#Why would they have such a need for it! Something more to consider

[lesbian-sunshim]

with few exceptions i don't ship any of the m6 with any of the princesses but I wanted to challenge myself and do exactly that; I combined a bodyguard au and an arranged marriage au and came up with this! - an au where bearing an element of harmony comes with a union to one of the princesses, and serves functionally as both a spouse and/or adviser, and a bodyguard.

been calling this either the harmony marriage au, or the elements of marriage lol

Rainbow immediately addresses the elephant in the room and all but volunteers to form a union with Luna; something she does partly to prove she isn't afraid of anyone or anything, but also because… look man she said she was sorry and she's gonna start her new rule with everyone against her - someone has to be there for her. Celestia especially approves of this union, as, even if these marriages are largely political, the element of Loyalty would make a true companion for a pony like Luna. Despite that, I think their start would be difficult, given all the ways the two are opposites… but ultimately flying by moonlight is just as nice as flying during the day, and the long stretches of peaceful nights give them plenty of time to get to know each other.

Cadance solves the unbalanced issue and forms a union with both Pinkie and Fluttershy. There's no limit to virtues that are compatible with Love, but Laughter and Kindness just have that little something extra that catches her attention, nevermind how stinkin cute they are. All three take to their new marriage well. It’s especially helpful that Pinkie and Fluttershy have a pre-established friendship that could easily remain platonic, or turn romantic or queer-platonic; there’s also the fact that Cadance herself was once a humble pegasus raised by earth ponies before being thrust into this royal life, which could be why they caught her eye in the first place. 

(Shining is still here, as someone needs to train these girls in the art of guarding, and their relationship is still active (although PinkieShy would not be considered his wives); bc if there’s one thing I’m going to do with the princess of love, it's show off some poly pride!)

Twilight would, at this point, ““have her choice”” between Generous Rarity or Honest Applejack; either would be fitting for her new title as the princess of Friendship, and both are good ponies who she could rely on. However, given just how much Twilight’s life is about to be upended with new, well, everything - ultimately Rarity turns out to be her best match. She’s generous with her patience and tact in a way AJ isn’t quite, and more importantly she understands the ins and outs of the high class, making her a real asset in Twilight’s transition to royalty. Nevermind that the two were maybe already a little smitten before their union even took place…

This leaves Applejack sort of “auto-paired” with Celestia. At first Applejack seems like a horrible choice for a princess who is practically a queen, given how very little she knows about this life, and the way the upper class look down on her, but it ends up that her more open/harsh honesty that would have maybe been too much for Twilight in her new role is actually perfect against Celestia. It takes Applejack a bit to learn how to hold her tongue in royal public but she learns to play the game in her own way, and her willingness to speak openly and bluntly with Celestia - in private - is so refreshing to Celestia, who hasn't had a pony tell her like it is in ages. That said, i think this learning curve takes quite some time to even itself out, and in the beginning they spend a lot of their marriage clashing with each other, though ultimately i see Applejack as a respectful enough horse that her southern charm does just that, charming the princess in a way she couldn’t expect.

The six are still all friends with each other, although given the sister pairs some of them see each other more often; Twilight, Rarity, Pinkie, and Fluttershy are a bit closer in that sense, while Applejack and Rainbow consider each other best friends. I’d be willing to say maybe something is going on between them, if i didn’t think that went against what the element of loyalty stands for, but there’s definitely rumors…

[fireinmoonshot]

home safe | joaquín torres x fem!reader

Pairing: Joaquín Torres x Fem!Reader Summary: Joaquín's friends call you to come and pick him up after a night out at the bar where he can't stop talking about you. Warnings: Mentions of drinking, being drunk and alcohol. Word Count: 1.5k A/N: I saw a TikTok where a golden retriever boyfriend got so excited when he saw his girlfriend turn up at the bar and my first thought was 'That's so Joaquín' so here this is 😂 Enjoy 💗

Making the most of a rare Friday night alone, you’re about to crack open a new tub of ice cream when your phone buzzes on the counter beside you. With a sigh, you set down the spoon you’d been planning on digging into the ice cream with, and pick up your phone to read the message.

You assume that it’s going to be from Joaquin. He’d gone out to attend the Bachelor Party of one of his best friends, leaving you home alone. He hated to go – he’d said at least twenty times that he wished you could come with him, but he understood that you needed time apart and that it was crucial to a healthy relationship to do things alone. But regardless, he always felt like something was missing when you weren’t there.

He’d also assured you that when he was ready to come home, he’d send you a text so that you could come and pick him up. He’d promised he wouldn’t stay too late, knowing that you would want to try and get a good night sleep as usual and he didn’t want you to have to go to bed without him. With Joaquin, you knew you could trust his word on that.

As you look at your phone, though, you’re surprised to see that the message isn’t from Joaquin, but from Eddie, one of his friends who was also attending the Bachelor Party.

Joaquin is ready when you are… seriously… save us…

You laugh a little as you read his message and quickly type out a reply. I’m almost tempted to leave you guys to deal with him for even longer. But I’ll head out shortly :) 

A little disappointed, you move to put the ice cream back in the freezer. It was going to have to wait until another night now. There’s only one reason why Eddie would be texting you – Joaquin had had too many drinks and was being his usual drunken self, somehow more extroverted than he already was. If anyone thought Joaquin couldn’t shut up when he was sober, then they’d never seen him drunk.

It doesn’t take you too long to get your things together and leave the house. You’ve changed out of your comfy clothes and put on something semi-presentable, knowing you’ll likely have to go inside the bar to bring your boyfriend out, and are in the car on your way towards the bar not long after. 

You send Eddie a text as you walk towards the bar. Whereabouts are you guys?

He surprisingly doesn’t take too long to reply. I’ll come to the front door and get you so you don’t get lost. It’s pretty packed in here. You’d probably hear us before you saw us.

You snort at his message, knowing it’s true, and head into the bar. Eddie is right – the bar is bustling, as expected for a Friday night. There are people everywhere, music pumping through the speakers and you wonder how anyone could have an enjoyable time here without wearing some pretty serious earplugs.

Someone calls out your name and you turn to see Eddie, standing not too far away from you. He beckons you over with a smile and then greets you with a quick hug. All of Joaquin’s friends love you and consider you as much of a friend to them as he is.

“Thanks for coming so fast,” Eddie says as the two of you start to walk back to where he’d come from. “Joaquin… he seriously has not shut up about you since we got here. You’d think that he was the one getting married instead of Mateo.”

You smile to yourself at the thought. “I mean, as far as I’m aware, we’re not,” you say, amused. “I’m sure that it’s just the alcohol though. You and I both know how he gets.”

Eddie laughs. “He hasn’t even had that much to drink compared to some of us.”

As you get closer towards the table where the rest of the group are, you can hear their laughter and loud voices just as Eddie had said. You hear Joaquin’s laugh and instantly smile as you finally lay eyes on him. His cheeks are a little flushed from the alcohol and the smile on his face sets butterflies off in your stomach. 

You can see when he spots you in the crowd just from the way his eyes light up. His jaw drops and then morphs into a grin that takes over his entire face. “Angel!” Joaquin’s voice is loud, impressively so. Despite the loud music, several people turn their heads to look at him.

Before you can even take one more step closer to him, Joaquin is up and away from the booth, running towards you and barrelling straight into you. He picks you up, spinning you around in a circle as you laugh. You’re pretty sure he’s never been happier to see you.

“Angel, what are you doing here?” He exclaims, setting you down on the ground again. 

You laugh, resting your arms over his shoulders. “I was requested to come and pick you up,” you say, meeting Eddie’s eyes. “Apparently my boyfriend couldn’t stop talking about me? And I’m pretty sure Mateo is the one who’s meant to be talking about his girlfriend all night instead of you, baby.”

Joaquin looks over his shoulder at his friends. “You guys called in reinforcement?” He says, pretending to be shocked as if he’s not extremely happy to see you. “Listen, Mateo has been talking plenty about his soon to be wife so I figured it was only fair I add in my share.”

Over at the booth, you hear Mateo snort. “I’ve heard you say your girl’s name so many more times than I’ve said mine, Joaquin,” he calls. “Thanks for coming to save us, by the way. We love spending time with your man but I think he loves you more.” His voice is amused.

“You’re so welcome,” you call back. 

Joaquin moves to stand beside you, but he still wraps an arm around your waist, becoming his touchy self again now that you’re here. You’re surprised to see that he isn’t actually as drunk as you had been expecting. Clearly, though, the few drinks he had consumed had made him insufferable enough to his friends.

“Are you guys kicking me out or something?” Joaquin says beside you, pouting a little as he looks over at his friends. “Man, I thought we were having a good night. It’s not even midnight yet!” 

Not that he’s disappointed at the fact that this means he can go home and spend the rest of the night curled up in bed with you… in fact, out of the two scenarios that one is definitely the better sounding one.

“Nah, bro,” Eddie shakes his head. “I’m heading out too, so are a few of us. I just got a text from my girl and she’s waiting for me in the car outside. I promised her I wouldn’t stay out too late. She finds it harder to sleep without me now that she’s pregnant, apparently.”

The simple confirmation that Joaquin isn’t the only one leaving is enough to perk his mood right back up. He leans in and presses a kiss to your cheek. “I’m just gonna go say bye to the guys and then we can go.” 

You nod, watching him as he heads over to say his goodbyes to everyone and send his well wishes to Mateo, since it’s the last time he’s going to see him before the wedding. It doesn’t take long, though, and soon enough he’s walking back over to you and taking your hand in his. All the boys yell their goodbyes to you as Joaquin leads you out of the bar.

Joaquin keeps hold of your hand while you leave the packed bar. He doesn’t let go even when you’re safely outside, happily trailing along behind you as you lead him over to where your car is parked.

“You know, when I saw you walk in tonight I was a little distracted,” Joaquin says as you stop beside the car and reach into your bag to get your keys out. “Mateo had just said somethin’ real funny and then I looked over and saw you and at first, I thought it couldn’t be you cause I knew you were at home. I just saw you and thought ‘Damn, that girl looks so much like my beautiful girlfriend.’”

“And then you realised it was me and basically jumped on me,” You chuckle, amused as you find the keys and unlock the car.

Joaquin places a hand on your hip. “Can you blame me for that, angel?”

You turn around and lean in to gently peck him on the lips. “I can’t,” you hum. “Now come on, it’s time to get you home and sober you up a bit.”

He smiles and leans in to open the car door for you. He might be a little drunk but he’s still a gentleman who can open the car door for his girlfriend. Once he’s inside, he rests a hand on your thigh as you pull away from the curb and head for home.

“Thanks for coming to get me, angel. Even if it kinda ruined your night alone.”

You glance over at him briefly to give him a reassuring smile. “Knowing that you’re coming home safe matters more to me than spending the rest of my night alone, baby.” 

[foxtrology]

bette davis eyes (2)

harry castillo x reader

series

word count: 9.1k

warnings: no y/n, 28 year age gap, female reader, fluff, smut.

Harry Castillo still didn’t know her name.

And it was driving him insane.

It had been three days.

Three days since he sat on the steps of The Met, seething over Lucy’s engagement only to stumble into a conversation with the most aggravating woman he had ever met.

Three days since she stepped out of his car.

"If you find me again, maybe I’ll say yes."

He had taken it as a challenge.

Of course he did.

He had spent years making impossible things happen. He had turned himself into one of the richest hedge fund managers in the country. He dictated the movement of money on Wall Street with a flick of his wrist. People waited months to get a meeting with him.

When he wanted something, he got it.

But he still didn’t know her goddamn name.

He had spent hours.

Hours, going through his friends’ Instagram followings, convinced that she had to be in there somewhere. She had been outside that party on those steps. That meant she knew someone.

Right?

Wrong.

Instead, all he got was accidentally following half a dozen people he didn’t even like and no clue how to unfollow them.

"You could just Google it," Danny had suggested, watching as Harry scrolled through Instagram with the confusion of a man trying to defuse a bomb.

"I shouldn’t have to Google basic fucking technology," Harry snapped.

Danny had just laughed. "This is why Lucy did everything for you."

Lucy.

Right.

Harry shut his phone off and tossed it onto the table like it had personally offended him.

He needed to let this go.

She was just a stranger.

A nobody.

But...

She wasn’t.

She was somebody, at least to him. Someone who had looked at him like he wasn’t some billionaire hedge fund manager but just a man sitting on the steps of The Met, sulking about his ex.

And that was risky.

Because for the first time in a long time he wanted to know more.

She was balancing a tray when she spotted him.

Harry Castillo.

Sitting at the corner of the high end Manhattan restaurant she was currently serving at, looking like he would rather die than be here.

Her grip on the tray tightened. No fucking way.

She had spent the last three days assuming she would never see him again.

Rich men didn’t go looking for strangers they met outside of parties. Not unless they had some weird obsession or a savior complex. And he didn’t seem like the type.

Yet, here he was.

Dark suit. Sharp jaw. Brooding like the miserable, wealthy asshole she suspected he was.

And worst of all—he didn’t see her.

Not yet.

She had to get out of here before he did.

Her name tag was visible.

If he saw it, if he recognized her—

"Table six, go," her manager barked, pointing toward the very table Harry was sitting at.

Fuck.

She briefly considered quitting her job on the spot. Just throwing her apron at the nearest wall and storming out.

But unfortunately, she had rent to pay.

So with a deep inhale, she straightened her shoulders, gripped the tray tighter, and walked straight toward him.

Harry wasn’t paying attention.

Not to the menu. Not to his surroundings.

His mind was still back in his office, replaying every attempt he had made to find her.

And failing.

His phone buzzed. Another news notification. Probably some article about the market or a New York Times op-ed about billionaires ruining the economy. He didn’t care.

Then—

A shadow passed over him.

Someone setting a drink down.

And before he even looked up—before his brain even processed it—he heard her voice.

“Whiskey neat.”

His head snapped up so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash.

And there she was.

Standing right in front of him.

His breath hitched.

Her.

Her.

His eyes flicked to her name tag, sharp and laser focused.

Finally.

She saw where he was looking and immediately reached for it, ripping the tag off with a sharp tug before shoving it into her pocket.

“Not a chance,” she said, shaking her head.

His lips twitched.

“Afraid?”

“Of you?” She snorted, shifting the tray in her hands. “Not even a little.”

He exhaled, leaning back in his chair.

“You work here.”

She raised a brow. “Clearly.”

“You were at the Met party.”

“I was working the Met party.”

Realization dawned.

She wasn’t a guest. She wasn’t friends with anyone there.

She was a server.

A server.

Harry’s fingers tapped against the edge of his glass.

He didn’t know why that made something settle inside him. Maybe because it explained why she hadn’t given a shit about who he was. Maybe because it meant she wasn’t part of his world, wasn’t another socialite or heiress looking for an investment banker to marry.

Maybe because it meant that night was real.

“You’ve been looking for me.”

It wasn’t a question.

His eyes lifted to hers.

She was smirking.

She was amused.

And he hated how much he liked that.

Harry exhaled slowly. “Maybe.”

“Well. Now you found me.”

He studied her.

The restaurant bustled around them. The clink of glasses, the low hum of conversation, the scent of expensive wine and seared steak filling the air.

But none of it mattered.

Not when she was standing in front of him, arms crossed, head tilted, watching him like he was the one on display.

He reached for his drink, swirling the liquid before taking a slow sip.

Then—

“Have dinner with me.”

She blinked.

Paused.

Then laughed.

Again.

Like he had just told the funniest joke in the world.

Again.

“You really don’t like being told no, huh?”

His jaw ticked. “That’s not an answer.”

She tilted her head. “What do you think I’m gonna do? Take off my apron and sit down at your table? I’m working, Castillo.”

The way she said his name made something tighten in his chest.

Harry leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Then when do you get off?”

Her lips twitched.

“You gonna wait here all night?”

He didn’t hesitate.

“Yes.”

She exhaled, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”

“So I’ve been told.”

A pause.

“Fine.”

Harry’s brows lifted.

Her eyes flicked to the clock on the restaurant wall before settling back on him.

“I’m off in an hour.” She turned, already walking away. “Let’s see if you’re still here by then.”

He watched her go.

Watched as she weaved through tables, balancing drinks, chatting with customers, completely at ease.

And for the first time in three days—

He felt at ease.

Because this time, she wasn’t getting away.

Harry wasn’t a patient man.

He had built an empire on control, on precision, on the ability to anticipate movements before they happened. That was how he stayed ahead, how he won.

Yet here he was, sitting at a table in an upscale Manhattan restaurant waiting for a woman who barely spared him a second glance.

A woman whose name he still didn’t know.

He leaned back in his chair, swirling the whiskey in his glass, watching as she moved effortlessly through the restaurant.

She was good at her job.

Efficient, quick on her feet, balancing trays with ease.

And she smiled at customers.

Not the way she had smirked at him earlier. Not with that sharp edged amusement that made something itch beneath his skin.

No, these smiles were polite. Professional. A little forced, maybe, but nothing that suggested she was even remotely bothered by his presence.

It annoyed the hell out of him.

Because he was bothered.

She had been stuck in his head for three days.

And here she was, acting like their encounter meant nothing.

Like he meant nothing.

It was infuriating.

And intriguing.

And maybe—just maybe—exactly what he needed.

His fingers tapped against the rim of his glass.

An hour.

He could wait an hour.

Hell, he had waited longer for board meetings that didn’t even matter.

So he settled in.

And watched.

She could feel his eyes on her.

The weight of his gaze followed her everywhere.

She ignored it.

Or at least, she pretended to.

Because if she acknowledged it, if she met his gaze, if she let herself wonder why he was still sitting there—then she would have to admit that she cared.

And she didn’t.

Not really.

Not about Harry Castillo.

Not about his perfectly tailored suit or the way his dark eyes followed her every movement like she was some kind of puzzle he was determined to solve.

