billy’s cheek.

It was Steve’s first birthday since they moved to California.

He tore open the wrapping paper, tossing the lid of the box onto their bed.

He gasped.

“Bill, this is, thank you.”

It was Billy’s necklace. Steve didn’t even realize he wasn’t wearing it.

“Wanted you to have it. Since you’re my guy, and all that.” His smile was dazzling, lazy and warm.

Steve turned around, placed his palm over the pendant as Billy clasped it for him.

“I love you.” Billy pressed a kiss to the back of his neck, right over the clasp.

“Love you too, Pretty Boy.”

-

“Uh, here.”

Steve’s cheeks were flaming as he pushed the small box into Billy’s hands.

“Happy Birthday.”

Billy just smiled up at him, taking his time with the neat wrapping.

It was a ring, a simple gold band.

“You know, it’s been eight years since we got together. And I know we can’t get married, or whatever, but I thought, we could, we could have this.”

Billy was fucking speechless.

“Sorry, it’s dumb.” Steve reached for the ring, but Billy clutched it to his chest.

“Do you have one too?”

“Yeah. Matching set.”

“Go get it.” Steve looked nervous as he re-entered their living room with a matching gold band.

Billy took it from him. He took his left hand, slowly sliding the ring on his finger.

“With this ring, I thee wed.”

Steve barked a laugh, happy and bright. He slid Billy’s ring onto his finger in the same fashion.

“With this ring, I thee wed.” Billy’s smile was hurting his cheeks.

“Now with the power invested in me, by the great state of California, and the fact that no one can tell us fuck all, I pronounce us, husband and husband. Now gimme a fuckin’ kiss!”

They both laughed into the kiss, the sun setting outside their apartment, dousing the little makeshift wedding in gold.

[lonelydragonflower]

Confession (Risotto x Reader)

Warning: Fluff stuff

College AU

---

"C'mon, it'll be fun!" Trish whined as she kept nudging you. Sighing at your little sisters' antics, turning off the hot water that ran from the sink as you finish rinsing the dishes.

"I don't know, Trish. Don't you have a test to study for?" You smiled. Crossing her arms over her chest and replied, "already did." Dang.

"Okay. How about a proposal? You finish cleaning the house and feed Ilya. When you are done, I'll walk you to the party-"

"Frat party," she cut me off.

"yes, the frat party," I laughed a bit. "Deal?" Holding out my hand, Trish hesitantly took it. Shaking it.

Drying my wet hands, I then plopped myself onto the couch. Running my hands through my (H/L) pink hair. Trish and I shared out fathers hair, same color. Our mother had passed away some time ago, he only met us two weeks ago! Ilya jumped onto my stomach...it was just us; Ilya, Trish and I, living in this big and lonely house. Ilya purred and leaned into my touch. Scratching underneath his chin, 'what a cute kitty!' Giggling as I toyed with him. Some time had passed and Trish called him over. The Ragdoll Cat obeyed, happy to be feed, jumped off the couch and walked into the kitchen. Trish had finished.

Getting up, I got ready; putting on a hoodie, fixing my hair and getting my boots on. I waited for Trish by the door, since we both went to the same college - we always walked to campus together.

It was a ten-minute walk, each and every day. Trish came down and the two of us left. It was a nice stroll, a cool breeze blew across my face. Trish seemed so happy, that energy radiated from her. Once we got there, I bade her goodbye, watched her go into the fraternity house.

With that, I left. Walking back home, I stopped by a convenience store. Browsing the aisles, basket in hand, I brought several items including; some stir-fry meat, some bagged rice, bagged vegetables, cheese, and a pineapple. By now, it was very late. On the way home, you got various texts from Trish, most of them were photos of her and her friends, all which you had met before. A grin on your face, you were happy that she was having fun. Opening the door to your home, you were greeted by Ilya.

"Well, hello to you too." You laughed. Setting everything on the kitchen counter, you felt a presence in the dark. reaching into the inside of your left boot, pulling out a knife. hearing the footsteps get closer to the kitchen, you hid before swiping the knife toward the intruder.

"Is that how you greet your own father, (Y/N)?" A hard grip on the blade and a familiar voice. With a gasp, you pulled the knife away. the figure stepped out of the shadow and stood in front of you. Your father, Diavolo, and close behind him, Doppio, your uncle.

Slipping the blade back into your tall boot, you place some distance between your father and his underling. With a glare, "What do you want? How did you get in here?" You seethed.

"Can't I see my own daughters? Speaking of which, where is Trish?" Your father asked.

"Out." Your reply was flat and bland. You took a small glance at his face, he was irked by your remark. He huffed before making his way to your couch. Doppio looked at you then at Diavolo then back at you before you waved at him.

"Hey, Doppio." Said male waved back at you, "hey, (Y/N)." He just stood there before his brother called him over. "Dippio, may you bring me something to drink?" Said underling flinched and shuffled toward the kitchen. Stopping him before could go any further, "don't go in there." you stomped over to your pink-haired father, yanking him out of the couch and out your house. Signaling for Dippio to do the same, quickly marching to the fridge and taking out a juice box. From the kitchen to the living room to the front door.

"Here's your drink!" You spat, furiously throwing it at him. "Don't ever come to my house demanding anything! If you ever want to, learn how to be a father first!" Slamming the door shut and panting heavily, Ilya came out of hiding and rubbed himself against your legs.

"Sorry 'bout all that kitty." Picking up the Ragdoll cat and laying down on the piece of furniture, with Ilya on your stomach. It was late, once you had gotten comfortable, you realized that you had forgotten the food. Getting up to do so, when that was done, it was back to the couch with your feline friend. Instantly, you fell asleep alongside Ilya.

You woke up to the sound of a loud knock, a knock coming from the front door, Ilya still fast asleep. Looking at the clock on the wall; almost two in the morning. Moving the cat aside, you got up to open the door. Looking through the peephole, staring at a familiar face behind the door.

Upon opening the door, it was more than just a familiar face, it was familiar faces. One of them stumbled in, you caught them, their head resting on your chest.

"Hey (Y/N), I've missed these watermelons of yours." sending a glare, "I've missed you too, Formaggio. Now, hands off!" you pushed him off and onto the couch, welcoming the others in.

"Thank you for letting us in (Y/N). Also, sorry for bothering you at this hour." One spoke up; a deep, gruff voice made you blush.

"Its no worry or bother, Risotto. I'm happy to help my dear friends. Even if they show up drunk and grope me the second they walk in." you smiled. Everyone had settled in, some even retired for the evening including; Pecsi, Iluso, Gelato, and Sorbert.

--- "Let me guess, a frat party? Or a drink off?" You inquired. Risotto sighed, Formaggio answered, "a frat party, we saw your little sister. She's not as pretty as you thought."

That's when you decided to check your phone, having four text notifications from Trish and one from Bruno.

Trish❤️️: (Y/N), I'm stayin' @ Bruno's Trish❤️️: Everyone says Hi Trish❤️️: (Y/N) R U up? Trish❤️️: Bruno said to call him

Going to the conversation with Bruno, you opened it.

Bruno: (Y/N), call me

Huffing, you tapped the little phone icon and called said male. Addressing the others in the room, "there is a pineapple in the kitchen. Slice it up and eat it." Hearing the phone ring, Bruno quickly answered.

"(Y/N)?" his soft voice rang into your ear.

"Hey Bruno, thanks for having Trish for the evening." You chuckled, feeling someone's arms around your waist.

"It's no problem, I would let you talk to her but she's asleep. Want me to drop her off in the morning?" you let ou a small yelp when you were pulled back. Falling into Formaggio's lap. Bruno heard and asked if you were alright.

"Yeah, I'm fine. You can bring Trish by 8:00 tomorrow morning, sounds good?"

"It's perfect. It's late, I'll leave you, so you can rest. Goodnight, (Y/N)."

"Goodnight Bruno." You hung up and tried to squirm out of your friends hold.

"Forma! Let me go!" You whisper-shouted, you fell to the floor with him, he whined, "(N/N), cuddle with me. I love you. Please!" Nuzzling his face into your neck. The smell of alcohol and pineapple emitted from him. Suddenly, the two of you were pulled apart by none other than your crush, Risotto. He gave his friend a death glare before pushing him onto the couch and you into his arms.

"Risotto, give me my (N/N). I want her, I need her." Formaggio whined. Risotto helped the drunk male up off the ground. Setting the tipsy male on the couch, he took a hold of Ilya. The two of them had a love-hate relationship but as long as he wasn't all over you, you didn't care.

"Thanks Riso, I owe ya." You pipped. The moment got awkward; Risotto was still holding onto you and you, blushing...hard. Hearing snickering from the kitchen, directly from Ghiaccio and Melone, Prosciutto drunkingly scolded the two as they burst into laughter.

Pulling away from your crush, hiding sheepishly behind your (h/l) hair. Looking at the time, it was late 1:42. Late, dark and brightly lit by the inside light; that's how it was outside. Formaggio had fallen asleep hugging Ilya.

"It's very late. We all need to sleep. Prosciutto, can you guide these two to their rooms? You can take the west attic room. Riso, follow me, the room you used to sleep in is now Trishs'." Before leaving, Prosciutto hugged you, " I appreciate the hospitality, (Y/N). I'll help prepare breakfast in the morning." He gave you a kiss on the cheek, you returned it. The blonde helped the other two drunks to their rooms.

"C'mon now." You took Risotto's rough hands and led him upstairs. The blush on your face increased. Getting to the top of the stairs, he stopped you.

"(Y/N), we need to talk."

"About what?" Curiously asking the gray-hair man. Instead of answering, he pulled you into your bedroom. Closing the door and locking it.

"I know he was here..." his sentence trailed off. His words made a lump form in your throat. Trying to play dumb with him wouldn't work, it was Risotto after all. Staying silent; he was getting irked.

"Say somethi-" you cut him off.

"What do you want me to say? How much I despise him, how he thinks he can just waltz into my life after the death of my mother. No! Trish and I were and are fine without him! All I want-" you began to sob. Hiding your face behind the curtain of your hair. Concealing your teary face from your crush/best friend.

"If he wants to be apart of my life, I wish he was more understanding. I was fine living without him, without knowing he was my father but now, I wish it would all go away." Resting against his chest; you wanted him to hold you, which he did.

"I hate him but I want to love him, he's my dad." You finished, standing there in the arms of the one person you loved.

"That's what I loved about you, (Y/N). You are passionate about many things, your heart is made of gold." Looking up into his black scleras’ and red irises, you saw a strong emotion behind them, one you couldn't figure out. He picked you up, much like a princess, sitting down with you in his lap.

"Come what may, I'll always be here for you.: He cuddled you. Face in the crook of his neck, stay close to him. He kissed your temple, running his rough fingers through your hair. Eye lids getting heavy, you fell asleep in his arms.

"Sleep well, mi amore." The last thing I head before closing my eyes. The night soon became day. Stirring awake, opening your heavy eyes, cuddling into Risotto...wait...cuddling into Risotto?! You tried to pull away but a strong force wouldn't let you.

"Don't go. Let's stay like this for a while." The male below you grumbled. His silver locks conformed into a mop of cute bed-head. Groaning, "the other's they'll need medicine and care from their hangovers. Ris-" he cut you off, "No! Right now you are mine, you can help them later." Upon hearing "you are mine", your cheeks heated up. He realized and his face heated up, bright pink. Instead of saying something, he pulled you down for a sweet and hard kiss on the lips.

Pulling away, both of you florid faced, you spoke up. "What is all of this?"

With a smile, he answered, "think of it as a confession." Resting together, nice and quiet until.

"(Y/N)!? Where the hell are you? Why is there a half naked man in your house!?" A loud voice broke the moment between you and Risotto. Loud thumping noises could be heard, getting closer and closer and closer until...BAM!

The door was knocked down, entering a troubled Formaggio and an angry father named Diavolo. Your best friend, in his boxers, hid under the covers with you and Risotto. Letting out a shriek, you clung to your boyfriend. He held you tightly and close. That's when your father noticed.

"Since when is her your boyfriend? Get away from my daughter!" Diavolo screamed as Doppio fawned over the two of you; congratulating the both of you.

"Yeah (N/N)! Since when are you Risotto's girl?" Picking you up, Risotto left with you in his arms. Ignoring your father and Formaggio's questions, kissing you hard in front of your father and your best friend, "since now, deal with it." Leaving the two dumbfounded and completely shocked, while Doppio cheered.

--- Word Count: 2193

[anika-ann]

Heart Too Cold, but Friends of Gold - Pt.5

A Long Way (from Where We Began)

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader     Word count: 3810

Summary: Avenger!reader AU. Part 2 of Melting Hearts series. Part 1 HERE.

Choices are often hard; being an Avengers just pushes it to a whole different level. Luckily for you, Steve and your friends come with those difficulties as a package deal.

Warnings: swearing, mentions of violence, angst, fluff

Story Masterlist

────── ·❆· ──────

“Steve?” your mother addressed him gently when she noticed his absent gaze.

She was good. You knew that – she was amazing at reading micro-expressions, even with people she didn’t know well. It came with her job, being sensitive to other people’s emotions, to even make sense of kids’ complicated world, but damn. With Steve, you should have noticed that before she did. And you probably would, but you were a bit… preoccupied.

Your parents meeting your whole team and the talk about everything that had happened since they learned you had died (…not) in the lab incident… it was too much to process even for you; just saying it out loud, admitting what you had done, what kind of a person you had become, it took its toll on you.

Of course, you had told them the good and great things too – about Tony and Bruce figuring out a way to end the escalated side effect on your body caused by the treatment. About Clint, Natasha and mainly Steve being there for you. Steve as a very close friend, which you hadn’t failed to specify, explaining that the different kind of relationship had come later.

And Steve had been there by your side during you narration as a moral support – he had offered to leave you and your parents some privacy (or at least as much as it was possible on the jet), but you had gripped his hand so tight that even the supersoldier had winced. He had stayed then, being your voice when the lump in your throat had grown too big or when you had got overwhelmed by your emotions.

Long story short: it had been a sobfest, but your parents had taken the news surprisingly well, considering. It had earned you a lot more hugs actually.

When you had moved to rather lighter topics – since your parents weren’t exactly talkative about their own life after you – Tony had approached you and stole your dad for a bit, because of course he had noticed the painfully obvious crush you farther had on him. You were glad there was at least something good coming out of this mess.

Anyway, all of that had had you distracted and you hadn’t noticed Steve’s mental absence.

“Yes, ma’am?” he replied immediately, his eyes focusing on her properly. Then he shifted in his position inconspicuously, realizing his mistake. You could tell he was calling himself an idiot in his head, even when it was nothing serious. “I mean… yes, Danielle?”

Your mother smiled mildly. “I understand it can take a while to get used to.”

“That’s no excuse.”

You rolled your eyes, squeezing his hand. It wasn’t as if he just disobeyed a direct order from Fury or something. Which you knew as well as he did that it was something he wasn’t opposed to.

“It is. But to what I wanted to say, Steve… he likes you, you know. Lucas.” Both yours and Steve’s eyes flickered to your father who was still talking to Tony – well, more like listening to him talk and hanging on his lips eagerly. “Just because he’s with Mr. Stark… it doesn’t mean he likes him better.”

Steve’s cheeks went a bit pink and you were punched by a fist of shame to your gut. How had you not noticed that? That Steve was bothered by it? That he was self-conscious? Did he think he could not compare to Tony, at least not when it came to your father’s sympathies?