Not about the way her heart had kicked up just a little when she realized he had actually been looking for her.

Nope.

Didn’t care.

Not at all.

She refilled a wine glass at table twelve, smiled at a group of finance bros who didn’t deserve it, dodged her coworker carrying a tray of desserts, and did not look at the man still sitting at table six.

But she could feel him.

And it was driving her crazy.

Harry was losing his mind.

Every time she passed his table without sparing him a glance, something inside him tightened.

This was ridiculous.

He didn’t wait for people.

People waited for him.

He could leave right now. Get up, walk out, and be done with this whole thing.

But he wouldn’t.

Because she had said one hour.

And he was going to make sure she kept her word.

His phone buzzed.

He ignored it.

Buzzed again.

Danny.

Danny: Why are you ignoring my texts?

Danny: Did you figure out how to unfollow people yet or are you still stuck?

Danny: Are you seriously still looking for that girl?

Danny: …You are, aren’t you?

Danny: I hate you.

Danny: Text me when you’re done being pathetic.

Harry rolled his eyes and slid his phone facedown on the table.

The hour crawled by.

And then—

Finally—

She walked back toward his table.

Apron off. Jacket on. Bag slung over one shoulder.

Her shift was over.

And Harry sat up a little straighter.

“You actually waited.”

She didn’t sound surprised.

More amused.

Like she had expected him to wait but still found it funny.

He lifted a brow. “You said an hour.”

“And you’re a man who listens?”

“I can be.”

She huffed out a small laugh, shaking her head. “Dangerous skill.”

Harry smirked. “You have no idea.”

She rolled her eyes, but he caught the way her lips twitched.

It wasn’t a no.

Wasn’t a go home, Castillo.

It was something else.

Something better.

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “So?”

“So.”

“What now?”

Harry exhaled, watching her carefully.

She was testing him.

Waiting to see if he was serious.

If he was worth the trouble.

And Harry Castillo never backed down from a challenge.

“Dinner,” he said simply.

She arched a brow. “You just ate.”

“You were working. I don’t eat alone.”

She crossed her arms. “That’s a dumb rule.”

He shrugged. “It’s my rule.”

She stared at him for a long moment.

Then—

“Fine.”

A single word.

But it sent something sharp and victorious rushing through his chest.

He stood, pulling a few crisp hundreds from his wallet and tossing them onto the table without a second glance.

She eyed the money but didn’t say anything.

Just turned on her heel and walked toward the door.

Harry followed.

The wind cut sharp against his skin as they stepped out onto the Manhattan sidewalk, the world around them alive with the hum of the city at night. A taxi honked a block away, a couple laughed as they passed, and the crisp scent of winter curled into the air.

She shivered, pulling her coat tighter around her body.

Harry didn’t shiver.

He barely felt the cold.

His eyes flicked toward her, noting the way she huddled into herself slightly, as if suddenly self conscious. She had been confident inside the restaurant sharp, unbothered, teasing—but now, beneath the glow of the streetlights, something in her had shifted.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

She scoffed. “You think I’m just gonna tell you that?”

His jaw twitched.

She was impossible.

And yet, somehow, he found himself waiting for her answer anyway.

She sighed, exhaling into the cold air. “It’s just…I just got off a shift. I’m not exactly dressed for whatever expensive place you’re about to drag me to.”

Harry blinked.

Then looked her over.

Dark jeans. A fitted black sweater. Scuffed up ballet flats.

She looked fine.

Better than fine.

She looked real.

She looked like her.

And that, he realized, was the problem.

She didn’t belong in his world.

Didn’t fit into the mold of women he was usually seen with.

She wasn’t draped in designer. She didn’t have a last name people recognized. She didn’t float through life with the quiet, effortless privilege of someone born into money.

But she was still the most interesting person he had met in years.

And that was dangerous.

He shoved his hands into his coat pockets. “I don’t care.”

She blinked up at him.

“What?”

“I don’t care what you’re wearing.”

She hesitated.

Her eyes searched his, looking for—what? Lies? Pity? Some hidden agenda?

She wouldn’t find any of those.

He had none to give.

Instead, he tilted his head. “Are you hungry or not?”

She rolled her eyes. “I just worked a ten hour shift. What do you think?”

His lips twitched.

Without another word, he turned and started walking.

And after a beat—she followed.

To her surprise, Harry didn’t take her somewhere suffocatingly high end.

No pretentious Michelin starred establishment. No reservations only steakhouse with white tablecloths and chandeliers worth more than her apartment.

God, her roommate was in for a treat when she gets home.

Instead, they ended up at a cozy, tucked away bistro on a quiet side street. The kind of place that didn’t have a dress code. The kind of place where people actually talked instead of posing for Instagram photos.

She narrowed her eyes as she followed him inside. “How do you even know about a place like this?”

Harry didn’t answer.

Of course he didn’t.

Instead, he pulled out a chair for her like some old fashioned gentleman and waited for her to sit.

She hesitated, lips twitching in amusement. “Wow. Chivalry isn’t dead after all.”

He ignored that too.

She sat.

He took the seat across from her.

A waiter appeared almost instantly.

Harry ordered whiskey.

She ordered a glass of wine.

She knew her wine, he'll give her that.

And then—for the first time since they met—there was silence.

Not uncomfortable silence.

But silence nonetheless.

She leaned back in her chair, watching him.

Harry was hard to read.

Brooding. Intense. Reserved.

The kind of man who looked like he had a thousand thoughts running through his head but no intention of saying any of them out loud.

The kind of man who could crush someone with a single, well calculated decision in his office during the day and then sit across from her in a dimly lit restaurant at night like none of it mattered.

She tapped her fingers against the table. “So, are you gonna ask me anything? Or are we just gonna sit here and stare at each other?”

Harry’s brow lifted slightly.

“I don’t ask questions I don’t care about the answers to.”

She blinked.

Then huffed out a small laugh. “Jesus. You’re insufferable.”

“So I’ve been told.”

She rolled her eyes and took a sip of wine.

He watched her over the rim of his own glass, studying the way she moved.

She wasn’t nervous.

She wasn’t trying to impress him.

And he hated how much he liked that.

She started talking first.

Not because he asked.

But because she wanted to.

“So, what do you think I do?” she asked, resting her chin on her hand.

Harry took a slow sip of whiskey. “You’re a server.”

She smirked. “Wow. Good job, detective.”

His jaw twitched. “That’s not a real question.”

“Fine. How long have I been doing it?”

He studied her.

Noticed the way she held herself, the way she had moved through the restaurant earlier, the way she hadn’t hesitated when her manager snapped at her.

“Years,” he said simply.

Her smirk faltered.

“Yeah,” she admitted. “Since I was nineteen.”

Something flickered in her eyes.

Something he didn’t understand.

Didn’t push.

But still—he noticed.

She exhaled, rolling her wine glass between her fingers. “It wasn’t supposed to be permanent.”

Harry’s fingers drummed against the table. “It never is.”

She lifted a brow. “You say that like you know.”

He didn’t answer.

Because he did know.

But he didn’t talk about it.

Didn’t talk about the nights he spent as a kid listening to his mother cry in the next room because she didn’t have the money for rent.

Didn’t talk about how she had worked three jobs just to keep food on the table.

Didn’t talk about how she got sick.

How the bills stacked up.

How money would have saved her.

But he didn’t say any of that.

He never did.

She watched him for a moment, like she was trying to figure him out.

Then she leaned back in her chair, lips curling slightly. “You don’t talk much, huh?”

Harry exhaled. “Not if I can help it.”

She grinned. “Well, lucky for you, I talk enough for the both of us.”

And she did.

She told him about the worst customers she’d ever had. The ridiculous things people asked for at restaurants. The way rich men treated servers like they were invisible.

She didn’t include him in that category.

And for some reason, that mattered.

She laughed at her own stories.

Harry didn’t laugh.

But he listened.

More than he should have.

More than he ever did.

She didn’t push him to share.

Didn’t ask him about his life, his money, his past.

She just talked.

And it was the first time in a long time that Harry didn’t mind someone filling the silence.

When their food came, she didn’t pick at it like the women he usually dined with.

She ate.

Finished her entire burger.

Made a satisfied noise as she wiped her mouth with a napkin.

Harry’s lips twitched. He wanted to smile. But he didn't.

By the time they left the restaurant, it was late.

The air was even colder now, the city quieter.

She shoved her hands into her pockets. “Alright, big shot. Where’s your driver?”

Harry exhaled, glancing down the street.

James was waiting, parked at the curb.

But for some reason—

For some stupid reason—

He didn’t want the night to end yet.

So instead of answering, he met her gaze.

And said, “Let’s walk.”

She blinked.

Then nodded.

��Okay.”

And just like that—

Harry Castillo found himself walking through the city with a woman he barely knew.

And, for once, he didn’t hate it.

The streets of Manhattan were quieter at this hour.

The usual chaos—the honking taxis, the chatter of impatient pedestrians, the ever present hum of a city that never slept had settled into something softer. The streetlights cast golden pools of light on the pavement and every now and then, a stray gust of wind sent a flurry of dry leaves skittering across the sidewalk.

She walked beside him, her hands tucked into the pockets of her jacket, her unhurried.

Harry had no idea where they were going.

She was talking again, the words flowing effortlessly, her voice filling the quiet space between them like it belonged there.

“I don’t know how people live alone in this city,” she mused, her breath visible in the cold air. “I mean, sure if you’re a billionaire hedge fund guy, then yeah, easy. But for the rest of us mortals? Forget it.”

Harry glanced at her. “So you have a roommate.”

She huffed out a small laugh. “More like a personal angel disguised as a roommate.”

His brow lifted slightly.

She kicked a small pebble across the pavement as they walked. “Her name’s Maya and she’s the only reason I can even afford to be in New York. She’s an artist—one of those ridiculously talented people who’s always sketching on napkins or leaving paint stains on everything.”

Harry hummed, tucking his hands deeper into the pockets of his coat. “And she sells her work?”

“Oh, yeah. To people like you,” she teased, smirking up at him.

His jaw flexed slightly. “Like me?”

She shrugged. “Rich. Intimidating. Definitely the type to spend five grand on a painting because some gallery curator convinced you it was ‘evocative of the human condition.’”

Harry let out a sharp exhale, something just short of a laugh. “I don’t buy art.”

She gave him a pointed look. “So you just have blank walls in your penthouse?”

He hesitated.

She gasped, dramatic. “Oh my God, you do!”

His jaw twitched. “I don’t see the point.”

She groaned, shaking her head. “That is actually the most depressing thing I’ve ever heard.”

Harry smirked slightly. “Maya sounds lucky to have you as her publicist.”

She rolled her eyes. “Not her publicist. Just her number one fan. And her unpaid assistant, apparently, because every time she has a gallery showing, I end up playing bartender.”

“You work events for her?”

She lifted a shoulder. “Yeah, I mean... I don’t want to be useless.”

Harry frowned slightly at that. “You’re not useless.”

She blinked up at him, something flickering behind her expression like maybe she wasn’t used to hearing that.

She recovered quickly, exhaling through her nose. “Try telling that to the people who snap their fingers at me when they want a refill.”

Harry’s jaw tightened.

There was something about that, about the idea of her being treated like she was nothing, about people looking past her like she didn’t matter.

That irritated him more than it should have.

But he didn’t say anything.

Instead, he glanced over at her, taking her in.

Her hair was slightly tousled from the wind, strands curling around her face. The dim glow of the streetlights softened her features, casting a warm hue against her skin. She looked…

Gorgeous.

Pretty.

She caught him staring and arched a brow. “What?”

Harry looked straight ahead. “Nothing.”

She huffed a small laugh, bumping her shoulder lightly against his. “You’re weird.”

“Good to know.”

She grinned but didn’t push it.

They kept walking.

They hadn’t planned on stopping anywhere, but when she spotted a small, hole in the wall coffee shop still open, she made a beeline for it.

Harry watched as she pressed her hands against the glass, peering inside like a kid outside a toy store.

She turned back to him, eyes bright. “I need something warm.”

Harry exhaled. “You could’ve just said that.”

She grinned. “Where’s the fun in that?”

He sighed but followed her inside anyway.

The shop was small, filled with the comforting scent of coffee and fresh pastries. A tired looking barista was wiping down the counter, clearly ready to close up for the night but she bounced up to the register without hesitation.

“One hot chocolate, please.”

Harry stared. “Hot chocolate?”

She flashed him a look. “What?”

“You’re a grown woman.”

“Wow, ageism?” she gasped. “How very hedge fund of you.”

He rolled his eyes. “Hot chocolate is for children.���

She smirked. “And yet, I bet I’m gonna enjoy my drink way more than whatever depressing black coffee you’re about to order.”

Harry clenched his jaw.

Then turned to the barista.

“…Make it two.”

She lit up.

Not a smirk, not a teasing quip...just a genuine, unfiltered grin. “See? You’re not completely soulless after all.”

Harry huffed but said nothing.

They sat by the window, watching the street outside as their drinks cooled.

She took the first sip and sighed dramatically. “Oh my God."

Harry lifted a brow but took a sip of his own.

It was…warm. Smooth. A little too sweet.

Not terrible.

She grinned at him over the rim of her cup. “You love it.”

He set his cup down. “I tolerate it.”

She snorted. “Liar.”

Harry exhaled, shaking his head.

He was lying.

But he wasn’t about to admit that to her.

By the time they finally made it to her place, it was late.

The entrance to her building was old but well kept, tucked into a quieter side street. The kind of place that probably had thin walls and a temperamental landlord.

She stopped at the door, turning to face him.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then—

“You gonna be weird about this?” she asked, crossing her arms.

Harry tilted his head slightly. “Weird about what?”

She smirked. “You look like the kind of guy who doesn’t walk a woman home unless he’s expecting to come up.”

His jaw clenched. “I wasn’t—”

She grinned, cutting him off. “Relax. I’m messing with you.”

His lips pressed into a thin line. “Hilarious.”

She stepped back, pressing her shoulder against the doorframe. “But hey…thanks. For dinner. And the hot chocolate.”

Harry held her gaze.

She was looking at him like she wasn’t sure what to make of him yet.

Like she hadn’t quite figured him out.

And that, somehow, made him want to see her again.

Before he could say anything, she yawned, stretching her arms above her head.

“You gonna try to find me again?”

His jaw tightened.

But his lips twitched.

“I already did once.”

She hummed, tilting her head. “Then maybe next time, I’ll let you find out something about me.”

Harry exhaled.

He should have left.

Should have walked away.

But instead, he lingered just long enough to watch her disappear into the building, just long enough to hear her footsteps fade.

And then, finally—

He turned.

And walked away.

He still didn't get her name.

But he knew where to find her.

Harry had gone back to the restaurant.

But she wasn’t there.

Two days.

Two entire days of walking into that overpriced Manhattan restaurant, sitting at the same damn table, ordering the same damn whiskey neat, only for some random server—not her—to take his order.

It was infuriating.

He didn’t know her name.

Didn’t have her number.

Didn’t know anything except where she lived.

And that made something settle in his chest that he wasn’t ready to examine.

Danny noticed.

Of course he did.

“You’re sulking,” he said, lazily swirling his cocktail at their usual bar.

Harry scowled. “I don’t sulk.”

Danny smirked. “Right. You just glare at your drink like it owes you money.”

Harry clenched his jaw.

Then exhaled sharply. “She’s not at work.”

Danny blinked. Then grinned. “Oh my God, you are sulking.”

Harry resisted the urge to throw his whiskey at him.

Instead, he pulled out his phone and stared at her building’s address for the fiftieth time.

Danny sighed, tilting his head. “You know, if you really wanted to, you could—”

“I’m not hiring a private investigator,” Harry muttered.

Danny huffed. “I was gonna say Google it. Jesus, man.”

Harry scowled.

But he did Google it.

Or rather, he, Danny, and James—his driver, the only person in his life with more patience than a saint—spent two hours tracking down any lead they could.

It was a long, painful process.

But finally—Maya.

Maya Klein.

Her roommate.

Her best friend.

Her very online best friend.

It wasn’t hard to find her art portfolio.

Okay, maybe it was a little hard.

But after squinting through three different Instagram accounts, a Tumblr page, and a very outdated LinkedIn profile, they found it.

And in bold, clean font on her website—

GALLERY SHOWING TOMORROW.

TRIBECA

8PM-11PM

Harry leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming against his desk.

“She bartends for her friend’s events,” he murmured.

Danny’s brows lifted. “And you’re planning on showing up.”

Harry exhaled. “I want to see her again.”

Danny smirked. “Wow. You’re down bad.”

Harry ignored him.

He stuck out like a sore thumb the moment he stepped inside.

Danny, of course, fit right in. Already drifting off into the crowd, chatting up a woman in a fringed leather jacket holding a glass of something overpriced.

James had stayed outside, leaning against the Maybach with a cigarette between his fingers, avoiding any part of this ridiculous endeavor.

And Harry?

Harry stood in the middle of an art gallery, surrounded by people who clearly hated him.

The walls were filled with abstract pieces. Raw depictions of capitalism and greed, of money and power and the corruption that came with it.

A statement.

A big fuck you to billionaires.

A big fuck you to him.

And here he was—one of the richest men in the country—standing in the middle of it.

He definitely stuck out.

Eyes flickered toward him.

Some curious. Some amused.

But most?

Judgmental.

Harry sighed.

Danny was gonna love this.

He scanned the room.

And then—

He saw her.

Behind the bar.

Her hair pulled back in a clip, sleeves rolled up, effortlessly balancing bottles and glasses, moving like she had done this a million times.

His jaw unclenched.

Something settled inside him.

Something he didn’t have the time—or patience—to name.

He walked over.

She didn’t see him at first.

Not until he was standing right in front of her.

Then—

Her eyes lifted.

And froze.

Her fingers stilled over the cocktail shaker, her lips parting slightly in surprise.

Then, slow and deliberate...

She smirked.

“You again.”

Harry exhaled. “Me again.”

She hummed, setting the shaker down. “Didn’t peg you for an art guy.”

“I’m not.”

Her smirk widened. “So you’re here for the free drinks?”

He tilted his head. “No.”

Her lips pressed together, amusement flickering in her gaze. “Then why are you here?”

Harry held her gaze.

And then—

She sighed, shaking her head.

“You really don’t like answering questions, do you?”

He exhaled. “You weren’t at work.”

Her brows lifted slightly.

Harry leaned forward, resting his hands against the bar. “I noticed.”

Her expression softened just for a second.

Then she sighed, rolling her eyes. “My legs gave out.”

His jaw tensed. “What?”

She shrugged a shoulder. “It happens. I overworked myself too much. I needed a break.”

His fingers curled against the bar.

Harry didn’t like that.

Didn’t like the idea of her pushing herself until she physically collapsed.

Didn’t like the fact that she was still working tonight.

Didn’t like any of it.

She noticed.

“You’re brooding.”

“I don’t brood.”

She arched a brow. “You definitely brood.”

Harry exhaled sharply.

She smirked.

Then casually, she grabbed a napkin, scribbled something on it, and slid it across the bar.

He frowned. “What’s this?”

She smiled.

“My name.”

His fingers brushed the paper.

His jaw flexed.

Finally.

Finally.

Then—

Across the room, a conversation caught his ear.

Loud. Purposeful. Like it was meant for him to hear.

It definitely was meant for him to hear.

“I don’t understand how these people live with themselves.”

Harry’s fingers stilled.

He turned slightly, gaze narrowing at a group gathered near one of the paintings.

“They show up, throw their money around, act like they’re saving the industry when they’re the ones who ruined it in the first place.”

Another voice chimed in. “It’s capitalism at its finest.”

Harry exhaled through his nose.

Same conversation. Different setting.

Nothing he hadn’t heard before.

He should have ignored it.

But then—

Then, he heard her.

Her voice.

Sharp. Defiant.

“You do realize the only reason these paintings are selling at all is because of the people you hate, right?”

Silence.

Harry blinked.

His gaze snapped back to her.

She wasn’t looking at him.

She was facing them, eyes narrowed, jaw set.

The guy—some twenty-something in a turtleneck—sputtered. “That’s not the—”

“No, go ahead,” she said, tilting her head. “Explain to me how you think art survives without the rich. Who do you think is buying these paintings? Who do you think is keeping galleries open? I’ll wait.”

The group shifted uncomfortably.

Harry smirked.

The guy scoffed. “That’s not the point.”

She arched a brow. “Then what is the point?”

More silence.

She exhaled. “Look, I get it. The system’s fucked. But if you really hate capitalism so much then maybe don’t take a paycheck from a company that thrives on it.”

The guy’s face turned red.

Then, huffing, he spun on his heel and walked away.

Harry exhaled through his nose.

And when she turned back to him—

He was looking at her.

Really looking at her.

She raised a brow. “What?”

Harry’s jaw ticked.

Then, slow—steady—

He reached for the napkin with her name.

Folded it.

Slipped it into his pocket.

“Nothing,” he murmured.

And, for the first time in months—

Harry Castillo smiled.

Actually let out a smile.

It was a rare thing. Unpracticed. A little uneven.

And it caught her off guard so much she forgot to breathe for a second.

That smile.

The real kind, not the smirk, not the polite billionaire press photo kind. It was all quiet softness and amusement, like a secret between the two of them. It was the kind of smile you could fall into if you weren’t careful.

“Wow,” she murmured, recovering. “You do know how to do that.”

Harry’s smile didn’t falter, but he said nothing.

Typical.

The gallery began to thin out as the night wore on. Coats were retrieved from racks, the sound of shoes echoed across the polished concrete floor, and people began floating toward the exit in clumps, cheeks flushed from wine and conversations.

Harry stayed.

He didn’t know why he stayed.

He could’ve left after thirty minutes like most of the other well dressed nuts in the room. But something about the way she moved behind the bar—tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, laughing quietly when Maya came over to whisper something in her ear—held him in place.

She kept sneaking glances at him too.

Never long. Never obvious.

But enough.

He stayed perched in a corner, away from the art critics and the performative intellectuals with their wine sick grins and disdain for everything they secretly wanted. He watched her wipe down glasses and stack them methodically, her body moving slower than usual now, more deliberate. Her energy was dwindling down.

She was tired.

Exhausted, actually.

He could see it in the way her shoulders sagged when she thought no one was watching.

Around midnight, the final few stragglers filtered out. Maya was surrounded by compliments, champagne, and laughter as she waved people goodbye. She was magnetic.

But Harry’s focus was only on one person.

Her.

She was drying a wine glass with a rag that had seen better days when he approached the bar again.

“You’re still here?” she asked without looking up.

“I tend to see things through.”

She scoffed. “That doesn’t sound exhausting at all.”

Harry didn’t respond. Instead, he reached into his coat and placed something on the bar. A lemon ginger lozenge.

She stared at it. “What is this?”

“You’ve been clearing your throat for the last hour. Thought you might be getting sick.”

She blinked.

And then quietly, “Thanks.”

He nodded once. “You ready to go?”

She furrowed her brows. “Go?”

“You were going to walk home, weren’t you?”

“I—” She hesitated. “Yeah. I was.”

“Not happening.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Harry—”

“Maya said she’s having people over.”

Her mouth opened. “She what?”

As if on cue, Maya bounced over, cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling. “There you are! Just wanted to let you know we’re having a tiny get together back at the apartment. You’re coming, right?”

She forced a smile. “Yeah…totally.”

Maya beamed. “Perfect! I’ll see you there!” And just like that, she twirled away in her silk pants and heeled boots like a whirlwind of chaos and charm.

Harry looked at her, quiet.

“You don’t want to go,” he said plainly.

She paused. “No, I mean—I don’t mind—”

“You need rest.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re exhausted.”

She made a face. “Thanks.”

“It wasn’t an insult.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t sound like a compliment.”

“It was. You’ve been on your feet all night and still managed to argue with an entire table of art anarchists without flinching.”

She blinked. “You were listening?”

Harry shrugged. “I’m observant.”

Something warm crept up her neck. “That’s actually…kind of sweet.”

“I wasn’t trying to be.”

“Still is.”

He exhaled, glancing toward the door. “Let me take you somewhere quiet.”

She looked at him carefully. "Okay." She nodded.

Harry smiled. “Come on.”

As they walked toward the exit, a low whistle echoed across the room.

“Ooooh, look who’s leaving together,” Danny called out, arm slung lazily around a girl wearing metallic eyeshadow and an alarming amount of lip gloss.

Harry cringed visibly. “Ignore him.”

“Oh, I planned on it,” she muttered, quickening her step.

Outside, James was leaning against the Maybach, his cigarette burning low between his fingers.

He straightened when he saw them. “Evening,” he said coolly, holding the door open without a single question.

Once inside the car, she leaned her head against the window, legs tucked beneath her. The car purred beneath them as it slid through the streets like a shadow.

“You always have a driver?” she asked after a moment.

“Yes.”

“Even when you’re just, like…getting groceries?”

Harry looked at her. “Do I look like I get groceries?”

She snorted. “Fair.”

He glanced at her again. “Do you want me to take you home?”

She paused. Her apartment would be loud. Crowded. Too many people, too much laughter, and she was tired.

Bone tired.

“I…wouldn’t mind going somewhere quiet,” she said softly.

Harry didn’t reply. Just gave James a nod. And James didn’t need to be told twice.

The car ride was quiet, but not uncomfortable. The city lights flickered through the windows as they sped through Manhattan, the hum of the engine steady beneath them.

She was curled up in the passenger seat, head resting against the cool glass, eyes flickering between exhaustion and quiet thought.

Harry didn’t say anything. Didn’t push.

He liked the silence with her.

When they finally pulled up to his building, James barely looked surprised. He simply put the car in park, gave Harry a knowing look and muttered, “Have a good night, sir.”

Harry ignored him.

She hesitated when the elevator doors opened, glancing up at him.

“You sure about this?” she murmured.

Harry met her gaze. “You need rest.”

She exhaled. “You’re really committed to this whole taking care of me thing, huh?”

Harry didn’t answer. Just stepped into the elevator.

After a beat—she followed.

The penthouse was quiet when they entered.

It was huge.

Dimly lit, the skyline of Manhattan stretching out before them through the floor to ceiling windows. She looked around, taking in the sleek design, the impossibly neat kitchen, the pristine furniture.

Then—

“You really don’t have anything on the walls.”

Harry exhaled. “We’ve been over this.”

She smirked. “Still depressing.”

Harry ignored her, shrugging off his coat before turning to her.

“Go take a bath.”

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

Harry huffed. “You need to relax.”

She scoffed. “I’m fine.”

He raised a brow. “You’ve been on your feet for how many hours straight. Worked so long your legs gave out.”

She rolled her eyes. “I said I’m fine.”

Harry’s jaw clenched.

Then, slowly, pointedly, he turned and started walking toward the bathroom.

“What are you—”

“Follow me.”

Against her better judgment—she did.

The bathroom was nothing short of luxurious.

A massive tub sat beneath a soft glowing light, marble countertops lining the space. The air smelled faintly of something expensive, probably whatever soap billionaires used.

Harry turned on the water, letting the tub fill, steam curling into the air.

She leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “You really think I’m about to take a bath?”

Harry gave her a look. “Yes.”

She scoffed. “Why?”

“Because you deserve to rest.”

Something flickered in her expression.

Soft. Unreadable.

Harry stepped back, nodding toward the tub. “Take your time.”

She hesitated.

Then—finally—sighed. “Fine.”

Harry nodded once before leaving the room.

She stood there for a moment, staring at the tub, at the ridiculous luxury of it all.

Then—she caught sight of the robe hanging by the sink.

A man’s robe.

His.

She swallowed.

Slowly, she peeled off her clothes, stepping into the warm water letting the heat soak into her muscles, melting the exhaustion from her bones.

She leaned back, closing her eyes.

And then—

She caught the scent of something in the air.

His shampoo.

His body wash.

Without thinking, she reached for the bottle, pouring a small amount into her palm before lathering it into her hair.

She didn’t know why she did it.

Didn’t know why the idea of smelling like him made something tighten in her chest.

But she didn’t stop.

Not until the scent of Harry Castillo was wrapped around her.

The warmth from the bath had seeped into her bones, leaving her skin flushed, her limbs loose.

For the first time in what felt like forever, she felt good.

Not just better—good.

Rested.

Weightless.

And wrapped in the scent of him.

She exhaled slowly, fingers dragging through her damp hair as she stepped out of the tub. Water dripped from her skin, soaking into the thick, plush bath mat beneath her feet.

She reached for the robe hanging by the door.

His robe.

It was heavy, rich, expensive fabric, meant for a man built like Harry.

She pulled it on anyway, wrapping herself in it, feeling swallowed whole by the warmth of something that belonged to him.

Something about that made her stomach twist.

Not in a bad way.

Not in a way she could name.

She let her fingers toy with the fabric as she padded quietly out of the bathroom, stepping into the dim glow of his penthouse.

Harry was waiting.

Not in a way that was obvious, but in a way that was distinctly him.

His posture was casual, leaning against the back of his couch, one hand resting lightly on the armrest. He had changed, too—no longer in his suit jacket, just his dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, exposing the veins in his forearms, the carefully restrained tension in his body.

His gaze flickered over her, slow like he was taking his time, committing every detail to memory.

She knew what he saw.

Bare legs peeking out from beneath his robe. Damp hair curling against her collarbone. The softened edges of her normally sharp expression.

And for once—

For once, she let him look.

She watched his throat bob slightly, something unreadable flashing behind his eyes before he exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair.

“Come here.”

Her lips twitched. “Bossy.”

He didn’t deny it. Just waited.

She crossed the room, bare feet pressing against the smooth floor, stopping when she was just a few inches away.

Harry’s hands curled into fists against the couch for a second, like he was fighting the urge to touch her.

Then without a word he turned, disappearing into his bedroom.

She blinked, startled.

Then—

He came back.

With clothes.

A pair of sweatpants.

A plain black T-shirt.

Things that were clearly his, judging by the size of them.

He handed them to her, jaw tight. “Put these on.”

She took them, amused. “You actually own sweatpants?”

Harry exhaled through his nose, running a hand along his jaw. “Contrary to popular belief, I don’t sleep in a tux.”

She grinned. “Shocking.”

He said nothing.

Just watched as she took the bundle of clothing and walked back toward the bathroom to change.

His sweatpants hung low on her hips, the waistband tied in a loose knot to keep them from slipping. The shirt was too big, drowning her frame, the fabric worn in and soft against her skin.

It felt like being wrapped in him.

Warmth lingered in the cotton, in the faint scent of his cologne. Something expensive.

She padded barefoot through the penthouse, fingers fidgeting with the hem of the shirt. The city glittered outside the floor to ceiling windows.

Everything about this place was so immaculate. So clean. So structured. It screamed of control—of a man who ruled his world with precision.

But the moment she entered it some of that control seemed to slip.

She could feel it in the way Harry watched her, the way his fingers twitched when she walked past him, as if resisting the urge to reach out and keep her close.

She stopped in front of the window, arms crossing over her chest, her breath fogging slightly against the cool glass. “You can see everything from here.”

Harry was behind her, watching her quietly. “You like it?”

She exhaled, eyes scanning the skyline. “Yeah. But…”

His brow lifted slightly. “But?”

She hesitated. Then with a small teasing smirk, she turned to face him. “It’s kinda depressing that you live up here all alone.”

Harry’s jaw twitched. “I’m fine.”

She huffed. “That’s what all lonely people say.”

His lips curved just slightly, something almost amused flickering behind his sharp gaze. “And you’re an expert on loneliness?”

She shrugged, moving closer, the fabric of his shirt swaying against her thighs. “I know what it looks like.”

Harry watched her approach, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction. “And what do I look like?”

She tilted her head, scanning him playfully. “Like a very, very rich man who doesn’t know what to do with himself outside of work.”

Harry huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Accurate.”

She grinned, victorious. “Told you.”

For a moment they just stood there.

Him watching her.

Her watching him.

The silence between them wasn’t empty.

It was heavy. Charged.

Harry’s gaze flickered to her legs, to the way his sweatpants hung off her frame, the fabric pooling at her ankles. Then to the curve of her hip, the way his T-shirt stretched over her body, swallowing her whole.

Something deep and dangerous stirred in his chest.

She looked good like this.

Too good.

Her chin tilted up, eyes meeting his. “You really don’t talk much, do you?”

His hand lifted, brushing her damp hair back behind her ear. His touch was light, barely there, but it made her breath catch.

His fingers trailed lower, down her jaw, grazing the edge of her throat.

She swallowed.

His voice was deep when he finally spoke. “I say what matters.”

Her lips parted slightly, something unspoken hanging between them.

She felt it before she realized what she was doing.

The way her body leaned into his.

The way his fingers skimmed over the fabric of his shirt against her skin, so close, yet still too far.

His touch was careful.

Like he was memorizing her.

She exhaled shakily. “You keep looking at me like that.”

Harry’s thumb brushed over her hip. “Like what?”

“Like you’re trying to figure something out.”

“I am.”

She blinked. “What?”

Harry’s hand slid lower, fingers teasing along the edge of his sweatpants on her frame. His voice was softer this time, almost dangerous.

“If I can control myself.”

Her breath hitched.

She wasn’t sure who moved first.

Maybe it was him. Maybe it was her.

But suddenly—

They weren’t talking anymore.

His lips crashed against hers, urgent and deep, his hands gripping her waist, pulling her flush against him. She gasped into his mouth, fingers tangling in the fabric of his dress shirt as he devoured her.

The world blurred.

She barely registered the way he picked her up, his hands firm around her thighs as he hoisted her up, murmuring quietly against her ear, “Jump.”

And she did.

Wrapped her legs around his waist like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He carried her through the penthouse with effortless strength, like she weighed nothing, like holding her close was something he’d done a thousand times before.

And then—

He walked her backward towards his bed, his mouth never leaving her skin, breath warm against her jaw.

The mattress hit the backs of her knees, sending her falling onto it in a slow, melting sprawl of limbs and want.

The soft silk duvet caught her, cool against the fever of her skin, her hair spilling across his impossibly expensive sheets. The room was dim but warm, the city humming just beyond the glass windows, the skyline glittering like a thousand secrets no one else would ever know.

Harry stood above her, his breathing deeper now, his eyes locked onto her like he was trying to memorize the moment. Like she was a painting he hadn’t expected to fall in love with.

She propped herself up on her elbows, staring back. Waiting. Wanting.

Harry’s fingers moved to his collar first. He slowly unbuttoned his shirt, one button at a time, revealing inch after inch of warm, lived in skin beneath it. He wasn’t carved like marble—wasn’t the chiseled fantasy that Hollywood sold in glossy posters.

He was real.

His chest was broad, his arms strong but not perfect. Age spots dotted his skin like constellations, a faint scar ran along the side of his ribs, and when his shirt slipped off his shoulders, she saw the slight softness of his belly.

A pouch.

Honest. Natural. Human.

And when her eyes lingered there—he froze.

She could tell.

The way his breath caught. The flicker of hesitation in his brow.

He was used to being looked at like a power figure. A man in suits. Behind desks. Holding titles and leverage.

But being seen like this?

Like a man—just a man—baring everything? That was different.

She sat up slowly, still watching him. She didn’t say anything, didn’t tease, didn’t fill the space with false comfort.

She just reached for him.

Her fingers skimmed across the skin of his abdomen, soft and warm beneath her touch, and she whispered, “Come here.”

Something in him shifted.

Like maybe he believed her.

That she wanted all of him.