You fought the urge to just cuddle the poor captain and slap yourself for your ignorance later.

Your mother looked at you pointedly. ‘Explain,’ she asked you wordlessly. You cleared your throat.

“Yeah. There’s no denying that dad has a crush of the size of the Avengers Tower on Tony, okay? He admires him greatly. But… you have so many traits he admires and appreciates, even when barely knowing you. And…” You made a pause, staring into Steve’s eyes intently, making sure he understood. “And he can see easily that I love you. That you make me happy, that you care for me, that you’re keeping me safe… and you would take stupid risks to keep it that way. If this was a contest for guys and I was the prize – you would totally be winning it.”

His lips twitched at the last note, but he made a disapproving face. “You’re not some kind of a prize.”

You smiled at him brightly. “Course not. But that’s not the point, Steve.”

He lowered his gaze, seemingly ashamed.

“I wasn’t… I didn’t mean to-“

You silenced him by a soft peck on his lips and he rested his forehead against yours with a sigh. You were a bit surprised by the affection he was showing in front of your parents – perhaps he sensed how much you needed him close and that was his priority.

“I’m sorry.”

You kissed him again, this time a little longer. “No harm done. I love you. So my family loves you.”

Your words were only confirmed when you retrieved and Steve reluctantly looked at your mom, probably a bit bashful about the ‘PDA’ after all. It was a baseless worry; your mother was watching you with her eyes full of delighted sparks, seemingly more than content by your interactions. It wasn’t too hard to figure out why – you hadn’t been exactly lucky during the years, let alone lucky when it came to love.

And now… Steve. Steve had happened and it was everything. You were so happy with him it was sometimes too hard to believe it was the truth. So naturally, your mom adored him.

“Uhm… sorry to interrupt, I just… I thought you might like to know that we’re going to have a visit at the Tower,” Tony announced as he walked to your little group side by side with your father.

You narrowed your eyes at him and so Steve. Your mum just looked at him with a curious smile.

“What kind of a visit exactly?” you asked suspiciously, already guessing the answer.

He wouldn’t say, but the grimace he made told you enough. It was a mixture of annoyance and respect. There weren’t many people Tony would show respect, at least a little.

The big guy was coming.

Fury.

────── ·❆· ──────  

It certainly wasn’t the first time you met Fury – he had been spending rather impressive amount of time visiting you when you had first come to the training centre, before Steve as your supervisor had decided you had been a very low-level threat and you should be moved to the Tower – but his figure got no less intimidating since then.

You knew the man was on the side of the angels, but you were also well-aware he was not one of them. And this was the first time you were about to face him alone.

Steve left the conference room with his jaw clenched so tight you thought his muscles might actually tear, but you nodded at him reassuringly, even when you were totally freaking out on the inside.

“So. How you’re holding up?” the familiar gruff voice asked and you spun to him, surprised. You blinked, processing what he had just said. Did he…?

“Uhm.” You totally didn’t see that coming. You had no answer. “Good. I mean… we are all alive.”

Fury looked out of the window, his hands connected behind his back. He seemed very captured by the view of midday Manhattan, but you knew better than that. He nodded.

“That’s understandable.”

You shrugged, instinctively curling your arms around your torso. Now you got past the polite question you hadn’t expected and the true reason of his visit would come. You might as well get on with it.

“Why did you want to see me, sir?” you whispered and his serious gaze immediately met yours.

Your heart stopped. You were never getting over the fact he only had one functioning eye – on anyone else, the tape would look ridiculous, but at him… it was just intimidating.

He eased the grip behind his back. “Straight to business. Good.”

You gulped. Maybe you could go back to the polite small talk?

“In fact, I was expecting you to reach out, so I did it before you.”

Your lips parted. What? Why would… why would you reach out to-

“About your parents, Agent Anderson. The fact someone had figured out your identity… I was expecting you to ask S.H.I.E.L.D. to keep them safe,” he explained simply and your chest felt suddenly too tight, your ribcage too small for your lungs and heart to fit in.

You had definitely not been thinking that much ahead. You had been just glad you managed to save your parents and capture Michaels and his goons. You weren’t thinking about the next steps, too caught up in the past.

“I’ll make it easy. There are only two options. Either they go underground alone, or you are allowed to come with them.”

Something stung in your eyes without warning at that kind of talk. You had heard it before – but not directed to you, always to the people you saved. Sure, there was a certain level of secrecy around your own persona and the rest of the world, but this… this was something completely different.

“You mean— you mean witness protection, right?” you choked out when you realized you were quiet for too long. “Not a safe-house with zero contact with the rest of the world? Because they can’t-“

“We can arrange both. I understand you don’t want to cut them or yourself from the world completely. But given the leak we’re investigating, there wouldn’t be a single record of where you or they would go.”

You stared at him, millions of thoughts running through your head, all the pros and cons. How fast did you have to decide? Today was just so long and you were too fucking tired for this.

All the buzz in your head curled around one simple thought though – around one terrifying idea. Then came the rest, which was scaring you only a little less.

“When you say underground, no record… you mean zero contact with the team,” you breathed out with difficulty as if something was suffocating you. And it was. The horrible idea of—of- “If I come with them, it’s not just about retirement. I would be cutting off myself of from the team personally.”

From the Avengers.

From Steve.

If you were coming with your parents, it meant losing all of the amazing people you had grown so fond of in the past months with the prospect of never seeing them again – or hearing or anything. Cutting all the ties.

It made you want to throw up.

Fury didn’t even nod this time and you knew it was painfully clear that your picture of the future was very precise. The other option you had, that you hated as much as the first one and it was just as clear.

Yet, he spelled it out for you and you wanted all but to hear the words.

“If you choose not to come with them… you’ll never make contact with them either. You won’t even know where they would go to make sure of it.”

────── ·❆· ──────  

You were never more grateful for Tony’s desire to show off his baby – the Tower. He had taken your parents for a stroll and showed them their room, promising you would talk to them later.

Which allowed you to basically storm off the conference room right into Steve’s arms. He wrapped them around you automatically, yet gently as ever.

Before you knew it, he lifted you from the ground and carried you bridal style to your room. You didn’t even know when the words started spilling from your mouth, as painful as unstoppable. You told him everything and in such speed that had you had the capacity for it, you’d admired him for catching it all.

Now you were sitting on the couch glued to each other’s side, your knees bended over his lap, his hand caressing your knee and shin.

“I’m sorry. This… this isn’t fair to you,” he whispered, his hand squeezing your knee comfortingly. His eyes were watching you with honest grief and you couldn’t bear it. With a heavy feeling in your stomach, you looked away.

“It’s not, but he’s right. There’s no other option. Either way, they need to lay low. The only question is whether I’ll be with them, quitting this, cutting all the ties with the team and hope for the best, or cutting ties with them, keeping them safe that way. It’s… I have to choose one of those.”

“It’s not a choice you should ever be forced to make.”

You chuckled humourlessly, covering his hand with yours. He immediately turned it palm up so he could hide yours; it always brought a smile on your face, the contrast. You were no elf, but your hand looked tiny in his anyway.

“You should have never be forced to make a choice of crushing into the icy ocean or not. But you were and now I am. It’s… I’ve already decided, it’s just… it hurts.”

It was the truth. The choice was obvious, in a way. But it didn’t mean you liked it. More like the opposite.

Steve tilted his head, his gaze roaming your face. You could see the hint of fear and anxiety in his features – he didn’t want to let you go. He was afraid you’d leave him. Yet… he was being strong for you. It made your heart ache even more.

“You know no one will judge you if you choose to come with them. I wouldn’t. I lost my parents and there was no stopping it. But you can be with yours if you want to and there is no shame in wanting that. You don’t owe anything anyone here. Not to Fury, not to the team, not… not to me.”

You huffed, turning your gaze to the ceiling. Sometimes you wished you could see the world as clearly as Steve did. The right, the wrong. More than that though, you might wish for him to be angry with you, not to be so kind all the time. To tell you what you were supposed to do instead.

Because choosing was hard. When you didn’t have the control of things, it was difficult and cruel, but you had to deal with it. Choosing and hoping the path you walked was right… that felt worse.

“Of course I do, Steve. And so I do to my parents, but this is not about owing, it’s about doing the right thing and about what’s best for them. I… Steve, I shouldn’t be here.” The fear became more distinctive for a fraction of second before Steve regained his composure and returned to the understanding boyfriend mode. You felt the need to explain. “I don’t mean… not in the Tower, I mean here in general. The kidnapping, it never would have happened if I died as I was supposed to-“

His face hardened, his glare piercing your eyes with deadly seriousness.

“Don’t say a thing like that. Ever. Jesus, Snowflake…”

“I’m not saying I’m not happy I’m alive, Steve. But those are the facts – I should have died. Instead, I killed three people in a split second with my uncontrollable powers and caused my parents a trauma. They are better off without me. All of you are way more equipped to deal with my shit. And I need to do is something for this fucked up world,” you stated the obvious and took a deep breath to slow down.

The levee broke and the words were flooding out without your control once more. You needed to calm down a little dammit.

“You, Steve, you and this team gave me life when I wished I rather died. I owe you everything. I got a chance to do something good and I’m not going to waste it, not for my childish want to be with people I’ll only end up poisoning. All the people should keep their distance from me, you should probably too, but I guess that’s your choice. I’m staying here if you guys will have me.”

It hurt to tell him he should stay away and you didn’t want to do it. But seeing your parents hurt because of you… you hated the idea of you being a reason for Steve getting hurt too. The only difference was that Steve was in danger 24/7 so to speak and he could take care of himself pretty well; unlike with your parents, you could afford to leave the choice of spending or not spending his time with you to him.  

Steve pressed his lips together, the corners of his mouth turning down. His eyes softened and still locked with yours, he brought his hands up to cup your face tenderly.

“It was not your fault the scientists died.”

Of all things he could have said, he chose this. It only made the lump in your throat grow when he didn’t comment on you staying here rather than coming with your parents. You blinked away the tears that gathered in your eyes for the millionth time in past 24 hours.

“It was. And even without that being my intention – they are still dead. Three people died to make me this and people I care about got hurt, including you. I… I need to let my parents go.”

Your face still in his palms, still staring at the bottom of your soul, his irises glowed with compassion and a new emotion you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

“I love you,” he spoke softly, his voice thick with the very same emotion you couldn’t decode. You covered you mouth to muffle the embarrassingly loud sob that somehow escaped your lips.

Steve sighed, not annoyed, and with mumbled ‘oh Snowflake’ brought your face to his to drop a lingering kiss on your forehead.

“I love you,” he repeated, whispering. “No matter what.”

────── ·❆· ──────  

The goodbye that had come too soon – only a day later – took a number on you. You were exhausted, emotionally drained and a barely walking mess of an insomniac. You had been grateful to Fury who had taken off about an hour ago together with your sobbing parents (who had not forgot to emphasize to Steve to take care of you at least three times) for the super-secret hideout, but… even though the situation was pretty much the same as before, with you having a zero contact with them… doing it over again broke your heart.

And since you weren’t getting any sleep, you headed downstairs, where the rest of the team had been trying to squeeze information out of Michaels.

Key word: trying.

He had been refusing to give anything to anyone – not even to Natasha and she knew her way around.

You ignored Steve’s disapproving gaze as you joined his side; him, Tony and Clint were watching Natasha and Michaels in the interrogation room from behind a one-way mirror. Needless to say, it was a sad picture.

“He’s not giving you anything,” you stated and Steve sighed, giving Tony a knowing look. You didn’t understand what it meant. "What?”

“He insists on talking to you – you and you only,” Clint explained and Steve shot him a murderous glare. You raised your eyebrows.

Well. You weren’t exactly thrilled about the prospect of interacting with the scumbag again, but you sure had enough rage in you to keep your eyes open and your ears pricked to his bullshit. Now this was Steve being overprotective, for which you loved him endlessly; but it didn’t change the facts.

“Okay. I’ll do-“

“Ehh- “ “Absolutely not-” “Not sure that’s a good idea-“

“Hey! I can interrogate a person!” you objected to their protests, a bit wounded. You could!

Steve smiled at you gently, trying to keep the concern out of your sight – ha, in his dreams. “No one doubts your capabilities, Snowflake.“

“But the old man doesn’t think we should give this nutjob what he wants, so…”

You threw your hands in the air, already feeling the determination flooding your veins with adrenalin. Oh, you could squeeze him and he would be very sorry for requesting your presence.

You sprang in the direction of the door, hitting the buzzer.

“Hey!” “I really don’t think that’s a good idea-“

You entered the interrogation room, Michaels’ eyes immediately snapping your direction. He smiled widely.

“Hello, my sweetest Ice Queen. What took you so long?”

“None of your business. I’m here now. Talk,” you growled and that cocky bastard just raised his eyebrows in challenge.

“What I’m about to tell you is not for the little lady spy’s ears over here,” he exclaimed confidently.

Natasha’s hand slammed the table right in front on him. That fucker didn’t even flinch, only eyed her, apparently annoyed.

“You’re gonna talk. Right. Now,” the Russian announced, earning a head tilt from him.

You studied him for a second. He was obviously trying to push all of your buttons for fun and he seemed pretty dedicated to his thing. The others had been interrogating him for fucking hours with no result. There really was no choice to make.

“Nat, leave us alone.”

Natasha turned to you with an incredulous look. You could tell she was only acting though. A little act for him to believe he was gaining the upper hand. Damn, she was so sneaky.

“Yeah, Nat, leave us alone. Also, turn off the mikes, would you? I don’t share secrets easily, I have trust iss-“

His speech was cut off by Natasha’s fist. You would never admit it, but it kinda made you jump. Sneaky and scary as hell.

“I’m leaving, but the mikes stay on.”

You shook your head at her, adjusting to her play. Be submissive.

“No. Do as he says.” I’ll tell you later, you added wordlessly as she met your gaze. She nodded with pretended reluctance.

“People behind the glass won’t be too happy about that,” she warned you silently as she passed you.

You gulped. When she said ‘people’, you knew she meant one man in particular. But how you loved her for complying with your wish and the acting, for knowing as well as you did that this was the easiest way.

“Well-aware,” you mumbled and she knocked on the door, exiting the room when it opened. You thought you heard Steve’s protests, but they fell silent as the door clicked shut.

“You’re quite a sight to my sore eyes.”

“Cut the shit, Michaels. Start talking.”

One corner of his lips rose higher. “You might not like what you’ll hear.”

You leaned onto the table with your palms, showing him you were comfortable enough and that you had time. “I’ll take the risk. Let’s start.”

────── ·❆· ──────  

Part 6

────── ·❆· ──────  

So yeah, this is me avoiding not one but two emotionally heavy talks with the parents. It just wasn’t working out the way I wanted it to. I hope it worked for you ;) 

Thank you for reading! 

Taglist is open, so if you want in or out, send a message or an ask :))

Tags: @mermaidxatxheart​, @murdermornings​, @elisaa-shelby​ @ask-hellbent-tweek @cxptain, @kallafrench​, @smilexcaptainx @scentedsongrebel, @orions-nebula​

[babygirlofwakanda]

Season’s Greeting

CHARACTERS — Giselle X Chris Hemsworth

CONTENT — Christmas Shenanigans and Surpises!

PLOT — A little somethin’ surrounding Christmas.

NARRATIVE — Christmas has always been an event for Giselle. Dating back to her excitement and starry eyed gaze at the string lights as a child in Texas, the brown beauty’s unconditional love for the holiday hasn’t strayed throughout the decades.