He slid out of his slacks, slow and deliberate, leaving him in nothing but his briefs for a moment before they, too, joined the pile of fabric on the floor.

Then he reached for her.

She let him.

His hands were careful when they peeled off her borrowed T-shirt, pulling it over her head and dropping it aside. Then her body lifted instinctively as he slid the sweatpants down her hips, revealing soft skin, flushed and ready beneath him.

Now they were skin to skin.

Warm and real.

Harry hovered over her, the muscles in his arms flexing slightly as he held himself above her, his gaze moving slowly down her body.

“You’re beautiful,” he said.

Just like that.

No flourish. No performance.

Just a truth that had been sitting in his chest since the moment he first saw her.

She reached up and cupped his jaw, her thumb brushing just beneath his lip. “So are you.”

His breath hitched.

And then he kissed her.

Not rough. Not greedy.

Deep.

Warm.

Slow.

The kind of kiss that says I see you. I feel you. I’m here.

His hands roamed her body like he couldn’t decide what he wanted to touch first—her ribs, her hips, the soft curve of her breast beneath his palm.

And then—

He began to slide lower.

Kissing down her neck.

Dragging his lips across her collarbone.

Sinking further and further until he was kneeling between her thighs, the backs of his hands brushing gently along the insides of her legs, coaxing them apart like he was opening something sacred.

She was already breathing heavy, already undone just from the look in his eyes.

He settled between her legs like he belonged there.

And maybe—he did.

He didn’t dive in like a man with something to prove. He took his time.

Let her feel his breath first.

The heat of his mouth pressing gentle, almost shy kisses to her thighs.

Then—

He licked a slow, deliberate stripe up her center, groaning low when he tasted her.

Like she was the answer to a hunger he didn’t know he’d been carrying.

Her hips jerked. Her fingers scrambled for the sheets.

He pressed his palms to her hips, grounding her, murmuring something too quiet to make out.

Then his mouth opened on her again.

Tongue.

Lips.

Heat.

Every part of him focused on unraveling her.

She moaned, soft and choked, as his tongue circled her clit, slow at first, then faster with just the right amount of pressure.

He adjusted when she squirmed.

Groaned when she whimpered.

Moved with her, not against her.

Like this was a language only he spoke.

She looked down once—just once—and saw him watching her.

Eyes locked to hers.

Dark. Hungry. But more than that...captivated.

Like he could spend the rest of his life right here, on his knees tasting her like he needed her to survive.

His mustache scraped lightly against the tender skin of her thighs, a delicious burn. His fingers dug into her hips as his mouth worked in steady rhythm, not relenting even when she gasped, Harry, please—

Especially then.

He moaned against her like her begging was the most beautiful sound in the world.

And then—

She broke.

She came with a soft, shattered gasp, her body buckling as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through her. Her hands found his hair, her legs trembled, her hips rolled up into his mouth.

He held her through all of it.

Licked her through it.

Didn’t stop until she was whimpering from overstimulation, her fingers tugging weakly at his hair.

Only then—only then—did he lift his head.

His mouth was slick, his jaw tense, his chest heaving.

He crawled back up the bed, lips brushing her cheek, her neck, the corner of her mouth.

He kissed her slowly.

Didn’t try to speak.

He just laid beside her, naked and warm and quiet.

Letting her curl into him.

Letting the silence stretch.

Letting himself feel.

And when she finally caught her breath, when she looked up at him and whispered, “You okay?”

Harry gave her a look so full of tenderness it nearly undid her all over again.

“I am now,” he said.

And she believed him.

They laid there, skin to skin, her fingers tracing slow, thoughtless shapes against his chest while his hand rested on the curve of her hip not wanting to let go, grounding them both in something quiet and real.

For the first time in months, Harry hadn’t thought about Lucy.

Not once.

Not her laugh, not the space she left behind.

He only thought about the girl breathing softly in his arms, asleep against his chest like she belonged there.

And when his eyes finally closed, he felt safe.

Maybe for the first time in his life.

[prlssprfctn]

I love this specific flavour (semi-canon, mind you) of Bruce Wayne being awfully jealous and petty, if his kids have other parental figures that they like, or just in general prefers someone's company over him. At least, amongst people of his age range.

Thus, I raise you a very specific concept: Bruce one-sidedly beefing with Roman Sionis, because he is the first person Jason wants to annoy, when he is in the good mood. Yeah, you heard it right.

Because let's be honest, Jason doesn't give two fucks about Black Mask, he doesn't consider him to be valuable and intimidating, but he is funny to toy with! You need anti-stress? Stomp on remainings of Roman's dignity! You are in good mood and want to celebrate something? Crash Roman's party. Dunno. Where Bruce lands in this scenario? Let me demonstrate.

Bruce: Okay, I came to peace with a realisation that I am not the adult that Jason goes to get advice from any more. It is fine. But I don't give up! At least, I am his first annoy-the-hell-out-of-it contact. Knowing Jason, it is as valuable as anything else. Dick, sceptical: What is annoy-the-hell-out-of-it contact? Bruce: Like, when he wants to ruin someone's mood, he chooses me first. Tim, not getting distracted from his phone: Uh, no, you are not. It is Black Mask. Bruce: What? Tim: Yeah, everyone knows it. Like, come on. Check the statistics. Bruce: ...

So that is where his rivalry with Roman starts. A one that Roman himself doesn't have an idea about. But that is aside the point.

Bruce: So, Jaylad... You have a good mood. Something had happened? Jason: Oh, lmao, well, I woke up in the bad mood this morning, so I ended up pretending to be one of Roman's goons, had some fun playing cards with these imbeciles, then "accidentally" spilled tea on Roman's new suit when he ordered me to bring it to him, and at the same time his right-hand came exactly at that moment to announce that Red Hood exploded his favourite warehouse. The best morning ever. Bruce, with his eye twitching: You could come to me instead, you know? Jason: Huh? Why would I? Bruce: *silent scream*

Black Mask, calling urgently at three in the morning: Had you set on the Bat on me? Why he is so obsessed with me recently? Jason, half-asleep on his day off: Man, what? I am confused. Black Mask: You are confused??? I am fucking confused. Why is he hunting me down??? Jason: Bro. I don't give a fuck. I didn't set anyone on, let alone that old man. Deal with your shit yourself. Jason: *hangs on*

Tim, later that week: Am I getting this right, you just threw Roman in the jail, so Jason could annoy you first and not him? Bruce, dusting his hands off: Roman is a deeply unsettling, troubling man, who deserves to rot in prison for things much worse than- Tim: Bruce. Don't bullshit me. Bruce: Fine. Yes. What is the problem? Damian, spawning behind them randomly: There is no problem, except for the fact that you failed to check your data. You are not Todd's second favourite object for bullying. It is grandfather. Bruce: What- Damian: That being said, mother called and asked you to do something. Todd is back at League, trying to fasten Ra's cardiac arrest. She would appreciate some assistance. Bruce, on his last strength: This can't be real. Tim, patting on his back: You will get there... some day. Bruce, exhaling: I am fine. Bruce: Tim: Damian: Bruce, a minute later: RA'S AL GHUL????????????????????????????????????????????????????

[hardbeingcasual]

“waiting for you, to tie my shoes.”

tie my shoes nat scatorccio fem reader

♪ tie my shoes, beabadoobee

this is how tomorrow moves masterlist

masterlist / yellowjackets masterlist

about. you love natalie, but you aren’t sure if she loves you back

warnings. blood, death, angst, sadness yellowjackets spoilers (for season three episode six)

Just by looking at her you knew you were in love.

You thought at first that you only liked her because you were stranded in the wilderness and she was the only one who had seemed to catch your eye, but it turned out to be more than that. You love everything about Natalie Scatorccio.

You loved her dyed blonde hair that was slowly turning brunette again.

You loved the curve of her lips that you wanted to kiss so badly.

You loved everything about her. You realised eventually that you loved her even way before the crash, you just didn’t realise it.

You caught yourself getting flustered just by her presence. When her eyes locked with yours you felt like your entire body was on fire.

When she was passing out orders to the other yellowjackets her eyes would meet yours, and you swore you felt something pass between the two of you. But that faded away when Natalie looked the other way, not noticing your saddened expression as she made herself busy with a task.

You hoped that maybe, just maybe that she felt the same, that she wanted her lips on yours —

“Hey,” You snapped out of your trance to see Melissa stood in front of you, you almost rolled your eyes but didn’t because you didn’t want Shauna to cut your limbs off. “Natalie put you on Coach Scott duty.” You raised your eyebrow at her words.

“Why me?” You ask.

Melissa shrugs, “She probably trusts you more than anyone else.” She said casually, not waiting for your reply as she walked away. You stare at her retreating figure, her words passing through your head.

Natalie trusted you?

You shake off any of those thoughts, stopping yourself from getting distracted as you make your way over to where Coach currently was, with the animals.

He scoffs when he sees you instead of Natalie.

You lean down to his level, holding a plate of food.

“You have to eat, Coach.” You push the plate on the ground towards him, urging him to eat it, but he just pushes it away.

He ignores your words, “Nat sent you, huh?”

You hesitantly nod, “I don’t want you to die, Coach.” You push the plate back to him, “Eat.” You say more strictly this time.

You go to walk away but Coach stops you in your tracks. “You need to tell her how you feel.” You turn back around to look at him.

You act clueless, but you knew exactly what he was on about. “What are you talking about?” You ask, exasperated.

He rolls his eyes, “You know exactly who I’m talking about,” He then says your name. “She needs you more than ever right now.”

You frown at his words as you walk back over to him, now sitting in front of him again. “How do you know?” You ask shyly, looking around as if everyone was listening in, but no one was and they wouldn’t be able to anyway considering you were both speaking at a quiet level.

“It’s obvious” He says your name again, “I’ve seen it before all of this. As your coach, nothing goes unnoticed.” You swallow the lump in your throat as you stand up again, walking away without a word. You were overwhelmed with what he said. Was it that obvious? Did everyone else notice it?

Coach was dead by the hands of Natalie.

You couldn’t bring yourself to feel sad. All you felt was sorrow for Natalie. You knew her and Coach were close.

The rest of the Yellowjackets were shouting at her, mostly the shouting being Misty, but she seemed so out of it. Coach’s blood on her face as she stares off. She ignores the shouts of the rest of the team and simply walks into where she slept in the camp.

You hesitated to follow her, not sure if she wanted the company but you followed her anyway. She needed assurance that not everyone was mad at her.

Firstly you grabbed a small bucket of water and a cloth, before walking to the ‘door’ of where Natalie

currently was, knocking quietly on the side of it.

She looks up, dazed before sighing. “If you’re here to yell at me, I don’t wanna hear it.” She told you.

You shake your head, “I’m not here to do that.” You assured softly as you hesitated to sit in front of her, placing the bucket and cloth next to you. You look at her hands and her bloodied face as you grab the cloth and dip it in the water. “Can I?” You asked, not wanting to push boundaries. She nodded, her eyes foggy.

Natalie watches you as you take her hand in yours, gliding the cloth along it, cleaning her hands, but no matter how much you cleaned them her hands will never be clean. Coach’s blood will always be on them.

You then move to her face, hesitating once again as you dab the wet cloth on her face, one hand holding the material and the other holding her chin. You didn’t notice her breath hitch as you did this, considering your heart was beating rapidly in your chest.

You get Coach’s blood off of her face, muttering, “All done.” You go to move backwards, giving her personal space back but Nat didn’t seem to want that. She grabs your hands with her hands that were previously bloody, and pulls you back closer.

She whispered a small thank you, you felt her breath on your face due to your close proximity. You almost never heard her due to your heartbeat in your ears.

The blood rushed to your cheeks, as you both stared into eachothers eyes, waiting on who was going to make the first move.

Natalie makes the first move, she tucks a strand of hair behind your ear that had fallen in your face.

She then bumps her nose with yours, her watery eyes looking into yours as if she was asking if you wanted this. You nodded slightly, Natalie wasting no time to meet your lips, you tasted her salty tears that were now streaming down her face.

You pull back slowly, Nat tries to chase your lips but you put your hands on her face, wiping the stray tears from her cheeks. “Are you okay?” You ask, concern etched on your features.

Her eyes meet yours, her lip trembling as more tears find their way down her cheeks. She shakes her head as she shakily manages to reply to you. “No, but I will be.” Her hands find yours on her face, closing her eyes at your touch.

#NOTES

sorry if this isnt great but i wanted to write for yellowjackets 🙏

please do not repost my work

[canichangemyblogname]

Highlighting my tags:

#this all feels like a result of cis het ppl not knowing what ‘sexual attraction’ or ‘sexuality’ mean #IK they’ll take this out of context #& try to turn it into some sort of ‘so they have less love between each other because we don’t see porn on TV?’ (or something similar) #but that is actually the opposite of what I am arguing #I am saying that you’ve created a mlm relationship (the ‘buddie’ ship) devoid of queerness #(and this is completely unrelated to whether they get down and nasty with each other) #take RW&RB (‘cause y’all are comparing Buck & Tommy to that movie)… #[that story] was like two Ken dolls being smashed together while some kid plays ‘house’ (but after she lost all her Barbies, leaving just the guys) #the two characters seemed to lack a sexuality despite getting down & nasty w/ each other #similar to couples in cis het rom cons (like hallmark movies) #& it’s because there’s this ‘inevitability’ to the relationship due to ‘circumstances beyond their control’ (or a lack of options) #it really seems like Buck & Eddie happens in y’all’s fantasies b/c Eddie is simply just there 🧍‍♂️#It’s the whole: ‘once their girl friends have been fridged and are gone then it’s BOUND to happen!’ #Buck has *chosen* Tommy. not out of inevitability. not b/c there are no more girls in the pic. not even b/c of arbitrary [relation]ship milestones #simply because he likes him. because he likes men. because he likes Tommy

I want it to be clear that the supposed “inevitability” of a ship is what often strips m/m fanfiction ships of queerness. (Things like, it’s “bound” to happen, it’s “end game,” it’s “gonna” happen, [but after, of course, the women are out of the way; this can only happen if there are no women])

In the minds of many straight people, especially heteropessimists, and a heterosexist society, there is an inevitability to relationships. Men and women “inevitably” end up together unless circumstances prevent or compel otherwise. This is considered “natural,” “self-evident,” and the “norm” (this is also a feature of compulsory heterosexuality).

For many in the 911 fandom, Buck and Eddie seem to get together because they’ve run out of girlfriends, as they’ve all been fridged, or because their friendship would “naturally” lead to this “end-stage.” 

(I want to note: Men who are into men don’t choose to date a man because there are no women available [like fridging the girlfriends]; they date men because they like men and there are men they like available. I know there’s this weird hetero trope that men aren’t picky & they’ll date whomever, so I need to correct the record: men don’t date just anyone they come across. A man’s not going to be into someone b/c that person’s simply there or convenient. Men do choose to date the people they do because they are attracted to them in some way.)

It is not “inevitable” that Buck will “take it slow” (“do it right,” in his mind) and eventually marry a long-term, serious, monogamous girlfriend. It is also no more “inevitable” that he will start fucking his best friend. And it was certainly not narratively inevitable that he would date Tommy and develop an on-again-off-again exes situationship with him. It’s also certainly not inevitable that Tommy is Buck’s “forever.”

Queer people make the active decision to live as their authentic selves. They will themselves to reject heteronormative tropes and live in a way that says, “No, your norms are not inevitable or natural or self-evident; I will live differently and love differently in a way you will never see as socially valid.” This is part of why queerness is political.

Part of what’s important about Buck & Tommy’s relationship *is* that they’re queer for each other. They’re attracted to each other for who the other is, and that includes them both being men. And they actively pursue each other—romantically and sexually—because they really like each other. They’re not choosing each other because there are no more women available. And they’re not choosing each other as a last resort (no one is settling). They get together because they like each other, they want to, and they can. They’re not going with the “choice” that everyone wants (“As much as everyone wants me to be pining for my straight best friend, that’s just not how it is”); they’re going with each other. When they pursue the feelings they have for one another, they’re deciding to live their life, be themselves, and pursue what feels right for them, and in the process reject the norms and expectations forced upon them, including norms like “you need to be alone before you can be happy in a relationship” and expectations like “queer guy pines for straight best friend.”

(I said to a mutual recently: “there’s still this idea that queer lives are *supposed to be* full of misery, pining, aloneness, and an absence of happiness; that we’re forever supposed to be ‘resisting temptation’ or hopelessly in love with something [someone] intangible that we shouldn’t and can’t have.” And both “try being alone again” and “hopelessly and tragically in love with unattainable best friend” play into. And it’s because of these norms that 911 fans care more about pining and a theoretical relationship than the actualized representation on their screens.)

And that’s not insignificant.

[The original version of this ending was posted on the 9th and 11th of May, 2024. This reblog on the 23rd of March, 2025, combines two posts in this thread into one for an overall shorter number of posts in the thread]

Hot take? A show with queer people in it from the beginning was never queerbaiting and— very literally and technically— never could. In the first episode, a gay man comes out to his family. And he doesn’t stop being gay after that; it’s a major plot point and part of his character going forward. You’ve had a married lesbian couple from the jump who are proud and unapologetic about their love for each other. The story has also portrayed several queer couples and stories in episodic plots, including featuring queer weddings.

Buck didn’t suddenly “become” bi. Queerness is not when straight people “turn” queer. He has been attracted to men the entire time; he has always been bi. Understanding yourself and your sexuality as a queer person is often so difficult under heteronormativity. Sometimes, it takes time.

Hell— Buck checking a guy out some time in season 3 or getting flustered by the idea he might like a guy, etc, etc, are not even examples “queerbaiting,” nevermind how the show already features queer stories.