Sharing her passion with her husband, Chris quickly understood the importance to Giselle and has since aided in making this time of year special for her and now for their children.

A long way from the modern style home he once knew, the six-foot four man stood in between the living room and kitchen with his hands on his hips and admired the festive changes. With an array of red, white and gold accented decor spread through the house Chris took everything in. Starting from the train track underneath the eight-foot tree, red throw pillows and holiday figurines on the tables to the mistletoe he stashed above the doorways.

Stifling out a laugh at his wife’s attention to detail the Aussie shuffled over to the mirror in the hallway and flattened his palm over his black long-sleeve shirt before sighing while looking at his TAG Heuer.

“Giselle— sweetheart! The reservation is for eight and its almost six forty-five, we gotta hit the road!”

“—I know Chris, I’m coming! Uh, just gimme like five more minutes.” He heard her promise, making Chris exhale only for him to inhale the scented pine cones dipped in various oils scattered around his house.

Whispering, “What the hell is she doing up there..” under his breath, Chris waltzed into the kitchen.

Reaching down the actor stole a couple of gumdrop from his children’s gingerbread houses, propped up against the countertop before popping a few into his mouth. Grabbing another gumdrop from the rooftop of the gingerbread house, Chris allowed the smooth harmonies of The Temptations Silent Night playing from the speakers to distract him from the time.

Alone in the kitchen with a mouth full of candy Chris tried to hold the classic ‘silent night’ note only for his gruff voice to come out in the wrong pitch. “—damn babe!” He heard Giselle’s squeak out from behind.

Turning around as Giselle’s infectious laugh echoed through the kitchen, the Aussie strolled closer and continued his singing; keeping a smile on her face.

Inching his face closer towards Giselle, he cradled her face and started to lower his face only to pause mid-motion as he admired her undeniable beauty.

Meeting him halfway Giselle lifted her face to kiss him; immediately muffling his singing. Pulling back from the tender kiss Giselle felt Chris nudge his nose against hers in a way to subliminally ask for another kiss before she placed a hand against his black silk shirt and whispered, “Let’s go.” against his lips.

“Uh, okay,” Chris groaned, as he stood straight with a pout, “—but not before you spin around for me!” He hyped, quickly replacing his frown with a sly grin.

Sliding his palm into hers, Chris lifted their hands up and motioned for her to twirl around. Gluing his eyes to her body as Giselle pivoted in a circle, he watched the silk and denim pairing clutch onto every slope of her body. Leaving Chris blinking away the lust from his orbs before she turned to him; exhaling Chris licked over his lips before he ushered them out.

Oh, how date night was Chris’s fucking favorite night. With the children out with their grandparents; Alex and Janice who arrived last night, they were out doing some last minute shopping before taking the kids to see Frozen 2 for the umpteenth time.

The clinging of silverware, small chatter and the sizzling of the food carried on the trays of passing waiters filled Giselle’s ear. Glancing around the deck Giselle admired the string lights wrapped around the balcony and beams while the dark purple hue above painted the sky as the sunsetted above the ocean.

Enthralled in the scene, Giselle felt the wind softly blow through her hair while she breathed in the salty air before shifting around. Taking ahold of her straw, she stirred the strawberry lemonade conation and gripped the glass before bringing it to her lips.

Gulping down her drink in one take she heard her husband clear his throat before his voice followed, “Uh, is everything alright?” He questioned, making Giselle slowly sink in her chair. Did he figure her out?

“No, um— I’m fine. Why, wassup?” She rebutted.

“It’s just that um— everytime we come here you order the wine,” The Australian stuttered out, before he went to nervously rub the back of his neck.

“—and as of late, you’ve been chugging down the lemonade— but it’s not just that; it’s everything.”

“Like how lately you practically start gagging on queue whenever seafood is present— which may I remind you has been your favorite food since we’ve met. Or the constant running off the bathroom and now the lemonade! Baby, you only do that when,”

“—I have your basket of garlic bread right here, your food should be out shortly.” The waiter interrupted.

Directing her gaze from Chris’s anxious face to the smiling waiter, Giselle returned his grin while silently thanking the high heavens for stopping her husband from talking his way into ruining her surprise present.

The rest of the dinner flowed nicely. After forgetting the suggestive topic he was going to discuss, Chris and Giselle ate and giggled as they thought about how their family was going to react to their gifts.

Hitting a quiet mark as her husband sipped on his tequila, Giselle knew this was her opportunity to talk to Chris. Clearing her throat, “Now, I know that we’ve agreed that we weren’t gonna spoil eachother before Christmas but I got somethin’ for you honeybun.”

Reaching into her purse Giselle slipped out a brown flat, but wide box tied with a glittery red bow before she placed it on the table and slid it towards Chris.

With her acrylics still on the box, Giselle watched Chris’s thick digits touch the other end before she flicked her orbs up to look into his. “I couldn’t wait babe, I needed to have this moment with you and only you.” She detailed, before releasing the box.

In the box contained three positive pregnancy tests and underneath was a photoset of their unborn child.

With days of denying the possibility after her sick episode in Texas, Giselle couldn’t shake the feeling but once the symptoms started to slowly arise she abruptly sent her assistant to the store. Making out the two lines with ease Giselle kept her little secret and found out she was coming along nine weeks pregnant until this very moment; this second.

Instantly feeling a wave of vulnerability travel down her spine Giselle also felt the urge of premature tears threatening to unleash as one slipped from her eye while she watched her husband’s instant reaction.

Staring at her husband Giselle saw the corners of Chris’s mouth quickly lift as he picked up one of the tests and widened his smile over the digital two lines before he put it down and caressed his thumb over the developing baby in the ultrasound pictures.

Watching the moment Chris finally looked up, the brown beauty caught the extra gloss over his eyes before he blinked and allowed a tear to fall as well.

“Giselle! Oh my— this is fucking incredible baby!”

Thankful for the secluded area, Giselle beamed as Chris abruptly jumped up; making the chair screech in the process before he jogged over to embrace her.

Standing up, Giselle was immediately wrapped in Chris’s arms as he rocked her side to side. Pressing kisses all over her head he mumbled, “I fucking love you,” gripped her face and exchanged a tearful gaze with his wife before he smashed their lips together.

——————————

The Christmas spirit was unmatched in the Hemsworth household. With everyone clad in a holiday printed onesies and slippers, drinking from their customized mugs of hot chocolate and Giselle’s playlist that included everyone from Destiny’s Child, Wham! to Alexander O’Neal playing through the tv; the family piled into the living with full stomachs from the big breakfast before passing out gifts.

“GiGi! You did not!” Iris gasped, as she slowly pulled the dust bag out of the mustard-colored Fendi box.

Hearing her sister squeal once the neon pink bag from Nicki Minaj’s collab was in her possession, the oldest sister swore she saw Iris leap across the living room just to bring Chris and her into a bear hug while she beamed. Once Iris released them and returned to baby Mia attempting to put a red bow in her mouth, Giselle continued watching her kids unwrap their gifts before she looked over her shoulder to find Chris with a silver glitter box lying in his palms.

Closely watching her husband raise the top Giselle instantly caught Chris’s blue eyes light up while his jaw falter open making the quarter million she spent all worth it for her honeybun’s priceless smile. In the box contained the car keys to a 1965 Chevy Corvair Monza with a custom baby blue paint job, cream seating, silver detailing and a full tank of gas.

After hearing countless fond memories of her husband’s childhood singled around this vehicle, Giselle knew it was only a matter of time before she had to get Chris the car he constantly ranted about.

Heart-racing from excitement the Aussie quickly picked up the keys and pressed a button abruptly making the car ring out. Immediately looking at his wife with childlike joy, Chris struggled to his feet and ran to the front door which instantly made the rest of the family follow behind in peak curiosity. Running to the driveway Chris quickly faltered his steps once his eyes landed on the replica car his father, Craig drove around when Chris was nothing but a young lad.

Picking up his pace while he unlocked the car, Chris slid in the car with door propped opened and gawked over the smooth interior. Hearing the footsteps of his family scurrying down the pavement, the surprised man took his orbs off the vehicle and brought them to Giselle who grinned as she stared back at him.

—and before he knew it, Chris was stumbling out of the car and over to her like a lovesick puppy as the family patted his back and went to admire the car.

Roughly gripping her face the Aussie scooped down and kissed Giselle to transfer his appreciation before he leaned back and pulled her frame into his while he swayed her body with his eyes closed. “Whew, I love you so fucking much girl!” He grunted, before he squeezed her tighter with his last few words.

“I love you too, honeybun. I hope you liked your gift.”

Immediately cocking his head back, Chris quickly scrunched his face up, “Liked? Girl, I love this gift.” He corrected, making Giselle’s infectious laugh ring out. Biting his lips in effort to contain his smile Chris slid his tongue over his lips as he looked down at his wife, “C’mon, I still have gifts for you.” He winked, with a nod to the house before pulling her hand.

Returning back to the living room with the family slowing filing back inside, the brown beauty retook her place back on the floor while Chris searched for a specific gift and within a few moments, the wrapped present was placed infront of her crisscrossed legs.

Grinning up at her husband, Giselle dragged her chocolate orbs away from him and turned towards her gift before she pressed her acrylics through the striped wrapping paper. Uncovering the orange box, Giselle squealed as she ran a finger over the Hermès logo engraved on the lid. After lifting the top, pulling the tissue paper back to grab the dust bag, Giselle felt her smile reach her eyes once her hand made contact with the slick fabric before pulling it out.

“Oh, shit!” She rasped, with her wide-eyes glued to the exclusive Rose Scheherazade Porosus Crocodile Birkin bag. Ghosting a hand over the reptile skin, the overjoyed wife flicked her eyes to her blue eyed beau; who now sat beside her and beamed as he observed her reaction. Throwing her arms around his neck she started placing kissing all over his face, “Thank you! Thank you!” Giselle repeated, as her family awed.

After months of procrastinating to buy this bag only to avoid the store whenever she was on Rodeo Drive, Giselle never expected Chris to catch her off guard.

“Ew!” The couple heard their kids groan whenever their affection lingering for more than thirty seconds.

Pulling away with a laugh, Giselle grabbed her latest addition to her Birkins before squealing once more.

Wrapping paper slowly began to litter the floor and sitting on the floor watching, the Hollywood couple watched on still enamored by their personal gifts.

“—good lookin’ out on the shades guys!” Liam yelled, with a thumbs up as he waved his storage case full of aviators around. Smiling at her brother-in-law, Giselle watched as her children and nieces excitedly played with their new toys while her parents and in-laws gawked over their designer trinkets and bags.

Looking up at her husband who also looked around the living room, it wasn’t long before Chris caught her eyes and the Hollywood couple shared a look.

Knowing that they had an important announcement to share with their family, Giselle sprung to her feet and grabbed a wrapped box hidden behind the tree while Chris got everybody’s attention, “Hey, hey!”

“We have something we would like to share with everyone.” His thick accent ranged out, with a touch of nervousness and excitement inflected in his tone.

“Yes, we do.” Giselle hinted, as she placed the box on the coffee table infront of where her parents and in-laws sat. “—please, everyone gather around.”

Retreating back to where her husband stood, Giselle threw her left arm around his waist while he draped his arm over her shoulder and brought her closer.

“Go on and open it.” The actress gestured, making Mama Janice and Mama Leonie carefully open the box while Papa Alex and Papa Craig looked on.

Anxiously watching her parents and in-laws raise the lid to the box, Giselle nervously leaned into Chris and lifted her hands to her face only to spread them and peak between her fingers as their shrieks echoed.

In the box contained a ultrasound picture tapped to the lid with a black letter-board in the box that read, ‘Baby Hemsworth. Due in June 2020.’ and under the board included a beige teddy bear, a baby rattle and bottle, and a folded white bodysuit and mini socks.

“—ahh! I knew it, I knew it!” Mama Janice exclaimed, as she jumped up and down before walking towards her daughter with her arms out and a bright smile.

Breaking away from her husband, Giselle was instantly immersed in the warmth of her mother’s arms. With tears of joys slipping from her chocolate orbs, the emotional beauty smiled and wiped at her tears before she was embraced by a tearful Leonie.

“Congratulations, sweetheart!” Her mother-in-law whispered, before pressing a chaste kiss to Giselle’s head and pulling away. Gushing from all the love, the actress caught her husband dapping up Quinton and Liam as they also gave their ‘congrats’ before teasing Chris on baby number four. Smiling at their moment Giselle’s eyes were quickly taken off them as small arms wrapped themselves around her abdomen.

Looking down she spotted her twins hugging her growing belly, “I love you mommy!”, “I can’t wait for the baby to come out!” Her girls squealed, before she hugged her twins and kissed their heads. As the girls skipped away to go play with their new iPads. Giselle went to go take a seat when the soft pulling of her onesie immediately caught her attention.

Dragging her eyes down Giselle instantly saw her babyboy’s ever-changing green eyes peering up at her while a frown graced his face. Twisting her own lips around the momma-bear cupped her three year olds chin before she asked what was wrong. “I don’t wanna share you.” He pouted, “C’mon Julian, your sisters had to share their time with me when you came along and now you have to do the same.”

“It doesn’t mean that mommy or daddy loves you any less, you hear me? We love you, and besides,”

Crouching down almost eyelevel to Julian, Giselle spoke to her youngest child, “—this means that you get to be a big brother Jules!” She hyped, as a smile replaced his confusion. Taking him into her arms, she cradled Julian’s body in her lap until her back leaned up against the couch, “When the baby gets older you can show them all your toys, play hide and go seek, read them stories just like your sisters do you and,”

“—and I can share my floaties when w-we go in the big ocean with daddy and my uncles!”, “—and you can share your floaties!” Giselle repeated, with a headnod while gushing at her son’s words.

Once the family calmed down from the news of a new addition, the couple sat on the floor as Chris shared his own excitement with his loved ones.

“Y’know despite all the gifts we’ve received today, my greatest gift is just being able to have y’all here and sharing the good news.” Chris smiled, while he caressed Giselle’s belly as she sat between his bent legs on the floor. “Every year you all either fly these long hours just to come to Australia or drive all the way down here to celebrate Christmas together.”

“—and we truly appreciate that.” Chris admitted, as he interlocked his fingers with Giselle as she turned back to smile at him. “We love everyone of you and we just want to wish y’all a Merry Christmas.”

Hearing the family echo back his words, Giselle gushed and leaned back into her husband’s warm arms as he continued to massage her little pudge.

They couldn’t wait for their bundle of joy arrival.

AUTHOR’S NOTE — I hope everyone had a great Christmas! Let’s get this new year poppin’!

TAGLIST — @wakandas-vibranium @oceanscorazon @melaninmarvel @wakandamama @storibambino @shortstacks-blog @chaneajoyyy @klaylakayblack @ashanti-notthesinger @iamrheaspeaks @destinio1 @theunsweetenedtruth @wakanda-inspired @s0eul

[stereksecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, @nosetothewind94!

I wish you all the best on this holiday season, and I dearly hope this little ficlet finds you happy and well. Enjoy the time with your loved ones, and have a few wonderful days until the end of the year and the coming decade!

*****

You Knew You Were Lost

It was the light that drew him in like a moth, breaking through the lines of trees in flecks of gold and bright white. Derek was out on the run with his family, the full moon bright overhead and the forest floor black and endless below his paws, but the light – the light made him change his track, separate from the pack, trot deeper into the thicker rows of trees here at the head of the Beacon Hills preserve. 

People never got into these woods during a full moon. All of them knew there was a wolf pack roaming free, and that it could get dangerous to  meet them by night. Not that this wasn’t stupid – Derek and his family had never attacked a person, not without reason at least – but it allowed the Hales to move more freely at night, enjoying their run under the moon as one pack, one family. 

A family of werewolves, but a family nonetheless.

Derek walked slower, towards the light that had all but faded now. He could smell something that held the scent of wet metal, and he didn’t need a second to realize that it was blood – but not fresh. The wolf weaved through the underbrush and towards a clearing and then stopped in his tracks, taking in the scene.

There was an upturned metal bowl, like a cauldron, and a stomped-out fire. The floor was slightly wet from the contents of the bowl, where the blood smelled the strongest… And right next to it, completely wrapped up in clothes that were far, far too big for it, was a fox.

But you are no fox, Derek thought, looking at those brown eyes and slightly upturned, pointy nose. The fox flattened his ears in reflex, then startled at what had to be an unfamiliar feeling, and proceeded to try to touch his own ears with his front paw. He opened his mouth, presumably to speak, but all that got out was a high-pitched whine. He shut his teeth again with an audible click, looking something between elated and horrified. 

His leg was still somewhat stuck in those oversized jeans and he looked positively ridiculous.

Derek cocked his head to the side, then lowered himself to the forest floor to make himself smaller, more unsuspecting. There was no way to talk to the fox, although he was rather sure he would be able to understand human language – still, in this form Derek himself was unable to form it. He wagged his tail lightly, to appear more friendly, and peered up at the fox from his position on the ground. 

The fox sneezed, but his tail moved happily, like a fuzzy snake wiggling back and forth. He wasn’t really distressed, from the looks of it. Just… very surprised. 

Slowly Derek stood back up, getting closer to the fox and walking around him. He looked… just like an average fox, really, with somewhat splotchy, reddish fur that turned while on the belly area. His paws were black, and there was a tuft of wild fur standing up between his ever-moving ears that gave him the impression of a wild haircut. His eyes were almost too human in their intelligence. 

Derek stepped closer to him, nudging him out of the jeans with the tip of his nose. The fox made an indignant sound of frustration, but finally got his leg free, standing of all fours for the first time now, looking as if he still needed to get the hang of it. 

And maybe he did. 

The black wolf didn’t consider any longer; he leaned forward, closing his teeth in the fur of the fox’s neck, lifting him up despite his squawk of surprise. It wouldn’t hurt him; Derek himself had been carried like this since he’d been a small pup, barely able to walk on his own. Carrying a fox wasn’t a hardship – they didn’t weight much, anyway, and this one immediately went limp in his grip, letting himself be handled. 

Derek huffed darkly, then trotted back towards his mother howling for him deeper in the woods. He’d find out who this was. 

+++++ “I assume you haven’t been born like this?” Derek asked once he was back to the Hale house, back to his human form, and still alone; he’d left the others in the woods, left to their run and their freedom. The fox sat on his knees, looking up at him and frowning in the perfect impression of a somewhat constipated teenager, before shaking his head in what was clearly a humanoid gesture. So he did understand him, just like he had thought. 

“You were, what? Changed into this? Cast a spell upon? Cursed – “

An eager nod. The fox yipped once, then pawed at Derek’s shoulder, like he wanted to tell him “you got it in one”. Derek frowned at the overly friendly gesture, but let it slide. 

“I know someone… who might be able to help. We’ll go there first thing tomorrow.”

A disappointed whine. 

“We’re not going anywhere today, it’s the middle of the night, and even my … contacts have their limitation. If you want me to help you you gotta play along a little.” He sighed. “We also need to find a way for you to tell me your name – “ 

At that the fox leapt off his legs, sniffing and padding through the room as if it belonged to him. Derek followed him slowly, an eyebrow raised, mostly curious what he would do. 

In the end he watched him pull a newspaper from the heap of old magazines his dad had stacked neatly next to the fireplace, spreading it out on the floor. The fox looked expectantly up at Derek as he set his left foot down on one of the headlines. 

Derek squinted. The clawed paw was pointing at a letter.

“S.” 

With a dramatic nod the fox looked for the next one, repeating his performance. Derek kept reading. 

“T. I. L. E. S. … what the hell is a Stiles?” 

There was an indignant huff, and the fox – Stiles, apparently – flopped down on his belly, looking up with a pout. Derek relented. 

“Alright, alright. Now come on, it’s time to go to bed. You’re sleeping in my room.” 

Stiles followed him keenly, and if ‘in my room’ was a code for ‘in my bed, with your fuzzy head on the pillow and your feet everywhere in my face when I wake in the morning’, well… Derek didn’t have to tell anyone. 

+++++

“He’s very clearly been cursed,” Alan Deaton said in a sombre tone, setting the stethoscope down. Stiles was seated on his metal table, looking unhappy to be where he was, but bravely facing the situation without as much as a whine. 

Derek didn’t want to say it, but he was a little proud of him. 

“Well, is there a way to un-curse him?” the werewolf asked drily, rubbing the back of his head. Stiles looked over at him and his tail moved again, indicating a certain happiness that he had asked for him. 

“Unfortunately,” Deaton began, and Derek felt his heart sinking in his chest, “this curse cannot be solved through anything I have access to. On the other hand, from what I can see it’s time-bound. It should only remain for a week, and then he should turn back into his old self all on his own. No magical tinctures required.” 

“And his… family?” Derek hazarded. At the mention of family Stiles’ eyes went wide, and he whined mournfully. So he hadn’t thought about this yet. 

“Thankfully, I do know where this young man belongs to,” Deaton replied, not even missing a beat. “I will make sure his father does not consider him missing in the meantime. Unfortunately, this means he is safest off in your hands for the time being…”

“I get it,” Derek replied, a little gruff. But he stepped forward, already lifting Stiles back up into his arms. He didn’t really mind the feeling of the fur against his skin, or the way Stiles moved to wiggle around in his arms until he was comfortable – not even the slightest bit. Maybe that should worry him. 

He left the vet’s office, ignoring the people staring at him for the fox perched halfway on his shoulder, looking as if the entire world belonged to him. 

+++++

They rode back home in the Camaro, Stiles on the passenger seat with his nose pressed against the window. He made a whining noise once they drove past the first fast food joint, and then another after the next, and finally Derek relented, steering the sleek black car into the Drive-Thru. 

“I don’t even know what you like,” the werewolf murmured half to himself. Stiles sat up straighter, then climbed over onto his lap, paw pointing at the plastic pictures of… cheeseburger and curly fries. 

Well then. 

They ate in the parking lot, and finally Stiles curled up on Derek’s discarded jacket, making the happiest sound Derek had ever heard from a fox. He had torn through the entire package of curly fries like a starving man, and maybe that was just what he was, underneath the cursed skin of a woodland animal. 

Derek watched him for a moment, sipping his drink; then he started the motor, taking them towards the Beacon Hills preserve. 

+++++

The rather peaceful time he had been able to enjoy the last evening, was all for naught as soon as he took only but one step through the door. 

His older sister, Laura, was the first to approach him, opening her mouth to say something, but stopping entirely in her tracks once she spotted the fox. Her face lit up like the proverbial Christmas tree. 

"Oh... Oh, Derek! What’s this?"

“A smoothie," Derek replied on instinct. Stiles made a noise between a whelp and a sneeze, and the werewolf figured he might be laughing. 

So he got the reference, huh? A nerd fox. 

"That's Stiles," Derek finally said, taking half a step back as his sister came closer and closer to try to look at the animal on his arm. "He was cursed in the woods or something. I just took him to Deaton, and he said he should change back in a bit."

"Cursed?" 

Laura looked up in sudden alarm, worry crossing her face. It was painfully easy for Derek to read his family, most of all his sisters. 

"By whom? Is there a witch on our grounds..? Do we need to tell mom?", she asked, almost talking to herself. Then she shook her head lightly and made a clicking sound. 

"Cora! Come here! You gotta see this!" 

Cora, the younger sister, bounded down the stairs almost immediately, her customary frown etched into her face. She was clearly not amused by this disturbance... until she saw the fox. 

"OH MY GOSH! IT'S SO CUTE!"

Cora darted forward as if stung, almost immediately up in Derek’s personal space. Stiles, however, put back his ears and growled in a sudden display of aggression.

"Don't touch him," Derek said reflexively. It was out of his mouth before he even realized he said it. 

Cora froze with her hand outstretched, and Stiles bared his teeth and ruffled up the raggedy fur at the back of his neck, trying to appear bigger or more imposing. Derek held him a little tighter.

"He's cursed, he's no pet, and he's a little - skittish. You don't want him to bite you, okay?"

"Oh... wow, you two are... ", she mumbled, but then pressed her lips together and retreated with a nod. Laura's lips, right next to her, were stretched into a fond smile. 

"How long will this curse last?"

"A week," Derek said, eyeing Cora with confusion. What did she mean? He tried to catch Stiles' gaze, but the fox proceeded to try to bury himself in his jacket, disappearing entirely and staying slotted between his chest and his clothes. It was way less uncomfortable than Derek had expected. "Deaton said he should stay here for the time being. His family won't look for him, he informed them he's... I don't know. Off somewhere."

Laura nodded at that, an almost knowing smile on her lips. It was, quite frankly, a little unsettling to see. "

Okay. Is he... yeah, he is comfortable with you, from the looks of it. That’s very good to know. Have you two already eaten?" 

At that Stiles' head popped up, ears wiggling.

"Despite what he's probably trying to tell you with his body language, yes, we had horrible and unhealthy fast food on his request." 

Stiles looked at him from the collar of his jacket, protesting loudly. Derek just ruffled his head between his ears without thinking about it. 

"So yeah, we're good. I think."

Laura  nodded again, then placed one hand on Cora's shoulder. 

"Come on, let's leave them alone. Give them the extra bonding time..." 

"I wonder who he is? And who cursed him! Hey, foxy, once you're back to speaking, we can kick that witches' arse!", Cora announced with a big and toothy grin before turning around, following her sister down the corridor.

Stiles' ear flopped a little to the side as he watched the two of them leave, and Derek had the feeling he let out a long breath of air like a sigh. 

"They're not that bad," he said quietly, just loud enough for Stiles to hear. The fox didn't seem to agree and burrowed deeper into his jacket with a growl of open disagreement. 

Derek just smiled, taking him up to his room.

+++++

Stiles stayed in his bed this night – like every other night, in fact. 

During the day, they were out together as well. Stiles had a good look at the unfamiliar house, kind of avoided Derek’s sisters, then got to know his parents and Peter, who just stared at him and then went off laughing like a maniac. Then he accompanied Derek during his run through the forest, and it ended with Derek transforming into a wolf as well, and them playing until they fell asleep, with the wolf curled around the smaller fox. 

Derek noticed that it was actually really nice having Stiles around, although he was a tiny troublemaker. He loved to play pranks, and judging from the sounds he made as a fox, he would be really talkative as a human. He didn't let the others touch him, but he always curled up really close to Derek, or right up inside his clothes. One day he also walked around with one of his hoodies on his back, tail wagging and tongue lolling out, as if this was the best thing ever.

It was odd, having Stiles around... but odd in the best ways possible. Derek studied with the fox spread out on his lap, read him from his favourite science fiction books (all of them dog-eared and with yellowed pages through and through), and went on his morning run with nobody else than the fox at his side. And damn, it felt... good, having someone he could share all this with. Someone at his side, that seemed to understand him.

"I wonder if we would have been friends if you were never cursed," Derek said one night, stretched out on his bed, looking at Stiles on his back, feet in the air. The fox looked back at him, one ear flopping to the side as he slowly edged closer, closer, until his nose almost touched Derek's face. He made a sound close to a whine, then opened his mouth and shut it again. Finally, he moved his tail.

"I have no idea what you want to tell me," Derek replied softly, ruffling his fur and leaning in to brush his nose against Stiles' cheek. He felt so warm like this - warm and comforting in the best way, and if Derek took a deep breath he smelled something absolutely divine, like warm cinnamon in deepest winter...

Stiles edged even closer, appearing sad now. He pushed himself underneath Derek's head, yipping briefly.

"I’m sorry, Stiles," Derek said quietly, rubbing his belly and holding him close. The smell only seemed to grow stronger, and he sighed deeply, eyes closed and enjoying the feeling of warmth, of a closeness he had never felt, he’d never experienced before, and which he wanted to last –

Derek vaguely remembered falling asleep like that. He felt Stiles' warm fur, his soft breathing, the nice scent, everything was there... 

...and he certainly hadn't expected it to turn into flailing limbs the next day. Limbs that fell right out of his bed with a loud thumb. 

"OH, FUCK!"

"What the," Derek said suddenly and with fervour, sitting up with a start. Just seconds ago - or, well, what felt like seconds ago - he'd held on to small furry limbs, and now?

Now the most beautiful, warm eyes stared back at him from the floor of his bedroom, and the pointy, fuzzy ears were gone, and the fur was, too, and Stiles - Stiles was a human, a very naked, very good-looking human, mind, and the smell of cinnamon was everywhere –

“Holy shit,” the boy said, and Derek felt his heart soaring at the sound of his voice, like things inside of him slotted back together and were finally, finally in the right place, and – 

He hoisted the boy – Stiles, now the real Stiles – up on the bed, earning him a squeak that sounded familiar for some reasons, and threw his arms around him. The embrace was different – those limbs were longer now, and felt… different, but better even still – but the smell was the same, tantalizing sweetness and something Derek had never found before. 

Then Stiles made another high-pitched sound. 

“Dude. Not complaining on the hug front, but I am sorta naked here??” 

“Right,” Derek coughed, sitting back. Stiles almost immediately grabbed a blanket and wrapped himself up in it, only his head peering out with wide eyes. He was… smiling. It looked stunning on him, and Derek really, really wanted to kiss him. 

“You are even prettier with these eyes,” the boy muttered. Derek ducked his head a little, watching him closely. He felt himself flush, but in the best way. 

“As are you. I think we got a lot to talk about, now that you can…”  

[peacefulwriter88]

Change Your Mind

Chris (The Destroyer) X Curvy WoC

Warnings: M for Mature (SMUT), fluff

A/N: This is a build from my original story that I wrote month back called Dust to Dust. I’m fascinated by Chris’ character and decided to not take the same path for his character in the movie. 

The flames are a harsh contrast to the bitter cold wind that whips past him, ices over his ears as he checks on the grilled chicken. The smell of mixed spices takes over his nostrils, distracts him temporarily from the sound of laughter and chatter that escapes from within the town home.

He was meeting your parents for the first time.

Dating for nearly two years and you had broached it casually and cautiously how you wanted to invite them over for dinner. You had been wrapped up in his arms, the short, sparkly gold dress you had opted to wear for New Years Eve gleaming under the moonlight with the faded jean jacket he had thrown over your shoulders, the both of you stepping  out of your friends party to have a moment to yourselves.

He had wanted to say no. This had already gone on long enough - you and him - but every time he mustered an ounce of courage to tell you he was done, looking into your full eyes he always, always backed down. He was ashamed of his weakness - he was no good for you. He saw the questioning glances that your friends shot his way whenever you both entered a room, not understanding how you were so in love with someone like him.