I genuinely think some of y’all are just mad that he’s not sucking face with the man you want him to, and are being weirdly homophobic about it. “Buck kissing this man is kinda off-putting, lmao.” “Buck and his bf’s relationship is awkward. IDK, but it weirds me out.” “There’s something so cringe about Buck’s relationship—” “Who dates someone they haven’t been friends with for years first? It’s kinda creepy…” “I think their relationship is a weird mess. It’s not as meaningful as a slow burn.”

Life isn’t fanfiction and fanfiction tropes don’t make good writing. Most relationships start out with a “hey, I’m interested in you, let’s get to know each other.” You’re just transparently uncomfortable with two men expressing that interest in each other outside the arbitrary rules you’ve established to make a mlm relationship “legitimate” or “meaningful.”

[Fanfiction] tropes— from “there’s only one bed” to “we’re forced together, but fall in love anyway”— are responses to the sex-negativity and purity culture norms forced upon gender and sexual minorities. They provide a workaround for these norms but never a direct challenge. It’s like the Family Guy episode “Prick Up Your Ears,” where conservative Christian abstinence-only sex education leads to kids having ear sex. Ear sex is the workaround to the abstinence and purity rules they’d been taught, not the challenge. We still have stringent rules around who can touch whom and under what circumstances. Tropes reflect this. So, a trope like “there’s only one bed” provides the characters with a justification for their intimacy without directly challenging why it is taboo.

You’ve convinced yourself that shipping— and thus the tropes it employs— is more subversive than actual representation, and the people caught in the crossfire are actual queer people.

Also— for the love of fuck— stop comparing every mlm relationship to RW&RB.

[sunrisecaminus]

Requesting a tfp scenario where team prime finds reader and Ultra Magnus being affectionate in public for the first time. They're sitting down, cuddled up together when she shows him a drawing on a datapad she's working on. Upon realizing they're being watched she just looks up and asks if they need something.

The reader arrived with him and appears more laidback, but the Wreckers considered her Magnus's unofficial SIC because she was often in the background, quietly making sure that orders were carried out. She's called Magnus her partner occasionally when he wasn't around, but the team wasn't sure if she meant it romantically or not because her tone's hard to read.

The pair never meant to hide it or anything, they're just very chill about their relationship and kind of forgot to tell them.

Sorry it took a bit to make another post. I have been so tired from work and full-time college at the same time. Please understand that if your request takes a bit longer than you hoped, I promise it will most likely come your way. I rarely deny requests (especially if the requestion is not super specific, which means I have an open freedom of creativity to put more into the fic.) This request was perfect and honestly super cute, I had to write about it.

Ultra Magnus x Cybertronian Reader

Summary - Everyone at the Autobot base reacts to you and Magnus being conjunx.

Warning - Public Affection

Both of you were having the time of your lives. Going on missions together, talking alone and not having Wheeljack interrupt y'all. It the was of the best weeks you guys have had in a while. Ultra Magnus and you have been dating since before the war and you guess it just has never been said to the others how in love you two were. Sometimes you hear people saying things about how "Ultra Magnus is single for a reason" and it makes you giggle from what they don't know. You kiss him every morning, and he gets flustered every time. He cherishes you and thinks about you every waking moment he has. He praises primus for keeping you alive all this time, knowing how low of a chance it was for any of his friends to survive. He thanks everyday for you being able to sleep with him in his birth room and not be injured in Medbay.

Ultra Magnus was doing some paperwork in base, ready to go back into Medbay to hand it over to Ratchet. He has thought about where he was now and honestly, he doesn't mind it too much. Earth has been so pretty yet delicate, making him motivated to help Optimus during every Decepticon attack. The humans are a bit weird and chaotic, but some seem to have a mature personality, no matter how young they seem to be for Cybertronians. The oldest he has met was Fowler, and even his age would be newborn age for Ultra Magnus. He is surprised these things can die so early, yet that doesn't give them the right to leave them unprotected. Their world is in danger, and they need to help these fleshlings from going extinct. You, his conjunx, think the very same. Having become friends with most of the humans in the base has helped you grow more empathetic towards them. You persuaded Magnus to care more than he did the first time he landed on the planet and he doesn't regret one bit listening to you.

You see him in the hallway and before he goes to grab Ratchet, you grab his chassis and shove him against the wall. "Where do you think your going?" You giggle with evil intent as you lay your head on his chest. Magnus's frame gets a bit hotter as his cheeks flare up. You do this a lot when y'all are alone, and goodness does he want you to do it privately. Now a days he does not mind it, knowing you both have been conjunx for over four million years. He pets you on the helm and try to keep his posture while being pinned against the wall. "W-well, I was going to give my work to Ratchet…until I got rudely interrupted." You give him a smile and kiss him on the cheek. "Well after you do that why don't we have lunch? Me and Optimus just came back with enough energon for everyone. We should be ok for another week."

…

Ultra Magnus was sitting down in the main room of the base, a drink in his hand, waiting for you to come back after taking a small bath in the lake. It was gross knowing that everyone couldn't have clean cybertronian showers, but it had to do. You dry yourself and walk over to see him waiting for you. The smirk you gave him, throwing your leg around to sit on his lap. His face was fully flushed as he hesitantly places his servo on your leg to rest. You lean yourself on his chassis again and was ready to take a nap. The warmth he brought to your frame was the best thing today. Everything was just so nice, not wanting to remember the war that you both have went through for the past 4 million years.

Holding him tightly was the only thing you can think of doing, until you hear a small gasp. "What?" You turn to see Miko wide eyeing you both. Ultra Magnus was shocked to see her and realized she was now just a ticking time bomb now to tell everyone. You smile at her and lift your head up just a bit. "Good evening child, what are you doing here? Aren't you suppose to be in school?" Miko ignored everything you said and looked behind herself than back at you. "You're dating?!" Ultra was about to speak up about how inappropriate that question was, but you just nod in agreement. "Yes, Magnus is what I call my conjunx. We have bonded together to love each other for the rest of our lives." You didn't know humans had this kind of stuff so you try to explain it as best as you could to a teenager like her. You have been told multiple times that she was one of the more immature ones of the group. Speaking of, she has seemed to run off squealing for Bulkhead and Wheeljack. Even they didn't know about it and rushed over to see y'all snuggling. Wheeljack was dying of laughter and Bulkhead scratched his helm in confusion. "I don't get it. Magnus is one of the most closed off mechs I have met in my life. How did you get him to see you, y/n?" The question was reasonable to Bulkhead and the others, knowing Magnus as a strict no it all. For you, the question was funny from start to finish, knowing that you grabbed his attention with ease from how good you preform on missions.

Miko ran to go tell more and Ratchet seemed surprised at first, knowing conjunx was a very rare thing in Cybertronians and especially when the war has lasted this long. Optimus just congratulated his general for the loving relationship he had with you. Arcee could not freaking believe it like the kids, and Bumblebee was just as happy as a b-…a bee. Magnus didn't care too much that it came out, he just hated that Miko was the one out of the whole group to figure it out. You were open to answer any of their questions about how you met, what it was like at first, and how you both worked it out when the war began. It was a nice refresher to remember the old times anyway, you liked to think about those times when you both were so young. Magnus the whole time was quiet, only saying a few facts that you left out here and there. Everyone's attention was grabbed onto you, so they don't see him wrapping his arm around your waist. Magnus really just wanted alone time with you, which you motion to him that you promise to cuddle with him tonight…but right now your friends has many important questions to help understand the love that was just acknowledged in the room.

[lenodrysalad]

"Eddie said he's straight! Buck said Eddie was straight! Buck said he's not in love with his best friend! They shut down Buddie in the show it isn't happening ya'll are delusional! Queerbait! Queerbait! Blah blah blah"

I feel like I'm going insane. I'm sure we're all tired of people shouting "media literacy" every five seconds, but like... Yeah, develop some media literacy, please.

I'm saying this as someone who doesn't usually like romance, despite being subjected to it in basically every piece of media. As someone who doesn't generally look for love stories. As someone who loved Buddie but didn't consider any serious possibility of it becoming canon before season 7/8, who refused to believe Buddie was truly happening until I couldn't deny it anymore: this episode is loud.

Please understand how narrative arcs work. How character arcs work. How character development works. How serial broadcast television works. Understand how writing works. Consider context; take the whole episode, the whole season, and the whole series into account instead of treating things like they exist in isolation.

I'm too tired to go through the step-by-step details of the episode to prove why these, "they said it on screen, therefore..." takes are shortsighted and ignorant; plenty of people have done that already.

But that episode, even if we do take it in isolation, is textbook. Do people really take everything characters say at face value? Do people not watch other character's reactions? Listen to what else is being said? Watch what is being shown? Consider the implications? Themes? Narrative devices?

Consider that maybe, just maybe, characters can be unreliable narrators, or believe something to be true only for that belief to change later. These things don't happen in one episode. There's such a thing as set-up, foreshadowing, the starting point of a plot. 911 is a serial drama, therefore it is going to have A) long-form story and character arcs, and B) drama.

Characters are not going to move in straight lines, or talk in therapy speak, or solve every problem in an hour. They are not always going to be right, or self-aware, or truthful, or rational. Direct dialogue does not equate to honest dialogue.

Also, saying, "well in real life, people do this, I do that, their feelings would be this, yadda yadda yadda" means nothing. Your experiences are not universal, and more importantly, this is a work of fiction. Realism is whatever the story says it is; it's going to do whatever creates the most dramatic, interesting, developmentally beneficial, or emotionally satisfying story. Whether you like that story or not is irrelevant to the fact that stories are not going to cater to all your expectations or real-world experiences.

To people pointing to Tim or the actor's interviews as "proof" they're shutting down Buddie: again, please understand how broadcast television works. They are not going to tell us everything that's going to happen before it happens. They are going to play the neutral zone, the "wait and see," the "will they/won't they." They are going to lie. That is television production 101. You can compare what they've said in the past with canon and list all the contradictions, misdirection, and twists you didn't see coming because they didn't spoil it for you. Watch the show. That is the canon.

They're also not catering to fandom--people they already know are devoted to the show, familiar with Buddie, and consistently tuning in. They're introducing the idea of Buddie to the general audience, people who likely haven't considered the possibility before. The GA has to see that Buddie is an option, so the show needs to manifest it as if it's a brand new concept. This episode pulled the pin on that grenade in a very obvious way; the idea that Buck could be in love with Eddie and that Eddie could not be straight has been planted. The next seed will be Eddie's feelings. Now the show needs to water it and let it grow.

One last thing. Been seeing a fair amount of hand-wringing and condescension over people interpreting this episode differently. As if this is some sort of "gotcha" for bad writing, baiting, or people being stupid. Listen, genuine complaints about this show's writing aside, different interpretations or inferences are completely normal. This isn't unique. That is how people interact with stories, through personal biases, experiences, emotions, and expectations. That isn't inherently a bad thing. It's totally fine to have your own views; media is all about interpretation.

However, it is also true that just because you have an interpretation, that doesn't make it true. Not all interpretations are equal in their validity, evidence, or warrants. The show has an intention, it has a story in mind. If you don't see it, sure, that could be a failure of the writing, but it could also very well be a failure of your analysis, especially when the show hasn't finished telling the story. Looking at one thing in isolation and forming your whole conclusion based around that makes for poor critique.

I guess we'll just have to wait and see who's right.

[thorne-kreizler-fanfiction]

WOHOOO HERE WO GO AGAIN, and I know this will punch me in the heart

-"Thorin doesn’t answer, nodding only with his head, ignoring the mischievous glint in Dwalins eyes. He is not in the mood at all to answer his jokes" I'm dead

-"“How is everything? How did Fili manage as the temporary regent?” he asks seriously, looking at Dwalin." OMG FÍLIIIII

-"With a gesture of his hand, Thorin stops the soldier who is coming closer to help him take his things. He hates being helped with such trivial acts." Alright, 2 things. 1- the hand thing turned me on, especially considering he looks angry now. 2- this is so thorin core and I love it. I totally see him thinking like this

-"That strange feeling in Thorin’s still constricted throat moves now to his chest, causing a piercing pain that makes it difficult for him to undo his cloak" Oooh I'm loving thissss give me more ANGST

-"That is who she is, just a clever dwarven lady, who played him as if he were a foolish boy." NOOOO STOP ITTTTT😭

-"Dain has also surely told him about the bird that sang in his rooms every night." LMAO love this

-"So if Dwalin knows of all of them, why is Thorin unable to tell him about Ragna?" I WILL CRY

-"He was not subtle at all" LOL Not at all. Goddamn Dwalin. Love him

-"Ragna was gone, all was gone and she had to stay in the past" I have tears in my eyes, sTOP IT

-"looking at the tense back of the King, made only wider by his almost palpable fury and his huge fur-lined coat." it is NOT the time to turn me on!!

-Oh poor Dwalin. THORIN, APOLOGIZE IMMEDIATELY.

-"Silence, that friendly silence that calms him instantly and there is nothing he wants more than to have silence in his head and his heart." Same Thorin. Also, this is so damn sad

-"He is home." NO. HOME IS WHERE YOUR LOVED ONES ARE. GET YOUR ASS BACK TO THE IRON HILLS AND FIX THIS. CURSE YOU.

-AAAAH I LOVE ROAC AND THORIN

-“You have a white feather,” “You have some white hairs.” 😂Love them

-“I need to show you something, Thorin,” OH NO, WHAT NOW?

-Lol now everybody but Thorin has a wife. Who's next? Bombur?

-Thorin in his mind is surely like: Now even the damn birds get a wife before me

-"Surely he had chosen a mate with a very strong character, a character that was very familiar to him. Too familiar." I WILL CRY

-"Roac had had to remember it all and kept seeing it before his eyes." Oh... 🥺

-"Out of sight, out of mind. Maybe Thorin has to start thinking about that sentence." UGH MY HEART

-"Females" lol yes and get used to it

-"These are not only leaves and sticks, this is a nest." I SWEAR I *SCREAMED* OMG

-"Thorin smiles with the side of his mouth as he feels his heart full of sudden joy, a joy that it was weird to explain." OH MY HEARTTTTT

-"Soon the snow will fall, it’s surprising it’s not already here, but I can give you something to keep you, Arca and the eggs warm. A fur would work well, and a pillow,” ME. I WANT THAT FUR

-"A silent gratitude that took him back to several days earlier and to a sweet smile that had been given to him only a few days before. And that voice.'Would you like to stay for dinner?'” AAAAH NOOO STOP

-"It is true, it is hard, very hard. When he did the census last year, there were only six children born in Erebor that year and none of them was a girl. Not that he would blame anyone, he remembers that it had been similar when he was a child." I absolutely ADORE this descriptions of Erebor and its situation, the state that the dwarves are in, etc. Yes, give me more, take me to the world of dwarves. And yes it is sad but that's part of their reality, and I love to learn and think of it.

-“That piece will still be hers,” I SWEAR TO MAHAL, I SCREAMED! Why must you make me emotional like this??😭 THIS WAS SO GOOD

-MY HEART CAN'T TAKE THIS. POOR THORIN.

-"Then why is he, Thorin, the king of the greatest dwarven kingdom, feeling this way, as a beggar, as if someone has just taken every single organ from his body and cast them into the fire, forcing him to watch them burn." AAAAAAAAAHHHH💔

-"He is feeling empty and that silence that he used to cherish, now seems like a slow and terrible torture. The solitude he had searched for so long and created for himself now seems like a nightmare" I know the feeling and now I want to cry

-"trying to regain even a shred of peace , the peace he had not felt for weeks. There were so many emotions he felt in those days, but never the calm, the serenity, not since he had left the Iron Hills, not since he had left Ragna." SERIOUSLY, if we go on like this I might as well quote this ENTIRE chapter. It's so GOOD and SAD for Durin's sake😭

-"Was what she said back in his face the truth? He had offered her wealth, a life without worries, a life he had never had himself and yet she rejected it." I AM SCREAMING INTERNALLY

-He felt normal, he had felt normal for the first time he could remember, and he lived a normal life for the first time in a hundred years." I declare myself oficially dead (Bilbo core)

-THORIN'S DREAM ABOUT RAGNA AND THEIR CHILD. STOP ITTTTTTT MY HEART CAN'T TAKE IT

-"A wedding bead." I'M GONNA BREAK SOMETHING

-"He has black hair and eyes as blue as the summer sky, but he doesn’t look like him, not at all. Those cheekbones, that nose, that sunny expression. He looks just like Ragna." I'm crying

-"Can you make it?" This is literally so cute and I can't believe I didn't think of this before. My hobbie would be to draw things and make Thorin craft them

-FRERIN II OMFG I'm crying

-"He hs to forget about her. For his own sake, and hers." This is taking years of life from me

-"Thorin lowers his gaze again at that, finding the veining of the marble table incredibly unique, incredibly interesting, much more interesting than the discussion around him." lol I feel you Thorin

-"Ragna, again, the woman that has just brought noise into his halls, and a deep silence into his chest." I WANT TO BREAK SOMETHING! What's the reason to play with my emotions like this, huh? WHAT WAS THE REASON?

-"It was like staring back into a mirror at times" AAAAAH JUST MARRY ALREADYYYY

-oh mahal, the paragraph naming Thorin's observations on Ragna. MY LITTLE HEART!! It was so cute, so romantic, so loving. Ugh, I want to melt onto the floor.

-"She has the same sparkle in her eyes, she loves things like these, he hates them." They complement each other!!! JUST MARRY ALREADY

-"She is in trade mode, and he knows he has to say anything she wants to know." they are so cute together. STOP

-"She studies it, holding herself closer to him, and he is looking to anything but not to the piece of parchment. All the words he can see are her exposed neck, the laces of his shirt she is wearing falling in between her breasts, and her upper thighs pressed against his waist. That woman is driving him mad. That clever and beautiful woman. In the name of Durin, he is feeling like a young boy again." I seriously need to stop quoting the entire chapter but FOR DURIN'S SAKE, THIS IS SO BEAUTIFUL😭

-"Every single one of them stays silent, not believing what their king has just said. Thorin has never left the council room before, never said that one thing was more important than another and he never, ever walked away from his problems. Never." I AM SCREAMING

-I love how Thorin is just so done with everything and, it's not that he doesn't care, but he want's it all to be over so he just runs away.