You didn’t care. You told him all the time, convinced him enough to finally move in. To get him to come out and be a part of your world - to meet your friends who wore expensive clothes and drove fancy cars and talked about having mortgages and vacationing in Europe. To host game nights with your brother and your sister, meeting their partners for the first time as you all scarfed down pizza and yelled at the other. You were testing him, getting him comfortable with you, leading up to this moment.

He closes the heavy, metal grill and rubs his hands together, blowing on them. It was only February and the California weather kept shifting from blistery cold to warmth and he was stuck outside with the thin, maroon button down you had kindly asked him to wear for the occasion, one of two of the only nice shirts he owned.

He turns around, watches the way you smile as you chat enthusiastically with your mother and sister, your hands busy chopping radicchio, kale and tomatoes while checking on the cinnamon apples that were cooking nearby. You were wearing a cherry wine dress, long sleeved that flared out around your thighs in a fun teasing way. Thigh high stockings that your mother had clicked her tongue too (“do you really think a girl with your frame should  wear things like that out”) though she complimented the long gold necklace you had paired with it, the long thick waves in your hair. You both planned on going out after, you promised him anywhere he wanted and he wonders if its because you know your parents would never approve of him - that he wasn’t enough and you wanted to take his mind off of the knowledge.

“Mind if I join you?”

The deep, gruff voice comes from your father who’s opened the patio door -  has two beers in his hands as he closes the glass behind him. It mutes the soft indie rock that floats from your living room speakers, leaving the both of them to the muffled sound of cars occasionally passing by, the sound of gas feeding the fire in the grill, birds chirping.

“No, it’d be nice to have company.”

You had your mother's looks, her hips and face shape and eyes and smile, but your personality was just a boxed version of your fathers. Humor and wit that was charming, drew you in knowingly and then an edginess that took you off guard, made you fumble over your words. He even had an intimidating name, Duke, regal and confident.

He had already put his foot in his mouth with the older gentleman five minutes into meeting him. He had no idea how the hell he was supposed to survive a casual conversation while he grilled chicken. Figured he’d pray the chicken would finish before he could figure it out.

“Chicken smells good.”  Duke says now, handing over  the beer to him and he takes it happily, pulls his key chain out to pop open the familiar bottle. Does the same for your father.

“Your daughter is a great cook. It's been marinating overnight, should be good.”  

Duke nods, takes a sip and watches him carefully. Chris shifts, lifting the grill to check on the cooking meat though he knows nothing has changed since he’s checked on it two minutes back. He’s had a gun placed to his head, the threat of death just a click away and he was nowhere near as terrified then as he is now

in this moment.

“What do you do again, Chris?”

Chris looks over at him, places the hood of the grill down.

“I own a small mechanic shop in the county over.”

“Mechanic,” Duke mules the words I’m his mouth, “Trade you learned?”

“I was always fussing around with cars. Ran in my family - my grandfather was a mechanic, my dad. After I got my GED figured might as well take over the shop.” 

“GED?” Duke takes another sip, watches him carefully and Chris nods slowly.

“Yep.”

He’s never felt more ashamed of his life choices than he does in this moment, couldn’t imagine what your dad would do if he knew that there was a duffel bag full of 100′s hiding in the closet upstairs that he’s been trying to figure out how to get out of  the house since Tuesday. Didn’t want to tell him about the two 9mm’s he kept locked up under the bed, that he invested in a whole new security system because he couldn’t trust that Silas and one of his goddamn crew members wouldn’t get the hint that he was done with that life and that he just wanted to be a goddamn mechanic.

“How’d you meet my daughter again?”  

“We were at a bar. She challenged me to pool and nearly won.” Chris takes a sip now, eyeing him and Duke nods slowly, clearing his throat.

“And now you both live together, in this nice house she bought herself after she got promoted to marketing director of  the company she’s been working at, cooking dinner on her grill.”

The bite of it hurts, what he was inferring and Chris sticks a hand into his pocket, flickers his eyes away. He knows what he was thinking.

‘Why are you wasting my daughters time?’

He doesn’t voice it, Chris knows. Knows it’s what most people in your life ask when you pull him into your world happily. He was becoming exhausted of the feeling.

“You’ve impressed her,” Duke chuckles almost skeptically. “You know, my little girl isn’t an easy one to impress. Most men she dates….bore her. But you’ve been stained on her tongue for two years now, wrapped in her heart and I wonder what it is. You seem good enough a man. I can tell you love her at least as much as she loves you. But what can you bring her outside of happiness and a home?”

Duke shakes his head, stares out at the horizon.

“You want me to break up with her.” Chris doesn’t have to question it, knows it and it makes him want to cower upstairs, to sit next to the Akita-Shepherd dog, Apollo, that you both had adopted five months back together and be reminded that something outside of you loved him.

“I want you to be able to be a good man to her. I don’t fucking care that you have a GED and your a mechanic. You’re a working man. But I need to know you can take care of her. Need to know she’ll be okay if she gives herself completely to you. I understand that loving look you both share with each other...it's not going to go away even if you left. I want her to be happy and I want to make sure you can keep her happy.”

It takes Chris off guard, makes him look over at the older man questioningly as he takes another sip. He was raising a white flag, knew that his opinion didn’t matter. He was trying to give his blessing.

“I know I’m not good enough for her but I love her. I’d do anything to keep her happy.”  

Duke looks over at him, gives a faint smile in the waning light.

“Good,” he takes another sip of his beer, hesitates before he asks, “....she tell you yet?”

_____________

Chris  stares down at the small, plastic device that sits on top of the granite bathroom sink, daunting as it unassumingly stares back at him. Bold, blue lines that glare back up through the natural light of your master bathroom, the result undeniable.

Positive.

He had to look for the paper that told him the difference to be sure as he leans over the sink to stare down at the stick. There’s someone playing rap a few houses down, it blares loudly in contrast to the rapid fire Spanish a woman is speaking to another occupant, loud enough for the neighborhood to hear.

He drowns it out. Can’t focus on it when there’s a steady ringing noise that trills in his ears, his hands gripping the counter top, heart pounding in his chest as his lungs expel air out of his mouth like a small leak in a balloon.

You we’re pregnant.

He drinks in the statement in his mind. You were pregnant. You were pregnant with his child. There was a little life in you that he had helped create, a combination of both you and him.

It takes his breath away.

So much so that he has to splash water on his face, stare into the mirror into his blue eyes.

What did this mean for him? For the choices that led him to here? His immediate thought is that he should have fucking broke up with you. Probably should have thrown on that rubber when he treated you to a weekend in Vegas. He fucked up, like he always did, by tainting your body with his seed. How could he leave you if he has too, to ensure your safety now that a child was involved? It was painful enough to try to deny you but now you and a baby?

He doesn’t get enough time to answer– instead he’s distracted by the way the main door slams close, the sound of your footsteps mixed with Apollos smaller ones as he barks enthusiastically as you both slowly make your way up the stairs.  He moves hastily, grabbing the small plastic device and stuffing it back into the box, throwing it back in the basket where you kept your extra shampoo and conditioner and body wash, what he had originally been seeking before his hands had landed on the lightweight box. He closes the cabinet softly, places the body wash on the counter right as you walk into your master bedroom. You had stepped out for a run, something you rarely did but Apollo was so energized he had inspired you to get back into the cardio exercise. You walk to your bed with him devotedly at your side, watching you curiously as you looked down at your phone frowning.  

Your have one headphone in, one out and he can hear the upbeat techno and hip hop music you liked to play occasionally, your hair pulled back in a sloppy ponytail as your thin tank top stuck to your sports bra, your torso. Drank in the way the soft material of your workout pants clung to your thick thighs – your ass and your calves and he sighs resignedly.

This was why he couldn’t let go. He belonged to you. Every inch of his being was made to ensure your happiness and he knew, without hesitation that it didn’t matter that you were pregnant because whatever you decided he would support. The decision only partly belonged to him; for as much as it would change everything for him it would change every inch of who you were and his role was to support in any way that meant. It bites at him guiltily that seconds earlier he was plotting how to leave you because when he sees you he wants nothing but the opposite.

Love has truly fucked him over.

He smiles, shaking the guilt away as he walks over to you. Apollo runs to him eagerly, easily jumping up on his legs begging for love that he returns happily before he wraps his arms around you, drawing you flush back into him as he rests his head on your shoulder, kisses your cheek. You yelp – nearly scream and jump out of your skin as you drop your phone, look over at him.

“Goddamn – warning much!?”

You throw him a glaring eye though your voice is teasing and he squeezes you tighter, drawing you closer,

“I thought you heard me moving around in here.”

“No I got distracted by an email…” your voice trails off as you temporarily release your hold over his arms to pull out your headphones, start to wrap it around your phone that’s fallen onto the bed. He wonders if the email has to deal with the baby, confirming your pregnancy as you look back at him and whisper,

“Have you showered and gotten ready yet?”

He smiles at you coyly and you roll your eyes as you lean back into him.

“Christopher Ricks! My parents are going to be here in two hours and we haven’t even started with dinner.”

The small dimple that forms at the bridge of your nose deepens, a tell tale sign that you’re worried. You frown and your voice is doing that soft, whiney thing it does when you want him to do something. Your irises widen, looking at him innocently and he feels his heart stop for a second, his breath gone.

Completely and utterly devoted to you.

“We have enough time honey. We’ve already marinated the chicken and I’m going to grill it when they arrive….everything else will take an hour tops.”

You move your head to the side, watching him carefully before you sigh and nod.

“Okay, you’re probably right...”

You’re not convinced and he moves his hands lower to your hips, squeezing them softly and leaning over to brush his lips against yours. You make a slight moan, eyes flickering back to him as he watches you back carefully before you shift your body to move closer to him. It's only a second before his lips hungrily fall on your own, his tongue dominating over yours as he pulls you back into him, into his growing erection. Your hand has moved to find the back of his head, drawing him closer to him as your mouth tries to dominate over his, your finely manicured nails scraping against his scalp and he hisses into your mouth as he turns you with one swift movement, pushes you back until the back of your calves hit the bed. Your hands move around his neck drawing him closer as he leans you back and you both fall back onto the large king size bed with ease, your laughter ringing high between his kisses as your thighs wrap around his torso. He leans over you, nudging his nose against your own as he stares down at you, at your edges starting to curl at the base of your hair roots, the way your two small dimples dig into the fatty curvature of your cheek.

“I love you. Do you know that?” he whispers seriously, lips brushing against your own and you smile into him, nodding as you wrap your arms around him, drawing him closer.

“I know.”

“I’d die for you. Climb mountains, dive in the deepest darkest part of the of the ocean if it ensured I’d get to spend every waking minute of my life with you.”

You blush, shift your eyes away before you look back up at him. You hated verbal affection when it was directed toward you - had somehow managed to lie and convince yourself that you were unworthy of it and he hates the two large pools of water that linger in your eyes as you smile up at him.

“I didn’t realize I fell in love with a romantic,” you nudge his nose and he juts his hips into you involuntarily, causing you both to groan before you whisper, “But you’re my world Chris. I love you too….love you so much I couldn’t imagine my life without you”

His lips skim down your chin, finding comfort in your neck as his rough hands move toward the hemline of your shirt, tugging on it softly. You try to fight him as he raises the material, try to convince him that you were sweaty and gross but it falls on deaf ears, the fabric pulls over your head, his lips skimming between the apex of your breast which he kisses tenderly before his journey takes him to the softness of your stomach.

He know that you hated it when he lingers too long in the area, your insecurity that your stomach was too big and gross for his liking but he loved the softness to it. He liked the way it felt now as he kisses your skin tenderly and he wonders if the life in you can feel his feathery kisses, knows how lucky it was to have a mother like you that gave a guy like him a second glance.

“I love you, I love you, I love you….”  he says it to no one in particular as your hands rub the top of his buzzed hair, your hands soft as you stroke him affectionately and he moves lower, down to your abdomen which you protest.

“My vagina is so sweaty and so gross….no.” you whine and he chuckles as he looks up at you, at the way you watch him carefully and he nods.

“Fine. Then let's take a shower and clean you up then.”

You look at him, your eyes twinkling before you sit up becoming face to face with him.

“Fine. But you gotta scrub my back.”

“I always scrub your back.” he teases back, nipping at your nose.

_____________

The shower was needed, helped distract his nerves as his hands payed reverence to your body, his name a whisper as your soapy hands fell over his hard torso, scratched down his back as his cock slammed into you. You didn’t mind at all when he came in you, gripping him tightly as you both watched each other lovingly, shaking in the hot steamy water before his head fell into your neck line, breath hitting your decolletage as you gripped him closer.

He wonders when it had started to become a habit, him fucking you bare and cumming in the sweetness of your walls and why either of you had cared enough to think about the consequences.

Perhaps, subconsciously, it's what you’ve both wanted.

The memory is refreshing in the setting sun, and he turns to look back at you. Normally you liked to sip wine when you cooked but you had politely declined after you offered it to your mother and sister, had subconsciously had your hands flit down to your stomach like you did now.

No you hadn’t. Not yet.

“No.”

“Hm….I think she will tonight. Try to act surprised,” Duke finishes his beer, looks over at him. “Don’t break her fucking heart. Or I’ll break your fucking head.”  

He places the  empty beer bottle beside the grill, patting Chris’ shoulder before turning on heels, back into the house.

He’s the first person in your world that’s given him your blessing, told him it’s okay that he could be him and be with you. It gives him hope.

You come out minutes later, a large smile on your face as you shudder, wrapping your arms around yourself as you walk toward him. He opens up the grill, checks on the chicken as you tuck yourself into his arms, nuzzling your face into the side of his chest.

“You’re freezing. Come inside when you’re done checking on the chicken,” you look up at him as you wrap your arms around his body, “have a good conversation with my dad? I know he can come off strong.”

His hands graze lower, stops at your midsection and he rests his hands there, rubbing it tenderly,

“It was fine.”

You nod, resting your head back to the setting sun and looking out into the horizon. He knows he should wait for you to broach, to pretend his ignorant but he knows you, knows that if you haven’t already bought it up it was because you feared his response. The last thing he wanted was you to believe you weren’t enough so he takes a leap.

“How far along are you?” He finally asks and he feels you flinch, to hesitate as he looks down at you.

“Three months.” You finally whisper and he smiles, kissing your forehead.

Definitely a souvenir from Vegas.

“I’ll support you in whatever you choose baby. I love you and I’m not adverse to becoming a father. Not when it means you’re the mother.”

There’s a moment of silence that ripples between you both as you squeeze him. He thinks you’re going to say something - you always had something to say but you don’t.  Instead you smile up at him endearingly, lift on your toes to place a kiss on his lips. He likes these kisses, the ones where your lips nestle between the softness of his goatee and he doesn’t hesitate to capture your lips for his own, to squeeze you back as just as fervently.

The moment is short lived. There’s a knock on the door, Apollo’s barking and your sister enthusiastically lets out, “I’ll get it!” before either of you can move.

He turns just in time to catch Silas in the doorway entrance, smiling at your mom and dad and shaking their hands. Chris feels his heart drop, knows that out there, somewhere in hell is laughing at the notion that he thought he would be safe; that he could keep you safe. Your sister opens the screen door, smiles at the two of you.

“Chris your brother is here. Silas?”

You look up at him curiously as Silas walks behind your sister, drinks in the protective way Chris has wrapped his around you and smiles.

“Hey brother. So nice to see you.”

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[thesweatycollectiontyrant]

Favorite Shows

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about why specific shows mean so much to me, and I want to profile them in sort of a “why” type of post. No sort of big thing, just have a lot on my mind and want to talk about it.