-“Stop being a baby, you survived a stab in your stomach and much worse, you will survive me brushing your hair!" “I could always run away from my foes or fight against them, from this I cannot!” Lol I love them. Did I say that they are so cute together and should just marry already?

-“The same patience you showed with the seamstress today as she was taking the measures for your wedding dress?” I SCREAMED

-THEIR CONVERSATIONS ARE SO CUTE. I WANT THEM MARRIED NOW.

-"Thorin cannot move a muscle, watching her as if she were a vision, because she has to be, it has to be. Ragna is not there and could not be there." MAHAL KILL ME

-"Not being king of the seven kingdoms isn’t enough, he wants to be her king, because she makes him feel like a king without a crown again. And he wants her to feel a queen too, his queen, only his. Not queen of Erebor, his queen." I AM CRYING. This dream is making me rabbid.

-"if it is a dream, then he wants to enjoy every second of it, casting everything else away, into oblivion, even if it would mean that the whole world would burn to the ground." THIS IS EXACTLY WHAT I SAID ABOUT THORIN RUNNING AWAY. I'M DEAD.

-"Oh, in Durin’s name, how he missed her, how he missed hearing his tiny songbird sing." I'M SCREAMING. This is so cute yet so sad😭

-THE PARALLELISMS WITH DRAGON SICKNES. I'M GOING INSANE!! lol I love how rabbid this story is making me

-Thorin is in such a fever dream at this point lmao poor dear

-He sees them. Just as he has seen him before. Kili’s face contorted in a grimace, white as the first snow that fell on that day, five years ago. Fili’s unseeing eyes staring into oblivion." WHY MUST YOU DO THIS TO MEEEE?

-"His eyes are closed, he doesn’t breathe, his clothes are covered in his own blood. It didn’t happen like this! Or did it?" No, it didn't. They all survived and lived happily ever after😁

-AND NOW WE HAVE SMAUG TOO?? I'M GOING INSANE.

-I honestly need to catch my breath. This part was too much.

-"'“No,' he whispers to himself as he feels hot tears slowly trickle down his cheeks" NOOOO STOP ITTTT

-"The previous four days before them he couldn’t even lay in his own bed without thinking of her." RAGNA AND THORIN ARE TWO IDIOTS. Both of them can't sleep in their beds and need to overwork themselves to forget each other WHEN THEY COULD BE TOGETHERRRRR AAAAAHH

-"the lust that seizes him when he feels her so close to him, the same lust that had driven him mad in that treasure chamber" Äule and Yavanna, I can't. This is making me want to punch my desk. Did I already mention that I love these parallelisms? Mahal...

-Thorin having nightmares all his life except when sleeping with Ragna. NOW I UNDERSTAND. When he said that he sleeps better with her. HE MEANT THIS. OMG. THIS NEW PERSPECTIVE MAKES ME WANT TO CRY.

-"A drop of wine falls on his beard, trickling down to the middle of his chest and he hurries to wipe it off with one hand, putting it to his lips." I just got turned on in the middle of a serious scene and through my tears. Great

-"He fiercely crumples the drawing, no longer wanting to know, no longer wanting to give heed to those memories in his head. He had thought about it all the way home and now he can do something to forget her, to throw her figure into the flames and take her out of his body, and now he has the answer and the means to do it. But as soon as he approaches the fireplace to burn that piece of parchment in the flames, he is not able to." I LOVE THISSSS

-"and in his heart he knows he will never succeed" I'll cry. JUST MARRY ALREADY😭

-“You have beautiful handwriting and that’s not a compliment I often pay,”  IKR???

-"That place to which he wanted nothing more than to take her" OH DON'T DO THIS TO ME😭 PLEASE @lathalea THEY MUST GO THERE

-"'No, not at all. I was just sorting out some paperwork… nothing more,' he murmurs more to himself than to her, hiding the map on his desk slightly under his forearms."😭

-"'What’s the matter?' he asks, but Dìs doesn’t approach the chair or change her facial expression." I'M SCARED OMG THIS FIC WILL BE THE DEATH OF ME

-"It doesn’t take him long to understand. Forcing himself up with his hands on the table, he gets up from the chair, making it fall to the floor behind him, and glares at her." AAAAH I'M SO EXCITED TO SEE WHERE THIS LEADS

-"Then can you tell me her name?”  I SCREAMED, FOR MAHAL'S SAKE

-"But he realises too late that he has betrayed himself with his own words, he has admitted it." I CAN'T STOP SHOUTING

-"They don’t know the truth, none of them knows a damn thing other than sounds and moans and growls." So there's more than that, then. There's love and caresses and soft kisses and happiness besides just sex and pleasure 😭😭😭😭

-"It is a feeling he knows too well, the desire, wanting something until he can’t think of anything else," OOOOH I'm loving that reference

-"'You left her…' Dìs whispers, making him grit his teeth." I WILL KILL HER

-"clearly referring to the confusion that reigned in his rooms, but not only to it." Not only to it, but also to the love he felt for her 😭😭

-“I will treat you like a boy if you continue to act like one, whining because someone dared to tell him no!” I'M SCREAMING

-“Because she is not a battle, she is not a trade agreement! If she were, I would have traded half the wealth I possess now just to have her here!” I'm going to cry, seriously. THIS IS SO AAAAAH

-“How peaceful I felt when I was with her and how she took all the blood away from my hands and the ghosts and fire in my head that haunt me every night, she took it all away just by stroking my cheek…” I literally love this trope. I have tears in my eyes.

-Oh. Dís and Thorin. I love them 🥺

-"as when they were children." Awwww❤️‍🩹

-"Naked though clothed" AWWWWWWWW❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹

-I literally forgot Dís' husband died and this brings me a whole new perspective. Damn, it must be hard to hear Thorin rambling about losing the love of his life when he at least still has the possibility to fight for her love. At least Thorin's lover is not dead, unlike Dis' husband.

-"There it is, the question, the real question, why hadn’t he done anything yet, why was he still standing there like that?" I DON'T KNOW. YOU ARE AN IDIOT, THORIN.

-OOOOH I am so emotionally drained, especially with that ending

-There were so many more things I wanted to highlight but oh well I can't make this an infinite post! Thanks again for such an AMAZING chapter. I'm loving this story, and every part that narrates the story of Thorin and Ragna makes me scream

-I WANT THEM TO JUST MARRY ALREADY

All Is Fair in Love and Trade –  Part 7/9

Relationships: Thorin x Reader Rating: E Warnings: angst, smut, angst, long chapter

You can read the other parts here: The Masterlist Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 ...

This huge chapter was written by the talented @gwen-ever and is based both on her and my ideas. I had lots of thoughts about what Thorin's POV would look like, all of them living rent-free in my head, but without Gwen, this piece of "All Is Fair..." would not come into existence because originally I planned to write the whole work only from Ragna's POV.

Thank you so much, Gwen, for everything 💙

And now, prepare yourselves for angst, drama, and heartwrenching angst. And have I mentioned angst? ;)

Khuzdul phrases: A-mad - Mummy A-dad - Daddy Maralmizu - I love you Melhekhel - King of (all) kings

* * *

All Is Fair in Love and Trade, part 7/10

The huge golden gate opens slowly, croaking against the green marble of the entrance to Erebor. Dozens of dwarves pause in their duties and look out from the suspended corridors carved into the rock as they watch the King Under the Mountain return home.

As soon as he crosses the threshold with his trusty handful of men, a metallic roar of pikes and shields cuts through the air, accentuating the reverence all the soldiers felt at that moment. Only one, however, does not even bend down but continues to grin with his arms crossed over his chest just at the beginning of the imposing entrance corridor, by the feet of two gigantic statues of warriors. His green and black armour clinks as he steps forward towards Thorin, his grin widening beneath his long black moustache.

“Ya finally came back, I was gettin’ worried! Two more days and I would have sent a group of soldiers to get ya ass from those hills!” Dwalin chuckles, taking the reins of Thorin's pony and waiting for his king to dismount.

Thorin doesn't answer, nodding only with his head, ignoring the mischievous glint in Dwalins eyes. He is not in the mood at all to answer his jokes, nor that he ever has actually been. Silently he gets off his pony, unable to hold back a grunt when after those long days of constant rising he touches the ground with his feet.

Balin behind him laughs lightly, patting gently his grey pony’s cheek. “Those were the hardest negotiations I have ever had to attend to, brother,” he admits, amused, shifting his gaze to Dwalin. “Our king here did not make them easy, especially during the last two days, but now we have a worthy arrangement and we are ready for the negotiations with Mirkwood.”

A shiver runs down Thorin’s spine. He tightens the straps he has been unbuckling to take his saddlebags.

“Ya will have to see if the pointy-eared wankers want to make it easy for us,” Dwalin retorts ironically.

“I am pretty sure they will behave, everything is perfectly clear, the star gems and silver for some of their produce and wine for both Erebor and the Iron Hills.”

At these words, another shiver runs down Thorin’s spine and then the feeling somehow reaches his throat, constricting his vocal chords, urging him to put an end to this pointless conversation.

"How is everything? How did Fili manage as the temporary regent?" he asks seriously, looking at Dwalin.

With a gesture of his hand, Thorin stops the soldier who is coming closer to help him take his things. He hates being helped with such trivial acts.

“The lad seems born for this, well, he really is. Everything is alright, nothing burned, no problems in the mines since your last order to talk with the miners directly, and no orcs invasions,“ Dwalin winks nudging him playfully with his shoulder “I heard about the battle. It seems like you attract them as if you were a flower and the Orc were bees.”

“I-It was very fast, less than a day,” Ori replies instead of Thorin. The scribe holds a large book of accounts in his arms, the book he kept with him every single day during their stay in the Iron Hills. “But my reports confirmed w-what Lady Ragna said when she had been visiting Erebor. The Iron Hills really needed that n-new w-weapons deal.”

That strange feeling in Thorin’s still constricted throat moves now to his chest, causing a piercing pain that makes it difficult for him to undo his cloak and hand it to a guard who has just approached him.

“Aye, I am pretty sure, brother, that she was the main reason why the negotiations took so long. She is a very tough negotiator, but she has her reasons to be so. First and foremost, she has to protect her home and controlling Dain is hard enough,” adds Balin, getting down from his pony.

A ball of ice begins to descend into Thorin’s stomach, triggering little images that chaotically appear in his head, one after another, and making all the sensations he hoped had left behind in the Iron Hills resurface with double force.

Damn it!

“Oh, so that Iron Hills ambassador from a few months ago is a strong lassie!” Ya did not tell me, I bet she is an interesting lady to meet if she can control two Durins!” he laughs, not noticing the shadow growing over Thorin's face while he stops taking the packs off his pony.

“Mostly one Durin, our cousin. I think that at one point he was more interested in the mugs of ale in front of him than in the negotiations!” Thorin says gruffly.

“Oh, so she had the nerve to shut your big mouth? How?” Dwalin glances at Thorin, crossing both of his arms on his chest as a guard comes and takes away the ponies. “This is interesting, very interesting…”

“She is intelligent, nothing more,” Thorin cuts the conversation short, answering coldly, not letting emotions nor words betray him. That is who she is, just a clever dwarven lady, who played him as if he were a foolish boy.

That is what he has been for two weeks, a fool, a dumb and terrible fool just by gigivng her the chance to grow close to him and letting himself grow close to her. Too close. Stupid, fucking, dumb fool. Shame on you Thorin, only on you.

Thorin looks down, his jaw set, and he throws the two light saddlebags over his shoulder, holding Orcrist's hilt to his side with the other hand.

“Dwalin, I’m going to my chambers to make myself presentable, get me all the documents that Fili signed and approved when I was away, I need to take a look at them,” he orders, looking at Dwalin. That is only partly what he wants to do, and partly he just wants to get away from what would soon become a ruthless interrogation. If Dwalin knows about the orcs, Dain has also surely told him about the bird that sang in his rooms every night.

He gives him a slight nod, remembering they are in public and gestures with his head to the handful of guards behind him to go and unload the rest of the luggage.

“No problem. I will accompany you for a bit then, so you won’t need an escort,” Dwalin says to him, moving to the side to let Thorin walk before him.

Damn.

Gritting his teeth, Thorin nods looking up towards the golden stairs that descend steeply into the heart of the mountain, thinking that now at least it is all over. Now he is in Erebor. He begins to walk steadily and the road to the royal quarters is very quiet. Dwalin does not say a word, but Thorin can hear his breathing behind him and he knows that the more his best friend is silent, the more he has to say but nothing comes out from Dwalin’s mouth until they pass the double door to the main royal halls.

Dwalin moves closer, starting to walk up the stairs next to Thorin. "Lady Siggy asked me about you the other day, she wanted to know when you were coming back,” he starts winning Thorin's attention. “I have heard she got engaged, you know, to Master Rollo. That poor bastard was following her for months, serenading her, showering her with gifts and doing all those silly things dwarves in love do. Finally he will stop talking about her every time we meet after the training or at the tavern!" he chuckles leaving him with no words.

Thorin’s eyes widen as this news starts to find its way into his brain and slowly become a reality. His steps slow down and the bags on his shoulder start to get heavier. Siggy, daughter of Kjetill, was about to get married and the news is hurting him more than it should. Siggy was his latest lover, the last he had before Ragna. Their affair started months ago. She was the daughter of his personal tailor and they would meet mostly during the day, before Thorin had to go to the forges. She was younger, a lot younger than him, and he felt the age difference in some way even when they were in bed, but she was ethereally beautiful and one of the sweetest dwarven maids he has ever the chance to meet. He has not seen her for over a month before he left and he has heard some rumours (spread mostly by Kili at lunch) about a guard gifting Kjetill’s daughter two emeralds as green as her eyes and Thorin slowly understood that their meetings were about to end. It hasn’t been the first time when he was to part ways with a lover, but this time he feels as if his whole world is crashing down on him.

"Is it official?" he mumbles, glancing at Dwalin.

His best friend nods, crossing his arms on his chest. "It pretty much looks that way. Her father is angry, he wanted her to pick a richer dwarf. A normal soldier brings honour but not jewels, and she moved in with him a few days ago,” Dwalin adds, giving Thorin a look that makes him feel even more miserable.

Dwalin knows about all the women Thorin had been with, as he knows about his friend’s private life. He knows because Dwalin can't shut his mouth about his conquests, and Dwalin knows because he is the one to organize the guards’ shifts. So if Dwalin knows of all of them, why is Thorin unable to tell him about Ragna? Because she wouldn't be coming to his chambers, and he won't need the guard to leave as soon as she arrives or just to take care of her, because she won't ever step into his halls. Ever.

As Thorin's silence becomes deeper, Dwalin clears his throat, getting closer to him.

"Do you want me to tell her to come to your chambers so you can tell her farewe-"

"I will tell her I am happy for her decision later at the feast tonight as I will tell Rollo,” he interrupts Dwalin’s whisper. “She deserves a happy marriage, he is an honorable dwarf, he truly is. She is a kind lady, and there is nothing I have to say to her in private," he says, barely controlling his tone of voice.

"She did not tell you before leaving, did she?" Dwalin asks, arching his eyebrow.

"We did not talk much and we did not see each other often in the last months,” Thorin explains, cutting away some information. “So no, she did not tell me, she did not have to tell me. She is free to do what she wants," he states seriously.

His seriousness is not, however, condoned by Dwalin who laughs as he runs a hand over his beard. “Well, the mountains are full of diamonds, aren't they?” he shrugs, making clear what he meant with diamonds but then he stops to chuckle and makes a long pause “Dwarven ladies who like us prefer work over marriage and prefer a different companion every night or for more than one night, maybe for even two weeks…”

He was not subtle at all, and Thorin feels those words ring into his head as he slowly feels the pain in his chest growing.

His worries were founded, Dwalin knows.

"No boundaries, no problems, no yells or fights, no nagging, no cold feet against your legs as you try to sleep, the double amount of dishes to clean…" he continues, staring at him.

Thorin stops to walk, clenching his jaw and looking straight into his friend’s face.

"What did Dain write to you?" he nearly roars, clenching his fists.

Dwalin climbs up two more steps before stopping on the terrace at the end of the ramp of stairs. “Two weeks…” he chuckles, putting his hands behind his back, glancing down at him. He definitely knows. “Most of the dwarven maids, mostly also by their choice, never lasted more than a night a week for a month! You had the same woman every night for two weeks, that's a record!” Dwalin nearly yells, not even caring that someone could hear them. And Thorin does not care either, he simply does not want to talk about anything about that matter, Ragna was gone, all was gone and she had to stay in the past, Dwalin does not even have to know her name, it would have been useless.

He remains silent, glaring at Dwalin, hoping he would just close his damned mouth, but his friend keeps talking, making him shake from anger. Thorin has to get away from there.

“Either she is Yavanna herself or you want boundaries, want yells and fights, want nagging, cold feet against your le-"

That was enough!

"Go to the council chamber!” he orders him nearly yelling, making Dwalin even jump slightly. “Tell Fili he needs to come to my rooms as fast as he can, we don't have time to lose on idle talk!" he roars starting to walk again and climbing the few stairs, not even looking at Dwalin who opens and closes his mouth with an unusual sad expression on his face.

The bald dwarf feels that something is not right, something is really not right and that Thorin has changed in some way, and that this woman was different this time. So for the first time in years he just nods, straightening his back, watching Thorin walking to the royal chambers.

“So do I still have to bring the documents?” he asks seriously looking at the tense back of the King, made only wider by his almost palpable fury and his huge fur-lined coat.

“All of them!” Thorin roars coldy, not even turning, still walking up the stairs, leaving Dwalin with a question that never leaves his mouth and a surprising sensation, a sensation that he will not be able to drown even in fifty pints of strongest ale.