Tuck Everlasting

This show deserved such a longer life than it had on a stage in New York. If I were only allowed to choose one thing that I adore about this show, it would without a doubt be the score. Every facet of it. Orchestrations, harmonies, reprises and all of that good stuff. Luckily, I make these rules.

The meaning and heart of this show is so vast and beautiful. First and foremost, the relationship that Winnie develops with the Tucks is something a lot of people fall in love with. She finds a father she never had in Angus, a nurturing mother she’s never had from Mae, an older brother in Miles, and a best friend in Jesse. 

Something my friends and I discuss often is how natural of an actress Carolee Carmello is. She is nothing but honesty, truth, and transparency onstage. In this day and age, that’s something everyone should strive for. It’s truly a shame that she doesn’t have a Tony award yet (something I believe she earned in 1999). A little more about her character, Mae. Mae loves people, not things. Mae wears the same old clothes and is content with them. She rarely looks at herself in the mirror anymore by the time Winnie comes along, and her only prized possession is the music box that she has. She cares most about her family.

In terms of the immortality that the Tucks have, Jesse is often representative of the positives of being immortal. He’s young, spry, good-looking, and loves life and nature. Miles tends to be the figure for the negatives when it comes to living forever. He tends to skew Winnie away from the possibility of her also drinking from the spring and living forever. In “Time”, he explains to her that his immortality has done nothing but forced him to lose everything important to him., while Jesse tells Winnie in “Seventeen” that if she drinks from the spring that they can live together forever and live lives of happiness and possibly (probably) romance. 

With Angus, Winnie has just lost her father, and Angus has never had a daughter. He tends to be gruff, but has a big soft spot for Winnie.

Of course, there’s The Man in the Yellow Suit, Hugo, Constable Joe, Mrs. Foster, and Nana, but whenever I get around to doing a full post dedicated to this show, I’ll talk about them too.

The themes in this show are something to love as well. It covers growing up, time and death, and loyalty to family. The Tucks, being in their predicament have seen and been forced to let go of many important people and memories in their lives. When Miles talks about his relationship with his son and former wife in “Time” or when Mae describes her favorite memory of when Angus asked her to marry him in “My Most Beautiful Day”.

The last thing I want to profile about this show is some of the lyrics in this show.

“Looking back is something to look forward to.” - Mae Tuck in “My Most Beautiful Day”

There is so much to unpack there. Come on.

“Time truly divides.” - Miles Tuck in “Time”

“Watching life pass it by just floating on top.” Angus Tuck in “The Wheel”

Every time I listen to this show, I am undone. It is such a beautiful and intimate story, and I wish it could’ve had a longer life. I am dying to work on this show in any capacity. Someday, I want to conduct it, but until then, I’ll keep rocking out to “Live Like This” on long drives. Or short drives to the grocery store three minutes from my house to get my mom mint chocolate chip ice cream.

Big Fish

I got the opportunity to be in this show almost a year ago and it was so fulfilling. The script, at times, is bunk, and the story can move a little faster than some can process, but what this show needs to succeed is a strong cast that is dedicated to telling the story.

There’s so much in this musical that I adore and if I were to talk about it in depth this would be a very very long post, so I’ll just cap it with saying that I love the score and the relationship between Edward and Sandra. I also love the relationship between Edward and Will.

I love the revisions made to the show for the small cast version with Sandra singing “Magic in the Man” (though I do love “Two Men in My Life” with all my heart) and Will and Edward singing “This River Between Us” rather than “Showdown. In the version we did, we actually assigned “Magic in the Man” to Jenny Hill to give her some more of a backstory on her relationship with Edward and left “Two Men in My Life” in the show for Sandra.

The show is really special because I lost my grandfather two months before we did this show. It was a real restoration to my soul to be completely honest. He was a lively man with lots of stories that he always told and a character like Edward Bloom is a pretty good counterpart.

The score is so lush and beautiful. I could listen to it all day.

Fiddler on the Roof

This show kinda ended the Golden Age. I really love the Golden Age and I think that’s where my heart lies when it comes to my love of musical theatre as a whole. It was very influential to many shows in the future and I’ll always love it.

I’m not Jewish, but what’s special about this show is that it was remarkable to many that it resounded beyond the Jewish faith. The center of this show is truly about tradition, togetherness, family, and true love.

Tevye and Golde is one of the most unique and real relationships on the stage, especially for that time period. They didn’t marry for love; they married so that they could have children and a successful life. Each one of their children progressively wishes to marry outside of that ideal, Tzeitel marrying her childhood sweetheart without a matchmaker, Hodel being engaged to Perchik without a matchmaker or permission from parents, and Chava marrying outside of the faith, directly disobeying orders from the family and with no permission from parents or a matchmaker.

Tevye has to make many hard decisions throughout the show, allowing his daughters to marry men for love. The turmoil that he experiences when disowning Chava has always been hard to watch.

There are so many lovely and beautiful and amazing moments in this show, including “The Dream”, “Tradition”, “Matchmaker” (especially how they did it in the last Broadway revival), “Sabbath Prayer”, and “Chavaleh”. Danny Burstein refers to the score as “musical theatre mother’s milk”. It is nourishing like no other. I will always love this show.

The King and I

This was a show I truly learned to love my freshman year of college. Like many, I’ve known “I Whistle a Happy Tune” and “Getting to Know You” for a very long time. I got to see it with friends from college when it went to movie theaters and I was amazed by Kelli O’Hara, Ken Watanabe, and Ruthie Ann Miles. Each of them gave such incredible performances.

I wish this show could be done more often, but it requires a mostly Asian cast. I am so thankful that there is more representation now than there was when this show premiered, so much so that the last revival was cast completely appropriate. Kind of ridiculous that it took this long.

The women in this show are what propels it. There is a chilling scene in particular when Lady Thiang finds Tuptim and confronts her about her relationship with Lun Tha. 

One thing I’ve always been fascinated by is race in the classroom. I’ve had the privilege of having teachers of all different ethnic backgrounds, including my preschool teacher. I’ve always been grateful for the opportunity to learn through all different lenses. I was moved to tears almost immediately when I saw the classroom scene when Anna is teaching all the children during “Getting to Know You” and then there’s the dance break where one of the wives performs a dance for Anna, and then Anna and Louis perform a dance for the children and wives, and then they morph them together! It’s just beautiful because that’s a symbol of people of different ethnic backgrounds coming together and teaching each other something so special that it’s beyond words: they dance. I adore that scene.

The relationship between Anna and Lady Thiang is also something I admire very much. The scene before “Something Wonderful” is also just gorgeous. There’s something to be said for Ruthie Ann Miles’ performance transitioning between Broadway and West End. As many know, she got into a near-fatal car accident while walking with her child and unborn child on the crosswalk, and both children were killed. In the West End, she used a cane because of the recovery from the wreck, which aged the character and made her a little less mobile, but it also made her more authoritative and made you want to listen to her and know what she was thinking. It was a brilliant decision to incorporate that into her character.

Getting to see this production, albeit in theaters, was an amazing experience.

John & Jen

I got to music direct this show my freshman year of college with two dear friends of mine as the siblings. It’s funny, it’s sad, it’s real; all of it. I love it.

This score uses motif and reprises in a way that is really touching to me. If I were to choose a song that makes me happy, I’d say “Timeline”. It’s really groovy and it’s the biggest character shifts for the both of them. If I were to choose one that always makes me sad, it’d be “Hold Down the Fort”. Kate Baldwin and Carolee Carmello both were extraordinary in the role of Jen. It became so important to me when I got to do it. I’m thankful for this show.

Ragtime

This will be the last one. This show is so incredibly special to me. Other than something like Wicked, this show was one of the first shows I really got into. The story and score are so cohesive and they work together really well. I love Ahrens and Flaherty and their style is so broad, yet so specific.

Similar to my feelings on The King and I, Ragtime incorporates the lives of Caucasians, African-Americans, and Jewish Immigrants and they all learn things about each other through various encounters during the show. Some find love, some find hate, and it’s just an incredible show. I will never get enough of this beautiful story about justice and truth according the law.

Mother and Tateh’s relationship is one of my favorites in the mega-musical canon. *do y’all consider Ragtime a mega-musical? I do? or do I?*

The show requires a very large and very diverse cast that can sing and act incredibly well. Nothing is like the full orchestration doing this show. I love it so dearly. It has so many lessons we can learn from.

I really love these shows and they’ll always mean tons to me.

[obliteratethefrog]

ELEGANCE PT. 2-THE WEDDING

Rami Malek!Freddie Mercury x Male!Reader

2k+ words

SEPTEMBER 5, 2015. That’s when the planning began. Same sex marriage had only been legalized in the UK a year before, but that didn’t stop any of the anxious couples, young and old, to finally tie the knot in a legal manner. This obviously didn’t stop Freddie from beginning to ponder over the best wedding he could envision. For (M/N) and himself, it would have to be nothing less than brilliant. He already had his venue, Garden Lodge itself! A private wedding, close friends and family, no cameras, no hungry journalists, just the most important people in his life, especially his cats. Although some had passed on-his poor Delilah left them 2 years ago, Oscar the year before, and Tiffany just last year-he had gotten at least 2 new ones to keep the other grieving cats company. Goliath and Mike were still running a muck, older in age such as their “father”. Romeo was the adventurer really, along with Lily. The newest additions were still curious little kittens, a female calico named Minx and a male munchkin named Napoleon. They would all be included in the wedding, of course, decorated with flowers and bows, the whole nines! However, his planning had to halt due to Queen’s comeback tour. Yes, the boys were still going strong in that day and age, their now much softer bodies moving about the stage with the same amount of energy they had in their early 20’s. Freddie could still rock the crowd at the age of 69, his aura never changing from the eccentric showman. John had come back for that tour after being in retirement since 2005, having to deal with his ever growing family. Brian and Roger were still there through thick and thin, their antics never ceasing to surprise Freddie.

Their tour left (M/N) at home to tend to the cats. The now retired dancer continued his old warm up exercises to keep his shape, although some of his muscles had become softer than they used to be. He was 70 at the time, only a year older than his dear husband, and still retained the same amount of energy as he did. He had incorporated cleaning around the house into his daily regiment, bursting out into laughter as the cats would attempt to hook onto the long broom he used for the wider halls.

JANUARY 11,2017 was when Freddie had taken his leave from Queen, retiring at the hearty age of 71. That was when he had taken the entire year to pick back up on planning his dream wedding, even inviting Mary over in order for the work to move along faster. This included discussing the color of the suits for the two grooms, as well as the best man's suit for each of them. Freddie would wear black, of course. He loved seeing when (M/N) wore white, it complimented his figure as well as his skin. The seating was quite easy. The band and their families would sit on one side of the aisle while their families would sit on the other. Freddie and (M/N)’s parents had grown quite close once they had discovered their sons were dating, and had been nothing but supportive of their relationship. “What about red roses? They’re quite simplistic, but the meaning behind them remains the same.” Mary suggested for the bouquet the (M/N) would have. “I do love a classic rose..alright i’m fine with that, but make them thornless! Can’t have my husband pricking his finger during our vows.” Freddie responded, tapping his pen against the kitchen table of Mary’s home. He didn’t want (M/N) fretting about the wedding plans, the poor man already took care of so much when Freddie had told him it was fine. “And this is going to be a summer wedding, correct?” Mary inquired. “Yes, hopefully early summer rather than late. Possibly late June at the least.” Freddie replied, setting his pen aside as Mary scribbled down a date on her legal pad. They continued discussing what foods they would want, beverages-preferably alcohol, but Freddie knew he wouldn’t be able to drink too much- as well as wedding favors for the guests. He had also taken the liberty of buying two new bands, one simple gold one for himself and the other encrusted with 3 small diamonds for (M/N). He held them in his hand at the moment, going over each detail, especially the small engraving on the interior of the ring.

“Mr. & Mr. Mercury”

JUNE 23,2018. This was it. The big day. (M/N) fretted over his graying hair, attempting to push it one side, then to the other, before Louisa, now a lovely young woman and his favorite “niece”, came into view, moving his hands aside as she began to fix his hair into a simple yet stylish fashion. (E/c) irises followed her movements in the mirror, a cheeky smile plastered on his face as he saw the outcome. “Handsome as always, Uncle (M/N).” Louisa commented. “Only with your help, love.” (M/N) replied, voice gruff as he straightened his bright white shirt, adjusting his wine red bow tie before Louisa assisted him with his jacket, careful to not disturb the matching red suspenders that held his pants in place. “I know I shouldn’t be so nervous, but I can’t help it. We’re finally able to legally become husbands.” (M/N) rambled about, mainly to himself as he continued to fret over his appearance. Freddie was in a similar condition. His black suit feeling tighter than it had been when he tried it on due to his nerves, especially the squeezing around his neck from his white button up that held his black bow tie in place. Mary fussed over a certain piece of his ashy gray hair, finally turning it into place before placing a soft peck on his cheek. “You look fabulous, Freddie. (M/N) is a lucky man, and so are you.” she said, dusting off the nonexistent dust from his shoulders before pulling him into a hug, which he returned immediately. His patchy salt and pepper beard rubbing against her cheek once they pulled away. “I couldn’t look my best without your expertise, Mary.” Freddie complimented, his pearly whites flashing brightly as he smiled down at her. It was at least 30 minutes before (M/N) was to walk down the aisle and he couldn’t be any more anxious. Roger was standing to his right, dressed in a steel gray suit, the jacket unbuttoned as his hands were placed on his hips. “Fred, don’t worry. You’ve been waiting for this your entire time with (M/N), and so has he, so I want you to take a deep breath, and don’t get your knickers in a twist!” Roger exclaimed, standing in front of his friend, their equal height allowing his blue eyes to piece Freddie’s brown ones through his sunglasses. Freddie gave him an appreciative smile before turning his gaze over to John, who was standing tall-yet anxious- across from him. It was no surprise when John was asked to be (M/N)’s best man, and he couldn’t have been more ecstatic. He was wearing the same suit as Roger, however his jacket was fastened by the button in the middle. His graying hair frizzled about as it was caught in permanent curls upon his head, much my Brian’s. Speak of the devil, and he shall come as they say. Brian came up to Freddie, looking down at him before hugging him, smiling happily. “Don’t be nervous Fred. Like Roger said, you’ve been waiting far to long to be nervous now.”Brian said, fixing his suit jacket, again, the same color as Roger and John’s. The group was interrupted by the familiar chords of “Here Comes the Bride” erupting from the piano that was seated at the pavilion just behind their small venue. And there stood (M/N). He looked exquisite in his suit-Freddie gave his compliments to the tailor- for it shaped him in the best of ways. His mother was the one walking him down the aisle since his father's legs have not been in the best condition that they once were. Both of his parents were nearing the end of their lives, Freddie’s had passed on years before, but that didn’t stop them from seeing their only son wed his beloved. Louisa stood in the other side of Mrs.(L/N), holding onto her brittle arm as they reached Freddie at the altar. She had reached up, bringing (M/N)’s face down to place a soft kiss on his cheek before shuffling her way back to her husband, who was sat beside her seat in his wheelchair, their caretaker watching alongside them. The priest held open the book in his arms, smiling as the two took each other’s hands. “We are gathered here today to wed (M/N) (L/N) and Freddie Mercury in holy matrimony.”he started, but was soon drowned out once the two grooms made eye contact. Freddie gave (M/N) a cheeky smile followed by a wink, causing him to break out into a wide grin. John chuckled beside (M/N) as he watched their actions, his heart swelling as he watched his two best friends finally fulfill their greatest wish. “And now, the vows.”

“Freddie, I knew I wanted to marry you after the night we had gone out on our..oh what was it..11th date?”(M/N) started, a chorus of laughter coming from the guests. “You remember that one, when we were in America for your tour, and we went to the drive-in movies late at night as to not get noticed, but some teenagers across from us began to freak out once they spotted you.” (M/N) chuckled out, Freddie following with a harmonious laugh. “Yes, I remember, darling.” “That night was quite exhilarating because the cops ended up being called because of the commotion. We were escorted out of the drive-in with the promise that we’d never return. And that’s when I knew I wanted to marry you. All you were doing in that situation was laughing and joking about. And I couldn’t help but go along with it.”(M/N) said, smiling widely. “I love when you laugh, smile, hell even when you’re just staring off I love you! And I’ll never tire of saying that because if I do then I would’ve never said it to begin with.” (M/N) concluded, sniffling softly as a few tears escaped his glossy (e/c) eyes.

Freddie reached over to caress his cheeks, smiling up at him with tear filled brown eyes. He took in a shaky breath before even attempting to speak. “(M/N)...you taught me how to be patient, how to love, and to be loved, and, most importantly, how to be myself. Without you, I would be lost..I would be just the shell of who I am today..and that’s no fun now is it?” he stated, earning a laugh from the group. “I am so happy that we are here today to be wed in holy matrimony in front of my friends, no..my family..who are all so near and dear to me. I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Freddie concluded his short, but sincere, vows.

“Do you, Freddie Mercury, take (M/N) (L/N) to be your lawfully wedded husband?Through sickness and through health, for better or for worse?”

“I Do.”

“And do you, (M/N) (L/N) take Freddie Mercury, to be your lawfully wedded husband? Through sickness and through health, for better or for worse?”

“I Do.”

“Please, exchange the rings.”

Freddie and (M/N) each reached over to John, who had to rings in his pocket, before placing them on each others left ring finger. The duo had wide grins that couldn’t be wiped away even if they tried.

“By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you, Mr and Mr Mercury! You may no kiss your husband!”

Freddie didn’t hesitate to pull (M/N) in for a deep kiss, playfully dipping him as their guests erupted into cheers and applause.

This was the happiest day of his life.

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

**A/N: Sorry if the ending is complete shit. I believe I’ve come down with a cold or something lately and I really just wanted to finish up this fic to post for everyone. I hope you enjoy it anways!

TAGS: @darlingyourebeingabore @vuhlereea @wearethechampionsblog @ursoself-satisfying

[saventhhaven]

A Father’s Blessing

Prompt creds to @spn-imagines-nation !!

Original Prompt: Imagine Dean asking your father for your hand and promising to protect you and love you no matter what happens.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Tags: proposal, nervous!Dean, sweet!Dean

Word Count: 1,731

(Gif not mine)

Dean beat his fingers on the steering wheel nervously. After everything he'd seen, there wasn't much that scared him anymore. This, however, was more nerve-wracking than any monster he had ever faced before. When he pulled up to the small cape cod style house, his nerves had him grabbing for his phone.

"Dean?" Sam asked, sounding surprised to hear from his brother so soon. "How'd it go?" Dean's palms were sweating like crazy, and he had to hold the phone with both hands as to not drop it.

"It hasn't yet. I'm freakin' out, man. What if he says no?" Sam sighed softly on the other end of the line.

"He won't say no. You already practiced what you're gonna say like ten times, all right? And this is what you want, isn't it?" Dean glanced over at the ring box in the passenger seat and let out a breath he didn't know he had been holding.

"Yeah," he answered, feeling much more at ease. "I want this more than anything." Dean heard his younger brother chuckle.

"I know you do. Now go knock on that door and get his blessing. You've got this." Dean nodded.

"You're right. Thanks, Sammy." With a quiet beep, the call ended, returning the older Winchester to the hushed atmosphere with nothing but his thoughts for company. Dean took another deep breath before finally taking the small box in his hand and leaving the Impala. By the time he got up to the wrap-around front porch, his nerves were even worse than before. His finger hovered over the doorbell. "Come on," he muttered to himself. "What's the worst that could happen?" He paused and retracted his finger. "He could say no, that's the worst that could happen."

Dean turned around and headed back to the car. His hand was on the driver's side handle when the weight of the situation kicked in. "This is for Y/N," he had to remind himself. Secretly, Dean was embarrassed by how nervous he was, but then again, who wouldn't be? Your father was tougher and far more protective than his own was, and here he was about to ask him for your hand. He looked up at the house, which, despite its cozy appearance, was incredibly daunting. The front yard was a good size and went remarkably well with the picket-fence style. Dean smiled to himself. He could practically see you running around the yard as a young girl as he recounted stories you had told him of your childhood. He wouldn't mind having a little one that looked like you one day. Dean took yet another deep breath and shoved the ring box in his jacket pocket, stomping back up to the porch before he had time to change his mind. This was something he would not talk himself out of. The doorbell glowed a warm yellow as he pressed his thumb down on it, and as he did so, he heard the welcoming chime echo throughout the inside of the house. When no one answered after a moment, Dean checked his watch. 7:32. He didn't think that was too late. Just as he was about to ring the doorbell again, the front door swung open, revealing a balding man with a hard expression. "Mr. Y/L/N?" Dean asked.

"Yeah, that's me," your father answered.

"I know you don't know me, but my name is Dean Winchester. I work with your daughter." His eyes narrowed, and his expression darkened slightly.

"Is she okay?"

"Oh, she's fine." Your dad nodded, showing his relief, and then stuck his hand out. Dean wasted no time in returning the handshake.

"So, you work with my Y/N, huh?" he asked. "She still hunting those... things?" Dean's eyes widened in surprise. You had never mentioned that your father knew about hunting.

"Yeah, we hunt together," Dean explained. "She never told me you knew what was really out there." He gave a hearty laugh.

"That's because she doesn't know that I know." Your father opened the door all the way, gesturing for Dean to come inside. Immediately after stepping into the main hallway, he was greeted by pictures of you as a child, all the way up to your college graduation. Dean inspected the picture of you holding your diploma with curiosity.

"Holy crap," he marveled. "I didn't know she went to Princeton." Your dad grunted in acknowledgment.

"Don't take it personal, son. Y/N never really talks about college much. Brings up bad memories for her. She dropped out when we lost her mother." Dean placed the picture frame back down on the table, not saying another word. You had told him a couple years ago that your mom was the main reason you had joined the hunt, but he never dared ask questions for fear of upsetting you.

"So, Mr. Y/L/N," Dean said, following your dad into the kitchen. He turned around, grimacing.

"Just call me Roy," he insisted. "People say 'Mr. Y/L/N,' and I look around for my dad." Dean gave a slight nod to show his understanding.

"How did you figure out Y/N was hunting?" Roy laughed, a sound that reverberated pleasantly, and handed Dean a beer.

"Wasn't too hard to figure out. Y/N is my girl," he began. "Her mom and I raised her to be strong and kind. She's good-hearted and tough as nails, but she can't lie for squat." Dean let out a chuckle of his own as he recalled a failed surprise party you had planned for him last year.

"No, she can't," he agreed. Your dad took a swig of his beer.

"Besides," he continued. "I know the signs. Seen all the equipment before. Her mother was a hunter herself." Dean felt his eyes widen.

"Did Y/N know that?" Roy shook his head.

"No." Dean watched the gruff man across from him in disbelief as he tilted the neck of his beer bottle in his direction. "And I'd appreciate it if you kept that bit of information between us. I'd like her to hear that from me. If she ever comes around to see her old man again, that is." Dean took a long drink as he looked around at the house again. He could tell how much your dad loved you by how many pictures of you he had hanging on the walls. One, in particular, caught his eye. You as a child with your mother pushing you on an old wooden swing. Dean smiled to himself. You had told him a few stories of your mother here and there. From what he knew, she had a heart of gold and loved her family more than anything. He wished he could have met her. Both of you were grinning ear to ear in the picture, and you were the spitting image of her. Even as a young girl, you were still drop-dead gorgeous. When he turned his attention back to Roy, he was watching him intently.

"You and Y/N don't just hunt together, do you?" Dean hesitantly shook his head and set the beer down on the table.

"No, sir, we don't." Your dad also placed his beer down with a clink.

"Aw, hell." He sat back in his chair and folded his arms. "All right, son," he said, turning his protective father voice on. "You're here for a reason. What is it?" Dean took a deep breath. Here went nothing. 

"Y/N and I have been dating for a couple years now. The day we met, she saved my sorry ass from a crocotta that had me knocked out cold. When she finally got me to come to, I thought I was in heaven at first because of how damn beautiful she was. She's the kindest woman I've ever met, and she dedicates her life to helping others." Dean watched Roy's face light up at his praises. "Y/N makes me the happiest man in the world, and she helps to make me a better person, too. She never lets me give up, and she saves me from myself when times get grim. I love her with all my heart, and more than I could even begin to put into words. With your blessing..." Dean anxiously took the ring box from his jacket pocket, opening it and setting it on the table. "I'd like to ask your daughter to marry me." Your dad carefully examined the ring, a small smile growing on his face. "And I know what we do is dangerous," Dean went on. "I know marriage sure as hell won't be easy with hunting. But I swear to you that no matter what happens, I will love your daughter, and I'll protect her with my life." Roy examined the ring for a moment before pushing the box back over to Dean.

"You really love her, don't you?" he asked.

"More than anything," Dean answered with a nod. Roy gave a soft chuckle, reaching for his beer again.

"I can tell by how you've been looking at her pictures all night. Your eyes light up, and you're looking at her the same way I used to look at her mother." Dean watched him anxiously as he mulled it over. "And you said you'll protect her?"

"With my life," Dean repeated. After several moments of looking thoughtful, Roy nodded, scratching his chin.

"I won't forget that, Winchester," he informed. "You better take care of my Y/N." Dean looked up at your father, hopefully.

"You mean-" Roy grinned and nodded again.

"You have my blessing." The two men stood from the kitchen table, shaking hands. And when the evening came to an end, your dad only had a few parting words. "You make my daughter happy, you hear?" Dean smiled widely.

"You can count on that," he promised. He headed for the Impala under the dim moonlight.

"Dean?" Dean stopped, turning on his heel. "Have Y/N come out to see her old man soon, would you?" Dean smiled and nodded.

"I will." As Roy closed the front door behind him, Dean could hardly contain his excitement. He snatched his phone from the passenger's seat, redialing his younger brother. It only rang once before he answered.

"Well?" Sam asked. Dean beamed.

"He said yes." He looked at the small ring box in his hand excitedly as Sam cheered and offered his congratulations. You were in for one hell of a surprise.

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed it!

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[liesandarbor]

Mercy in Sandor, Sansa and Arya’s Arcs

Thinking a lot on Mercy and what it means for Sandor, Sansa, Arya, and especially with regards to Sandor and his Brother.  Jump under the cut: 

What Dogs do to Wolves

Both Stark girls embark upon their true character journeys once we reach the end of AGOT.  Fatherless, and void of the teachings they both so desperately need; a reality check on either end of the spectrum, if you will.  Where Ned Stark left his daughters in parenting - Sansa, politically soft and unable to see through lies, Arya, unable to distinguish that things aren’t always black, white, good and bad.  Sandor Clegane arrives in both of their plots as a pseudo-fraternal figure, teaching them hard lessons, and protecting them in his own gruff way.  

"What … what does he want? Please, tell me." "He wants you to smile and smell sweet and be his lady love," the Hound rasped. "He wants to hear you recite all your pretty little words the way the septa taught you. He wants you to love him … and fear him."

-Sansa VI, AGOT

The jerk-with-a-heart-of-gold trope rears its Stranger-resembling head, often smashing Sansa’s “true knight” fantasies throughout AGOT and ACOK, preparing her for the real world she lives in where white knights hit twelve-year old girls with fully mailed gloves on.  Offering her a handkerchief and a sad pat on the back, Sandor sees in Sansa what he once used to know, before his face was offered to the fire - and to Gregor’s errant and growing ego and power trip.

 "True knights protect the weak."

He snorted. "There are no true knights, no more than there are gods. If you can't protect yourself, die and get out of the way of those who can. Sharp steel and strong arms rule this world, don't ever believe any different." -Sansa IV, ACOK

 Exploring Arya’s naivety as the series progresses is just as interesting to watch.  While Sandor tells Arya that he thought her sister was the one with the romanticized songs in her head, Arya tends to lean to the other side of the naivety scale.  

 He is a man of the Night's Watch, she thought, as he sang about some stupid lady throwing herself off some stupid tower because her stupid prince was dead. The lady should go kill the ones who killed her prince. And the singer should be on the Wall.

-Cat of the Canals, AFFC

 Where Sansa is a dreamer in AGOT in the romantic sense, Arya tends to refuse to believe that anything could be more complicated than black and white, rejecting the idea that maybe things in life are more complicated than constantly “doing the right thing”.  Sandor brings Arya’s ASOS plot depth and introduces the idea to her that being a good person isn’t always easy, and sometimes, the best you can do is to survive.

 There was a stink to him too. He smells like a corpse. The man begged them for a drink of wine. "If I'd had any wine, I'd have drunk it myself," the Hound told him. "I can give you water, and the gift of mercy." The archer looked at him a long while before he said, "You're Joffrey's dog." "My own dog now. Do you want the water?" "Aye." The man swallowed. "And the mercy. Please."

and

When she came back, the archer turned his face up and she poured the water into his mouth. He gulped it down as fast as she could pour, and what he couldn't gulp ran down his cheeks into the brown blood that crusted his whiskers, until pale pink tears dangled from his beard. When the water was gone he clutched the helm and licked the steel. "Good," he said. "I wish it was wine, though. I wanted wine."

"Me too." The Hound eased his dagger into the man's chest almost tenderly, the weight of his body driving the point through his surcoat, ringmail, and the quilting beneath. As he slid the blade back out and wiped it on the dead man, he looked at Arya. "That's where the heart is, girl. That's how you kill a man." -Arya XII, ASOS

Sandor teaches Arya how to kill, and he teaches her that there are different types of killing - that life, much like the stories we are currently reading, is writ in shades of grey, not always black and white.

“Gentle Mother, Font of Mercy”

The rasping voice trailed off. He squatted silently before her, a hulking black shape shrouded in the night, hidden from her eyes. Sansa could hear his ragged breathing. She was sad for him, she realized. Somehow, the fear had gone away. The silence went on and on, so long that she began to grow afraid once more, but she was afraid for him now, not for herself. She found his massive shoulder with her hand. "He was no true knight," she whispered to him. The Hound threw back his head and roared. Sansa stumbled back, away from him, but he caught her arm. "No," he growled at her, "no, little bird, he was no true knight." -Sansa II, AGOT

Keeping Sansa and Sandor’s relationship mildly platonic for the sake of this post, we break down the idea that Sansa Stark, a thin, young wolf-girl, brought a grown, emotionally torn, hulking man to his knees by singing him a song.  And not just any song.  A song of mercy.  

"I could keep you safe," he rasped. "They're all afraid of me. No one would hurt you again, or I'd kill them." He yanked her closer, and for a moment she thought he meant to kiss her. He was too strong to fight. She closed her eyes, wanting it to be over, but nothing happened. "Still can't bear to look, can you?" she heard him say. He gave her arm a hard wrench, pulling her around and shoving her down onto the bed. "I'll have that song. Florian and Jonquil, you said." His dagger was out, poised at her throat. "Sing, little bird. Sing for your little life."