Thorin lets his back rest against the closed door as soon as he gets inside his room, letting all his bags fall loudly on the floor, the only sound, beside his breath, into his empty bedroom. Silence, that friendly silence that calms him instantly and there is nothing he wants more than to have silence in his head and his heart. After days of hearing both of them screaming at him, raging at him, they are… silent. As silent as everything around him.

He passes a quick glance all over the room, from the glass window panes behind the dining table, to the embroidered tapestries hanging on the stone walls, to the dozens of furs and carpets laying on the floor, to the two armchairs in front of the already lit fireplace, to the empty table in the middle of the room, full of books and maps; from the the four bookshelves behind it, to the closed drawers on his right and to his empty, cold, canopy bed carved in rock on the far right of the room. He is home.

With a sigh, Thorin picks up the bags from the floor and walks to the table in the middle of the room, lays them on top of it, and opens them slightly. He takes off his cloak and his arm guard lay them down on the back of one of the chairs next to him. With an automatic movement his hands go to his belt and untie the Orcrist’s sheath, it has been easier to carry it hanging from his waist than on his back, and put it down on the wood table carefully. He is about to take off his shirt when a noise catches his attention, stopping his hands from pulling it up higher than his stomach.

The noise comes from the outside of the balcony that runs along his chambers and the ones next to him. It is a frantic pawing, as if something very little was jumping up and down on the floor. Understanding exactly what it was and who made these sounds, he does not put himself on guard nor even thinks of touching the sword in front of him. He just walks to the windowed wall with a small smile on his lips, noticing that the glass door is slightly open.

Thorin stands silently, observing the area outside and confirming his suspicions. He opens the door and leans against the doorframe, intrigued by what his old friend is doing with so much noise and he has to admit to himself that it is something he had never seen him do, not in a hundred and ninety years.

Roac is perched on the handrail, pawing at it, as he tries to balance a bunch of small dry twigs in his beak, but they slip out of his grasp every time. It takes Roac a few seconds to notice Thorin’s presence, not that attention is the best of his raven friend's virtue.

In fact, when Roac raises his beak towards him, he makes a jolt that causes all the small branches he had carefully managed to stack to fall to the floor.

"T-thorin," he stammers, casting a brief glance at the destroyed work beneath his feet before looking back at him. "Thorin, you are back!" he croaks in amazement.

Thorin nods, stepping out onto the balcony and, as he does every time, extends his arm forward, inviting Roac to sit on his forearm.

“Sadly for you, my friend," he jokes, chuckling softly.

The black-feathered raven soars.

"Oh, I am never sad of it" he replies, tilting his head to the side, with what could be interpreted as a slight smile tugging at the corner of his beak.

Smiling, Thorin stretches out his hand, making the gesture that after years had become something so natural that even Roac is already prepared for it, raising his head with his beak upwards.

Thorin runs the fingers of his hand gently down the side of the raven’s neck, caressing his glossy black feathers gently, noticing Roac's eyes close slightly in pleasure at that small gesture.

"Any news from the Forest, Dale or Laketown?" he asks, stroking the base of Roac’s wing, inquiring as he would have done under any other circumstances.

Roac moves his head sideways, opening his beak slightly. "Nothing, nothing changed, all is still moving the same and flying the same." he jokes, lifting up his wing so that Thorin can scratch it with his thumb.

Chuckling, Thorin strokes it gently and looks carefully at the feathers that have become more and more crumpled over the years, noticing one in particular, just under his friend’s beak that made him move his index finger towards it. "You have a white feather," he points out, gently touching it.

The raven lowers his beak not at all surprised by Thorin’s statement and then reaches out with his body towards his dwarf friend, moving one wing towards the side of his head.

"You have some white hairs." Roac jokes.

"You are younger than me," Thorin retorts, smiling.

"Only for your race," the raven remarks. "In raven years, I am as old as you, maybe even two years older... craaa!" he teases him, squawking as he used to do when he was just a nestling.

Thorin can't hold back a laugh, but the sticks on the ground catch his attention again and bring back the curiosity that was eating at him only a few minutes before.

"What were you doing? I'm sorry, I interrupted you," he points with his chin at the messily scattered pile of twigs on the ground.

Roac stiffens suddenly, and as soon as he notices what Thorin is speaking of, clamping his claws around Thorin’s arm. The raven starts acting strangely. He moves up and down Thorin’s arm, turns his beak away from the branches towards the dwarf, as if he didn't know what he is supposed to say.

The feathers on his back rise as his beak drops.

"I was..." he mumbles, still looking at him, and then croaks worriedly. "Thorin... I... " he tries again and then sighs deeply, letting his wings droop while he looks back at his friend. He waits a few moments but then he opens up his beak to speak and slowly releases the usual grip of his claws on Thorin’s arm. "I need to show you something, Thorin," he confesses, looking his friend straight in the eyes.

Thorin tilts his head to the side. He has rarely seen Roac so serious or seen such concern in his black eyes. He nods without a word and the raven soars up in the blink of an eye and lands on the ground, grabbing a couple of sticks with his beak. Then, with a movement of his beak, the raven invites him to follow him along the balcony. Thorin is not reluctant, but rather intrigued, all of this seems strange to him, and to an extent it worries him, since his trusty raven, the King of Crows, seemed calm until just a short moment before.

Cautiously he follows Roac who is fluttering ahead to the other end of the balcony, the part that used to belong to the now empty prince's or queen's chambers. There Roac lands, right at the far end of the balcony. Thorin looks around, even more confused than before, not noticing nothing in particular, but then, in a corner, he notices something attached to the low wall, something that makes his eyes widen. Sitting on a small pile of dry twigs and leaves carefully intertwined together, is a raven, a female. She is slightly bigger than Roac and her beak has a grey tip.

She is asleep now, with her wings tucked around her, the light of the setting sun highlighting the blue reflections on her glossy feathers. Her beak and neck rest on a pile of black feathers that are not her own. Thorin casts a glance at Roac's side and realises only then that several feathers are missing from that spot, all the way to his tail. Roac lands, slowly folding his wings, and puts the twigs he held in his beak down beside the sleeping raven. He gives Thorin a look of encouragement, inviting him to come closer and Thorin feels a strange sensation again, the same one he had felt only a few minutes before coming forward,and yet he still does not understand, or rather does not want to understand, because he is not a fool. He steps a few paces forward, remaining silent as Roac approaches the female, giving her a couple of gentle pats under the neck with his beak, and rubbing the side of his head against hers.

"My love..." Thorin hears the raven whisper and something grips his heart, along with the realisation of who the female is.

The female raven makes a few sounds moving her head slowly and nuzzling into Roac neck before opening her eyes carefully.

“W-what, Roac? What is it?” she mumbles looking straight at Roac and nuzzles her beak against his, as if they were kissing, and then she suddenly realises that they are not alone.

She looks up stiffly at once and quickly pulls away from Roac's side.

"Oh, by the Great Raven..."sShe whispers, staring at Thorin with her eyes wide “Oh, by the father of all birds…” she whispers again and before he can say anything, she looks to Roac, changing her expression completely, ruffling the feathers on her neck.

“Roac, you were supposed to wake me up before!" she nearly yells, lifting up her neck.

The male raven looks at her and jumps back a little, and then moves his wing towards Thorin, visibly scared of the female yelling.

"I did it just now!" he explains with an exasperated sigh.

"Now it's too late!" she retorts furiously in a high-pitched voice.

“But we… he arrived just now!”

"You should have warned me before!" she scolds him again, quickly shifting her gaze to her neck and back, pecking at some of the loose feathers with her beak. "Look at me!" she whines.

Thorin can't help smiling at that familiar scene and at Roac's apologetic expression as he is faced with the female's angry screams. Surely he had chosen a mate with a very strong character, a character that was very familiar to him.

Too familiar.

Roac lets out a sigh as the female continues to mumble. The raven turns to face Thorin and points at her with the tip of his wing.

"This is Arca, you never met... officially," he explains to Thorin and the king can almost see the his friend blush under his feathers.

Thorin knows who she is, yes. Roac spoke to him about her, once or twice, when Thorin was busy with checking some maps. The raven perched on his chair and told Thorin about this female raven. Arca. She lived in Erebor before Smaug, he said. Roac was close to her at the time, but then she vanished, along with her family, abandoning Ravenill. He met her again many years later.

A dark cloud mists Thorin’s heart. He believed he had lost much by leaving Erebor, his home, his kingdom, friends, his mother, his title, Roac, but the raven had also lost almost everything, and the worst part was that his winged friend had had to stay there, at Ravenhill, remembering him every single day. The moments, the words, the happy days spent together, the smiles, the touches. Roac had had to remember it all and kept seeing it before his eyes.

Out of sight, out of mind. Maybe Thorin has to start thinking about that sentence.

"Your majesty,” Arca bows her head at him, snuggling down into the pile of sticks. “I am incredibly sorry for my state. Roac was supposed to wake me up on time, I apologize,” she speaks again but then a few feathers of hers lift up again, making her glance again at Roac with anger. “Look at my feathers! Look at them..." she whispers, croaking sadly and fix again her black feather carefully.

Females.

Thorin smiles, shaking his head and carefully kneels down on the floor to find himself at the same height as them.

"They are perfect, Arca, you have nothing to worry about," he tries to comfort her, gesturing with his hand, "And it's an honour to meet you, Roac told me about you."

The raven female looks away in embarrassment, hiding a part of her head under one of her crumpled wings.

Arca looks at Thorin and then at Roac, tilting her head to the side and smiling shyly to Roac.

"You are too kind, King Under the Mountain,” she says in a serious tone, looking back at him once again. “But after… after... well, after this,” she emphasizes the word this, “I never look presentable after waking up," she explains.

At first, Thorin doesn't understand, lifting his eyebrow, but thenArca carefully lifts her wing and Thorin freezes, noticing what she was referring to.

These are not only leaves and sticks, this is a nest. Under the black feathers on Arcas belly, there were some little green and grey eggs, all well covered and covered by their mother body that gave them warmth. Thorins opens and closes in mouth in total shock, he expected everything, but not this. He turns to Roac with his eyes wide open and his friend just looks down, croaking quietly.

A father. Roac was about to become a father.

NoticingRoac’s expression, Arca looks at Thorin, quickly covering the eggs with her wings.

"H-he…” she whispers softly and Roac shakes his head, looking down. Her expression changes rapidly and becomes a mask of terror and she slowly starts to shake and pant. ”ROAC!" she yells at him, wiggling her tail.

"I was about to tell him!" replies the king of ravens, looking straight at her.

"Our eggs are on the King’s private balcony! He was supposed to know about it already!” Arca retorts in a high-pitched voice and then shifts her gaze towards the ruler of Erebor, worried. "Oh, king Thorin I am deeply sorry... I, I was... we..." she starts to stutter as her voice cracks. "I am sorry, I am sorry, I really am..."

"All of this is unacceptable. I know,” Roac says solemnly, looking up at Thorin a moment after he flies, up landing on the dwarf’s knee, protectively putting himself between Thorin and Arca. “She was supposed to stay at Ravenhill with the eggs, but there is always so much work and she cannot stay alone for too long to look after the nest. I had to stay in Erebor and I couldn't look after her…” he stops, glancing at Arca for a second and then back at Thorin. “She is still weak…” he whispers sadly. “Thorin, I just… We will leave as soon as we can, I pr--"

"Do you need something more?" Thorin says.

Shocked, Roac raises his beak again, "Thorin?"

Thorin smiles with the side of his mouth as he feels his heart full of sudden joy, a joy that it was weird to explain.

"Do you both have everything you need?” he asks again softly. “I can leave you food here so you don't have to look for it. Soon the snow will fall, it's surprising it's not already here, but I can give you something to keep you, Arca and the eggs warm. A fur would work well, and a pillow," he explains, thinking about all the things that can be helpful. “I would never tell you to leave…”

The raven looks at him even more shocked "We... Thorin, you don't need to-"

A small sob catches Thorins's attention, and he casts a glance towards Arca still huddled over the eggs. Tiny tears form at the corners of her eyes and there is a smile on the sides of her beak.

“Thank you, thank you so much,” Arca interrupts Roac, touched by Thorin's words as she snuggles more against the eggs.

The King of Erebor lets a smile escape his lips and moves closer to her carefully. “There is nothing to thank me for, Arca,” he answers, bowing his head in gratitude.

Roac winces slightly in amazement as Arca extends her wing towards him in a silent invitation under Roac's cheerful gaze. Thorin reaches out his hand, brushing his fingertips against her wing, returning the gesture.

The female raven has an expression of pure joy; she is looking at Thorin with such gratitude that he had rarely been granted. Thorin had not done much, but she was able to make him feel something that made his throat constrict. A silent gratitude that took him back to several days earlier and to a sweet smile that had been given to him only a few days before. And that voice.

“Would you like to stay for dinner?”

"Come, let’s see if I have what you need," Thorin speaks to Roac as he carefully gets up from the ground, trying not to get too near to the nest.

The raven nods with his head and rests on his shoulder, snuggling into it as Thorin begins to walk back into his room, being careful to leave the door open.

With long strides, he moves towards the back of his chamber, kneeling down in front of the huge chest by his bed. He opens it an starts rummaging through his clothes, most of them from the Blue Mountains, digging deeper and deeper, searching for a specific garment.

“I don't know how to thank you, Thorin, I really don't...” Roac murmurs to him, resting his beak against his beard.

Thorin makes a quick gesture with his hand, asking the raven to help him and smiles at him encouragingly. “Keep them safe, it's enough,” he answers, finding what he has been looking for at the bottom of the chest. “A birth is still a birth, and must be celebrated as such, always.”

The words start to fail him, as an old sadness, a dark history of his people comes back to haunt him. “It's hard to celebrate it here… in this mountain,” he adds, pulling his old coat out.

It is true, it is hard, very hard. When he did the census last year, there were only six children born in Erebor that year and none of them was a girl. Not that he would blame anyone, he remembers that it had been similar when he was a child. Dwalin and Roac were the closest things to friends he'd ever had, if he excluded his brother and sister.

Roac cuddles more into his shoulder, nodding. “I will, I promise I will, and you are making it easier,” ha starts but then he suddenly stops, looking down. “When heard I would become a father, it was… strange,” he whispers, “It felt like I… I made something, but it was really something, as if I gave away a piece of myself, and gave it to Arca, but I know I will have it back as soon as all the five eggs hatch.”

Thorin stops in his steps for a second and without even thinking he looks at Roac, shakes his head.

“That piece will still be hers,” he speaks, unable to control himself and not knowing why he said so, but he knew it was real what he said.

Roac nods.

“I know and I want her to have it, Thorin,” the raven admits, giving a glance at the window before turning his attention back to him.

I know Roac, I know.

Smiling with the side of his mouth, he gets closer to the raven and lays his forehead gently against his, stroking his neck.

“I am very happy for you, my friend,” he whispers softly.

Roac nods, brushing his forehead against Thorin’s and wiggling his tail. They stay like that for a few moments before returning to the balcony.

Letting Roac leave his arms, Thorin wraps the coat around Arca and the nest, carefully placing the fur lining as close to her as possible.

Arca makes a little bow with her head thanking Thorin again, and touches his hand with her beak as a sign of gratitude before Roac comes closer to her.

She lifts gently her wing and Roac lowers his head, checking the eggs under her wing. He slowly strokes them gently with his beak. Arca looks at him and a glint of something Thorin doesn’t recognize passes through her black eyes. After a few moments, Roac jumps into the nest and pulls her close to his body by covering Arca with his wing protectively and letting her nuzzle his neck. Thorin moves silently back to his rooms, wanting to leave them a little space, feeling out of place.

But as he is walking away, he hears Arca’s last words, and he holds back a little chuckle in his mouth.

“You still didn't wake me up on time, Roac, son of Carc,'' she murmurs and Thorin hears Roac sighing loudly.

Smiling, he walks to his side of the balcony, as before, and walks through the door that leads to his chambers.

His room is silent, still, terribly silent, and empty.

He had just done something right, he had just learned that his oldest friend is going to become a father. Roac will have his heirs, his own children. Then why is he, Thorin, the king of the greatest dwarven kingdom, feeling this way, as a beggar, as if someone has just taken every single organ from his body and cast them into the fire, forcing him to watch them burn.

He is feeling empty and that silence that he used to cherish, now seems like a slow and terrible torture. The solitude he had searched for so long and created for himself now seems like a nightmare, one of the nightmares that keep tormenting him almost every night.

He runs his hand over his face wearily walking towards one of the armchairs in front of the fireplace, sitting down with his legs stretched out and trying to regain even a shred of peace , the peace he had not felt for weeks. There were so many emotions he felt in those days, but never the calm, the serenity, not since he had left the Iron Hills, not since he had left Ragna.

No, he had not left her, she had left him. She had made it very clear to him what she wanted. There have been those wonderful nights, wonderful moments, but it had been just that, and then he stupidly ruined it, wanting to take her with him and make her his... his…

He places his hands over his eyes, resting his elbows on his knees.

Ragna. His... what? What exactly did he want from her on his last night in the Iron Hills? His concubine? Did he really want to keep her in a room away from the rest of the world and only see her at night? Was what she said back in his face the truth? He had offered her wealth, a life without worries, a life he had never had himself and yet she rejected it.

What does he really want her to be, what does he want Ragna to be to him? He felt normal, he had felt normal for the first time he could remember, and he lived a normal life for the first time in a hundred years. Everything around him is moving forward and yet he remains still, as if frozen in time. He feels like an ancient tree in the middle of a forest, watching the flowers die and wither and new trees sprouting up from the ground.

Ragna’s words echo in his head, the possibilities she had listed that night not far from reality, yet for him they had always seemed unreal.

“What would happen if you were to find yourself a queen?”