Her throat was dry and tight with fear, and every song she had ever known had fled from her mind. Please don't kill me, she wanted to scream, please don't. She could feel him twisting the point, pushing it into her throat, and she almost closed her eyes again, but then she remembered. It was not the song of Florian and Jonquil, but it was a song. Her voice sounded small and thin and tremulous in her ears.

Gentle Mother, font of mercy, Save our sons from war, we pray, Stay the swords and stay the arrows,

Teach us all a better way.

-Sansa VII, ACOK

 While Sandor steps in to parent Sansa and Arya in some of life’s harsher lessons, the two Stark girls surprisingly teach Sandor a few lessons of their own.  Sansa, showing him empathy, that while there is anger and war and killing, there are still beautiful things, and still ways to be kind.  She sings to him of mercy, of finding a better way.  You can always come back.

 "You remember where the heart is?" the Hound asked. She nodded. The squire rolled his eyes. "Mercy." Needle slipped between his ribs and gave it to him.

-Arya XIII, ASOS

 Where the mercy that Sandor taught Arya was a physical mercy, a kill, showing her that sometimes death is better than life for those that are in anguish (and not the last time we will see that represented in either of the character’s arcs), it is the first mercy to open Arya’s eyes to seeing the world around her.  War strewn, the ground littered with porridge-textured dead people, maggots every inch of the way; Jon introduced “Stick em with the pointy end”, but Sandor introduced “why”.

 "And the little bird, your pretty sister, I stood there in my white cloak and let them beat her. I took the bloody song, she never gave it. I meant to take her too. I should have. I should have fucked her bloody and ripped her heart out before leaving her for that dwarf." A spasm of pain twisted his face. "Do you mean to make me beg, bitch? Do it! The gift of mercy . . . avenge your little Michael . . ." "Mycah." Arya stepped away from him. "You don't deserve the gift of mercy." The Hound watched her saddle Craven through eyes bright with fever. Not once did he attempt to rise and stop her. But when she mounted, he said, "A real wolf would finish a wounded animal."

-Arya XIII, ASOS

Arya’s moral code changes from this point forward.  It takes entering a literal House of Black and White, for Arya to start the journey of coming to terms with morality not being a simple yes and no answer.   While she hasn’t quite perfected the lesson (as we know Dareon’s fate and the fates of several to come), she is very much so ‘in progress’ on the topic, much like Sansa is currently on the road to becoming politically savvy.

 Give up on this quest of yours. The Hound is dead.

"You sound as if you pity him," said Brienne.

"I did. You would have pitied him as well, if you had seen him at the end. I came upon him by the Trident, drawn by his cries of pain. He begged me for the gift of mercy, but I am sworn not to kill again. Instead, I bathed his fevered brow with river water, and gave him wine to drink and a poultice for his wound, but my efforts were too little and too late. The Hound died there, in my arms. You may have seen a big black stallion in our stables. That was his warhorse, Stranger. A blasphemous name. We prefer to call him Driftwood, as he was found beside the river. I fear he has his former master's nature."

The horse. She had seen the stallion, had heard it kicking, but she had not understood. Destriers were trained to kick and bite. In war they were a weapon, like the men who rode them. Like the Hound. "It is true, then," she said dully. "Sandor Clegane is dead."

-Brienne VI, AFFC

Sandor’s arc embodies major ASOIAF themes: Mercy, reclaiming identity, and resurrection.  In moving Sandor off the page and into the quiet isles, it gives George time to develop Sandor’s characterization in a believable manner, while not wasting too much page time.  In exposition that offers Brienne’s plot progression, we are also told where Sandor has gone and what he is doing there.  

She sang for mercy, for the living and the dead alike, for Bran and Rickon and Robb, for her sister Arya and her bastard brother Jon Snow, away off on the Wall. She sang for her mother and her father, for her grandfather Lord Hoster and her uncle Edmure Tully, for her friend Jeyne Poole, for old drunken King Robert, for Septa Mordane and Ser Dontos and Jory Cassel and Maester Luwin, for all the brave knights and soldiers who would die today, and for the children and the wives who would mourn them, and finally, toward the end, she even sang for Tyrion the Imp and for the Hound. He is no true knight but he saved me all the same, she told the Mother. Save him if you can, and gentle the rage inside him.

-Sansa V, ACOK

 When Sansa prayed for Sandor, her prayer was answered- Sandor was quite literally given a place to die, to reclaim his identity in resurrection, and a place to heal.

 "My lord is wise," Thoros told the others. "Brothers, a trial by battle is a holy thing. You heard me ask R'hllor to take a hand, and you saw his fiery finger snap Lord Beric's sword, just as he was about to make an end of it. The Lord of Light is not yet done with Joffrey's Hound, it would seem."

-Arya VII, ASOS

We are told quite literally by Thoros: The Lord of Light isn’t done with Sandor, yet.  Sandor is given to the Quiet Isle, in preparation for his role in the wars to come, whatever that may be.

 Frankenstein’s Monster: Putting the Dog to Sleep

I desired that I might pass my life on that barren rock, wearily, it is true, but uninterrupted by any sudden shock of misery. If I returned, it was to be sacrificed or to see those whom I most loved die under the grasp of a daemon whom I had myself created. (20.18, Frankenstein)

I planned on exploring Frankenstein and his Monster in regards to Sandor killing the creator who made him this way, but the parallels of Qyburn creating Ser Robert Strong ring just as true.  Where Sandor Clegane is given a chance at resurrection, at a second life, at changing his ways, Gregor Clegane shows us that sometimes, in such villainy, sometimes there is no coming back.  While Gregor has done terrible, awful things, he is reduced into a piteous shell of a being, a monster, with no physical chance at coming back and embracing humanity.  

His limbs were in proportion, and I had selected his features as beautiful. Beautiful! Great God! His yellow skin scarcely covered the work of muscles and arteries beneath; his hair was of a lustrous black, and flowing; his teeth of a pearly whiteness; but these luxuriances only formed a more horrid contrast with his watery eyes, that seemed almost of the same colour as the dun-white sockets in which they were set, his shrivelled complexion and straight black lips. (5.2, Frankenstein)

Who could pity the monster that Gregor Clegane has become? Even before the necromancy, the countless rapes, murders, tortures, all because he could.  No one stopped him.  He awoke one day, big enough to shove his brother’s face into a brazier, and no one stopped him.  His father covered it up for him.  He wanted, and he took. The mysterious Clegane sister, dead, the father, dead. And no one stopped him. Sandor, a young man, leaving home to find some place to belong and survive, before he was next.  Gregor’s rise to power is best put by Sandor: no one could withstand him.  So, once more, who could pity the monster he has become?

While Cleganebowlers everywhere cheer and chant and don their yellow “GO DOGS!” foam fingers, we are brought to an important point.

The Hound can not kill The Mountain, because the Hound and the Mountain are dead.

Instead of Cleganebowl, let me just offer you the following: clegane-soul.

Alright. That was a joke.  Stay with me.

Sandor can’t beat his brother, because there’s no beating a sad, pathetic, hollow zombie.  This isn’t the Hound and the Mountain.  No one is as accursed as the kinslayer, and it should never be easy to kill a family member.  Where killing Gregor would’ve been the Hound’s dream about a year ago, the Hound turned up dead.  Sandor will be giving his brother the gift of mercy, taught to him by the two little girls that snuck beneath his skin.  

 “Mercy, mercy, mercy,” she sang sadly.

 As she dragged it up the muddy bank, one of her little brothers came prowling, his tongue lolling from his mouth. She had to snarl to drive him off, or else he would have fed. Only then did she stop to shake the water from her fur. The white thing lay facedown in the mud, her dead flesh wrinkled and pale, cold blood trickling from her throat. Rise, she thought. Rise and eat and run with us.

-Arya XII, ASOS

 “Mercy, mercy, mercy.”  Both Stark girls sing their songs of mercy.  Arya has dedicated so much time now in the Literal Morality House of Black and White, preparing and washing dead bodies, skinchanging and dreaming of wolves, that her plot is sure to lead her back to Westeros.  And in her dreams, we know she’s been in the Riverlands.  

 Maybe some real wolves will find you, Arya thought. Maybe they'll smell you when the sun goes down. Then he would learn what wolves did to dogs. "You shouldn't have hit me with an axe," she said. "You should have saved my mother." She turned her horse and rode away from him, and never looked back once.

-Arya XIII, ASOS

Arya’s black/white morality problem hasn’t come quite to its head yet.  But it will.  Because, as the audience knows, saving Arya’s mother wouldn’t have happened - it just isn’t that easy, wolf girl.  And Arya herself will have to learn that when she comes back to Westeros, when she makes it to the Riverlands, and when she comes face to face with Mother Merciless herself.  While she dragged her out of the stream and life was given to her, Arya will be the one to put the fish back in the water.  Mercy, mercy, mercy - a real wolf would finish a wounded animal.

The Mockingbird

"Thank you, Your Grace," she murmured. The Hound was right, she thought, I am only a little bird, repeating the words they taught me. The sun had fallen below the western wall, and the stones of the Red Keep glowed dark as blood.

-Sansa VI, AGOT

 "You have a good heart, my lady," she said to Sansa. "Not every maid would weep so for a man who set her aside and wed her to a dwarf." A good heart. I have a good heart. Hysterical laughter rose up her gullet, but Sansa choked it back down.

-Sansa V, ASOS

Where Arya has spent time learning to give and show mercy, we spend books with Sansa where she has given quite a bit too much of it.  Where Arya wields a sword, Sansa wields her courtesy, her arsenal appearing soft edged.  

 But those equipped weapons will change, too.  As Sansa gains agency in the Vale, learning to be the lady of a house, she begins to awaken to the treachery of those manipulating her for political gain, specifically Petyr Baelish.

 What if it is truth he wants, and justice for his murdered lady?" He smiled. "I know Lord Nestor, sweetling. Do you imagine I'd ever let him harm my daughter?"

I am not your daughter, she thought. I am Sansa Stark, Lord Eddard's daughter and Lady Catelyn's, the blood of Winterfell. She did not say it, though.

-Sansa I, AFFC

So when Petyr lies, on his hands and knees, in front of all of the northern lords and lords declarant, begging for mercy- the mercy she’s shown grown killers and men, the mercy she’s given to her enemies- Sansa will show a different sort of mercy.

When Petyr is begging mercy, mercy, mercy, when Sansa finds all of Lord Baelish’s betrayals, remember that she is giving herself mercy for once.  Mercy. For her family, for her, for basically anyone in the universe who has ever had to deal with this disgusting man.  

Tl;dr Sandor will kill his brother out of mercy, which is one of the main themes of his character arc, and a concept that the Stark sisters helped instill in him and he in them.

[floggingink]

Riverdale S2 Tag Game

I was tagged thirty years ago by @of-mermaid-bones - THANK YOU! this is back ON WEDNESDAY!!!!!!!!

a character/characters you hope gets more screen time:

Reggie, released from any tangential Suicide Squad sidetracking

psycho Dilton

mercenary Alice

MELODY

Dark Betty

character you’ll miss:

on Kevin’s behalf, I will miss Joaquin’s baby blues

ghost wraith Jason

“Did you ENJOY seeing your father being dragged away from you?”

one death you would like to see:

alright, Fred isn’t going to die, but I would be okay with it, because Fred was gruff, fallible, and long-suffering in a lumberjack kind of way, but that was less dramatically useful, while HIS DEATH would both cement his legacy as a gruff sugary lumberjack AND propel the plot

the most obvious choice is Hal Cooper. however I propose that Hal HAS to stay so that the inevitable Alice/FP (re-)union is firmly rooted in the “forbidden.” isn’t it sort of incredible that no parent has had a true affair yet? Hermione sort of messed around with Fred, but she had ulterior motives and they didn’t seem to progress beyond a fairly TV-PG rated makeout in Fred’s trailer. if we A) accept God’s Word that Alice and FP are two rage-filled magnets attracted to each other and that B) they WILL hook up, then C) wouldn’t it be EVEN BETTER if it was behind Hal’s back?

one death you would hate to see:

it’s VERY STRESSFUL to imagine anyone being killed off now. Jason started as dead, so that was his base state. but what if like—it’s too stressful to even pick a hypothetical

Penelope especially HAS to stay. are the tables totally turned on her? is Cheryl in charge? will Penelope have to kneel, infantilize herself? where is the second-biggest house in Riverdale? (the hospital counts)

a storyline you like:

lipstick lesbian-phoenix Cheryl starting over

FP Jones, high school counselor from his open-doored jail cell

Archie “figuring out” who he “belongs with”

SERPENT JUGGIE

anything in which the climax is Jughead taking off his hat

a storyline you don’t:

parent stuff that isn’t inherently interesting before it ties into the kids’ stuff. I have forgotten why the Blossoms and Hiram Lodge are feuding, but it’s enough for me to know that they are. move forward now at A THOUSAND MILES AN HOUR! I’m also okay with the construction stuff IF it brings more things like A) “We’re bruiser studs” (still unexplained), B) Veronica in that purple sweater, C) FP & Fred, D) Jughead in a white tank

Betty and Jughead breaking up for dumb reasons as opposed to tragico-gothic Wuthering Juliet du Maurier grass-stains-on-Jughead’s-leather-jacket milkshake sex reasons

bullheaded jerk Archie as opposed to doofus-with-a-heart-of-gold Archie

legitimately out-of-control drunk FP as opposed to OSTENSIBLY out-of-control crime-puppeteer FP

a pairing you hope to see more of:

FJ & Alice, because I have eyes

Cheryl & Jughead, not romantically (necessarily!!!!!) so much as a flourishing of their thematic parallels (also I have not forgotten he has her “iconic spider pin”)

Hermione & Hiram dancing around each other in a power waltz

revelation: absolutely anyone on this show could bang anyone else and I would wholeheartedly agree with it as long as the ride was wild enough

something you would like to happen:

Jughead moves in with Betty’s phantom older brother, who is also a gang member (Jughead is a gang member)

Veronica helping Archie study his vocab flashcards for the PSATs

lesbians. because you know what comes with lesbians on TV? lesbian TV tropes. for instance, The L Word was FULL of beautiful lesbians! but it was a terrible TV show. it had a lot of power potential but didn’t know what to do with most of it, and let it bubble and boil over the side of the pot onto the stovetop, where we let it sit, hardening, for months, until finally after Thanksgiving we scrubbed it off. so more high-waisted skirts and crop tops. brushing foundation on your girlfriend’s cheekbones. “Who’s cherry-on-top?” Cheryl’s hair is down to her calves

lesbian witches

bisexual Serpent witches

Veronica and Jughead not particularly trusting each other

Betty wearing more black wigs

Betty on Jughead’s motorcycle and conspicuously not having helmet hair

Betty hanging a lantern in her window to signal that her parents have gone to sleep

Veronica battling with her father!!!

Archie—Batman?!

Jughead sneaking into Betty’s bedroom

Reggie and Archie!!!!

illicit Bughead fucking

Cheryl using only the bottom right quadrant of her mouth while speaking; her Barbie-pink sleeping romper

the sexualization of Jughead’s combatant working class despair

LEE TOLAND KRIEGER

I don’t know anything about Toni Topaz but I love her

maple syrup