A wife? No, he had never thought of that and never opened himself to the possibility before.

“What if I were to give you a child?”

A child, a child of his own? A child with her.

Now that is a tangible possibility, one he would have to consider if he wanted to keep her by his side.

He looks at the old armchair from the Ered Luin in front of him, its emptiness lit up by the faint light of the fireplace and the final light of the sunset, and a path unfolds before his eyes, a possibility.

He sees Ragna sitting next to him, curled up in the armchair in his room. Her hair is loose and she is wearing that dressing gown she was so embarrassed about, the one, with the squirrels and the wolves wearing pink hats. In her arms, she holds a small bundle wrapped in a couple of blankets. She smiles at it, murmuring an ancient melody of their people while a light laughter of a baby comes from the bundle.

She leans forward, touching the inside of the bundle with her nose as she continues to sing. A pair of tiny hands rise from it, playfully grabbing the locks of her hair, and she lets out a laughter as light as the wind.

"I know I don't sing as well as your father, but there is no need to pull my hair like this!" she jokes, freeing her hair slowly from the baby’s grip.

She turns to Thorin and takes his hand, her fingers gently intertwining with his.

"And don't you look at me that way, Thorin, it's true!" she scolds him, blushing slightly probably seeing the grin on his face. His eyes pass over her face. She is older now, there are first silver hairs among her heavy locks, and he notices tiny wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. In her hair, which he thought was loose before, there is a braid and a bead, or rather two beads, one on top of the other, one bears his rune, the other is covered in gems and there are their two runes intertwined on top of each other.

A wedding bead.

A third laughter echoes through the room, catching his attention. He turns slightly behind him and sees a boy, a bit older than a toddler. He is on his short and chubby legs, clutching a piece of parchment to his chest. He has black hair and eyes as blue as the summer sky, but he doesn't look like him, not at all. Those cheekbones, that nose, that sunny expression. He looks just like Ragna.

"A-dad! A-dad l-look!" he calls after him, passing by Ragna and practically throwing himself on his lap. "L-look at this! I just d-drew a sword, do you like it a-dad? Can you make it?" he asks him, raising the drawing to Thorin’s eyes.

It was a sword, or at least it looked like it, just two crossed lines, yet it was the most beautiful sword he had ever seen.

"In a few years, you are going to be able to make it yourself," Ragna tells the small boy, holding Thorin’s hand tighter.

"But I am this big a-mad!" the little boy whines, showing four of his fingers to her. "I can do it now!"

Ragna opens her mouth to retort, but the little bundle laughs again as soon as the boy raises his voice a little, fidgeting and showing two tiny legs coming out of the blanket. With an intrigued face, the boy moves closer to Ragna, carefully, on the tip of his feet, visibly nervous. Ragna opens her mouth, smiling gently at him and inviting him with a nod to come closer.

She says, "Want to see her, Frerin?"

Frerin.

Thorin’s heart makes a painful flip and the floor almost gives way beneath his feet.

Little Frerin nods and approaches Ragna. He stands on his tiptoes and carefully peels away a piece of the blanket showing a small figure hidden within its folds.

Her eyes are wide open and her fleshy mouth is distorted into a smile that shows him toothless gums.

Forcefully she grabs his brother's finger hovering just beside her face, and she starts waving it from side to side cheerfully.

"L-look a-dad she took my finger! Look! A-mad!" he giggles, looking at Thorin as Ragna’s hold on his hand becomes tighter and tighter as she smiles at him tenderly and her eyes slowly become glossy.

Thorin shakes his head, trying to erase that stupid vision, that impossible future, from his mind. What is wrong with him? Did he really think about that possibility, about the chance of having a family, a family with someone who barely tolerated his existence?!

No, it wasn't possible, none of that was possible. He is just tired, he just wants to rest, it has been a long day and tomorrow he will forget all about it.

Tomorrow will be another day and he will even forget about her. He hs to forget about her. For his own sake, and hers.

______________________________________________________

"We need more gold to finance this year’s Durin’s Day and the Reclamation Day! It’s going to cost more than it did last year, that's sure enough!” Gloin yells, slamming his hand on the stone table.

His red beard seems to curl on its own as the murmurs among the dwarves sitting around the table in the council chamber begin to increase, a wave of murmurs that started lulling the King Under the Mountain to sleep as he watches the marble veins before his eyes.

"Why is that?" Fili’s voice beside him rings out louder than the others, drawing Thorin's attention.

"Have ya paid attention, lad, to how much that elven wine cost now? It's unbelievable, and I don’t even want to think how much we will have to spend to get all the food from Esgaroth!” Gloin retorts, pointing to the scrolls under his arms. “Look at these numbers, look how much they are asking for just a bit of salted ham!” he emphasises angrily, pointing to the paper. “Master Dvallar had to take all of this into account!”

The ancient dwarf seated at the head of the table opposite Thorin raises his head when he hears his own name and puts away his quill next to some parchments in front of him.

“I did, master Gloin…” he answers calmly, bowing his head. “Here I have the letters from King Thranduil...” he mumbles, searching among the hundreds of papers in front of him, correcting his very small golden glasses on top of his nose.

He pulls a long, white as snow, iridescent sheet of paper out of the pile, bringing it so close to his face that his nose seemed to touch the surface.

“It says that he will send us thirty barrels of wine. Here, Bard of Esgaroth says…” Master Dvallar adds, pulling closer a brown parchment on the table, his hands covered with age spots. “He says he will send us twenty more. Fifty barrels of wine, do you really plan to drink more than this, Master Gloin?”

“Those won't be enough!” the red-bearded dwarf replies, glancing down at old Dvallar. ”Fifty thousands of dwarves live in this mountain, and two thousand more will come here in ten days, and I’m not even counting the ones who will be staying in the guests’ chambers!

"W-we still have some of the barrels from last year, don't we?” intervenes Ori shyly, raising his hand. “I-I have written it all down, there were two hundred of them left."

"It's all gone," a male voice with a strong Blue Mountains’ accent answers him bluntly.

Dori looks across the table in annoyance, his eyes wide with astonishment. "What are you talking about, Bofur?! How?!"

Bofur puffs out a little smoke, takes the pipe out of his mouth, and nods slightly. “That wine has been gone for months, since the Summer Festival.”

Thorin moves his gaze to the right as soon as Balin comes closer to him.

“That's a problem,” he whispers, worried.

“The negotiations with the Iron Hills and Mirkwood won't start until two weeks after the Durin’s Day, won't they?” Dìs, who sits on his other side,, places both hands adorned with golden rings on the table and notices the exchange of glances between him and Balin.

Thorin lowers his gaze again at that, finding the veining of the marble table incredibly unique, incredibly interesting, much more interesting than the discussion around him.

Balin, sitting next to Thorin, nods. “And we cannot ask Mirkwook to bring forward the date of the meeting, the same goes for Dain “We at least need Dain’s advisors if we want to get what we want from Thranduil.”

Thorin grits his teeth as his chest becomes incredibly heavy. As far as he is concerned, Dain's advisors could stay in the Iron Hills, every single one of them. No exceptions.“Like lady Ragna for example!” Dvallar raises his voice enthusiastically, making the veins in the marble surface in front of Thorin's eyes dull and repetitive again. He is forced to hear the old dwarf speak now and to hear that name again, that damned name. Thorin can feel Balin’s eyes on him, making him sick in his stomach, his old friend probably begging him with his gaze to not interrupt the old dwarf lord.

“I have heard she was able to get a profitable agreement with the king of Mirkwood! When she was only ninety nine she closed an agreement with Fengel of Rohan and you know what it was?” the old dwarf asks ironically, nearly yelling, as if youth had returned to his veins. “She made Rohan breed ponies for the Iron Hills for forty years and in return the Horse Masters would receive a payment of five necklaces, only five ruby necklaces, and that was it! And Fengel accepted!” he chuckles, taking away the glasses from his nose.

A series of "Oh's" and "Ah's" and even a few "What a woman!" leaves the mouth of some of the councillors around the table, while Gloin continues to mutter grumpily about how ridiculous it all is and how they really need more gold to pay for everything.

Ragna, again, the woman that has just brought noise into his halls, and a deep silence into his chest.

Ragna.

From the first time he saw her in that same room when she first came to Erebor, he was fascinated by her, he felt as if an enchantment fell upon the whole chamber, leaving him speechless. She was stunning, a beauty that was not perfect at all, but she had that confidence in her stare, in her words that could have wiped away every flaw her body of face could have, and after those weeks of taking off her clothes and running his hands along every inch of her body he realized that were barely none. She was one of the most intelligent dwarves he had ever met, he had to admit now to himself that she put him in a difficult position more than once and she was one of the very few who would dare to tell him he was wrong. Dwalin was right, he would have liked her, they could have even gotten along.

He had lovers, several of them. Not as many as Dwalin would speak of teasingly; six or seven since he retook Erebor. Sometimes he would get bored by his lover, sometimes they would. There were no strings attached and he liked that. But after he spent those passionate hours with Ragna in the Map Room, he didn’t feel bored, he didn’t want to find himself yet another lover, he wanted her again, and again, and again, every night or every other moment he would have the chance to. And he quickly discovered that he wanted more from her, more than just carnal pleasure, he wanted to talk with her, to spend the whole night with her even if only sleeping. It felt... weird. Weird in a way that none has ever made him feel, he needed her, he grew fond of Ragna, the dwarven lady whom he was discovering day by day in every little thing she did. She was strong, she was clever, she was determined, but she was also kind, funny, shy, and incredibly vulnerable when she thought no one watched. It was like staring back into a mirror at times, a dwarven lady that as him couldn't show to others some parts of hers. It all began with him noticinging her staring at him drawing with a sparkle in her eyes and since then he started to notice more things. Just before going into the council room she used to check meticulously if everything was alright, if her dress was worn correctly, if her rings were all there and she would fix her braids with trembling hands. He noticed she used to play with her fingers under the negotiation table as soon as the conversation started to light up slightly and he could see sometimes how hard it was for her to tell everyone to calm down. She walked always close to the handrail holding onto it as she was about to fall. She used to tremble every time he kissed her as soon as she arrived into his room and blush, even after all those nights she blushed every single time. As soon as they quenched their thirst for each other and she was always about to leave, she could have felt as an unwanted presence, but she didn’t. He had to keep there a few times proposing a bath. He would observe her fingertips as she would play with every single bubble that formed on the surface of the water. She used to sleep cuddled up to him, with every fur or sheet covering her up to her nose, and she would talk in her sleep. Sometimes there were words that made no sense, other times she spoke about lists of the things she had to do in the morning. But there was one night when he realized that it wasn’t only just lust, not any more, and that he wanted her to stay with him, for as long as Durin would allow him.

Thorin looks up slightly, watching Ragna fill a plate with the dinner that was brought to his room by the servants only minutes before she came in with a pile of papers in her hand. Those papers quickly ended up scattered on the floor. A night like any other, a night like the ones he has been living through for the past six days. It's hard to concentrate again on the piece of parchment in his hands, especially when a sleeve of his shirt, the shirt with which Ragna has covered her naked body, falls from her shoulder, showing him the purple bite marks he had branded on her skin only a few minutes before.

But he must focus now, or that letter will haunt him until he returns to Erebor.

He reads every line again, searching through them for a solution to his problem. He pulls himself up slightly to sit up, resting his back against the headboard, pulling down even further the sheet that only covered him from his hips to the middle of his thighs not caring about the cold and not even noticing that Ragna is returning to bed with a raised eyebrow.

"I think that today you worked enough, you know?" she calls back to him, pointing her finger at the paper in his hand. "If you forgot about some of the points we spoke about today I can repeat them to you." she tells him, smiling with the side of her mouth.

Thorin sighs, watching her as she crawls onto the mattress with the plate full of food in her hand, setting herself by his side.

"It's not about the trade agreement," he explains, shaking his head at her. "It's a matter I need to figure out before going back to Erebor."

"An important matter of state then," she clarifies more to herself than to me, bringing a pastry to her mouth.

Shaking off a lock of her hair that was about to fall onto her plate, Thorin nods. "Something like it, aye," he sighs before forcing himself to look down at the letter in his hands.

Several minutes of silence pass in which he feels Ragna's gaze on him as she studies his reactions. That dwarf-woman is an excellent politician, surely she can read his mind, or perhaps she is already doing so. If she is doing that now, she knows that instead of a brain in his head he now has a burning furnace fueled by desire.

He keeps on reading and re-reading, but he still can’t find a simple answer and he certainly hasn't expected to have to solve such a problem miles away from Erebor and with a sweet distraction who, as she eats her food, occasionally licks her fingertips or sucks them clean.

In the name of Durin...

"You seem concerned,Thorin," she tells him, licking her lips.

"I am actually, it's a type of business I don't want to get into, and I have to intervene this time, and as soon as possible," he explains, looking her straight in the eyes.

Ragna steps closer, casting a glance at the paper now in plain sight and then at him.

“What is it about? Maybe I can help you, unless this is some very secret matter that I’m forbidden to know,” she adds dramatically and he can't help but chuckle.

He looks on the paper and then back to her, and then back to the paper and then he takes his decision.

He points to his side with a glance and Ragna understands immediately.

She puts the plate on the mattress next to her pillow and comes closer to him and before he is able to speak, she sits on his lap as a child would when listening to a story. She has the same sparkle in her eyes, she loves things like these, he hates them.

Thorin wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her closer to him, and strokes her lower back with his fingertips showing her the letter with the other hand. “I have received words that the miners in Erebor are unhappy” he explains.

Ragna tilts her head to the side confused “Why is that so? It's pretty weird,”

“Smaug attack caused a lot of damage, some galleries are unavailable and to arrive at some of them miners have to dig new passages, but sometimes the rock caves in and some of them remain trapped for days. It happens several times a month.”

The confusion on her face, however, does not disappear; on the contrary, she presses her lips into a thin line and tilts her head on the side even more.

”Can’t you just tell them to stop, find another way, move to some other galleries?”

He thought about that, that would have been a great solution, but it would have been too easy.

“Those three galleries are the principal ones,” he continues stroking the side of her tight “from them the smallers ones branch off, if I can't find a solution I will have to ask them to dig deeper to find the gold and gems we need and so I will ask them to risk their life even more,” he ends by lowering his gaze to the letter again, feeling his chest heavy.

“Which are the causes of the falls?” Ragna asks him, more serious, lifting up her back.

She is in trade mode, and he knows he has to say anything she wants to know.

“Their zone chief told me that the mines are safe, but some of them don't take enough precautions and what happens it's only their fault.”

“So you are speaking to their zone chief, not directly with them?” she asks him concerned , crossing her arms over her chest.

“Is It that weird for you?” he asks, noticing her disappointment.

“Well if someone has a problem that needs to be fixed, I would speak directly to them,” she explains with a shrug and then glances again at the letter.

Before he can realize it she lays down onto him placing her hands on his chest and arching her neck to the side to read the letter.

She studies it, holding herself closer to him, and he is looking to anything but not to the piece of parchment. All the words he can see are her exposed neck, the laces of his shirt she is wearing falling in between her breasts, and her upper thighs pressed against his waist. That woman is driving him mad. That clever and beautiful woman. In the name of Durin, he is feeling like a young boy again.

“Do the mine masters in Erebor go personally to work in those galleries?” she asks looking up to him after reading the letter.

He simply shakes his head, refocusing on his problem.

“Then why are you listening to them!?” she blurts out, getting up and sitting on his lap again.

“This idea of theirs it's absurd and you are as big of a fool as they are if you think that something like this would work!” she scolds him, resting her hands on her sides.

At first, he looks at her in amazement, remaining silent. Has she just called him a fool? Has he heard right? He should be offended, normally he would have done that, but Ragna doesn't even give him time to do that and raises both eyebrows in annoyance.

“I am talking with you, your majesty! Are you a fool?” she asks again.

He doesn't know how to answer, he doesn't really know what to do, he just knows that he feels his world is upside down. A fool, he? A fool? She has a temper but he would never have expected such courage, such decisiveness, maybe asking her advice really was the right choice, maybe she was the only one in all Seven Kingdoms who would tell him the truth and give him honest advice.

“So what you are saying is…” he asks her as he gets up more, holding her to him.

“Speak with them, listen to them, go to the mines yourself, you are a miner too by the seven fathers, are you not?!” she nearly yelled pointing a finger to his chest. “Ask for their opinions directly and decide with them what is the best for them. Why do others have to decide for them, you are their king, they respect and love you, not them, you, they love YOU!” she repeats again pointign again and again to his chest as it was the most obvious thing in the whole Arda.

Without hesitation he let the paper fall from his hand back to the mattress and even without thinking, he grasps her chin with his fingers and kisses her.

He can feel her shiver and stiffen, she is clearly surprised by his gesture, but he holds her still while she wraps her arm around his neck, letting their tongues meet.

It is slow, and intense, different from all the other times. He just wants to feel her against his body, nothing more, and she lets him pull her closer, making their bodies lean against each other.

As he lifts his shirt she is wearing, stroking her buttcheek, she giggles against his lips, pulling back from the kiss.

“What? Did you give up?” she asks with a smile, rubbing her nose against his.

“You gave me my solution, why should I keep looking at that letter?”

Ragna looks at him surprised, pulling back a bit to look at his face.

“So... you agree with me?”

He nods, pecking her lips gently again, making her eyes open wider.

“Yes, I do, I know it doesn't always happen but I agree. You are right,” he reassures her, making her cheeks darken with a blush for a few seconds.

“Well, this is unexpected…” she giggles. “What is it? Your post-sex sweetness?

“More my post-sex hunger,” he answers and glances to the plate next to them, the food barely touched.

Thorins starts to shake, and clenches his fists. He needs to leave and he needs to leave now.

“Excuse me,” he murmurs and stands up from his chair. “Continue without me,” he orders looking directly to the table as everyone around it stands up too as soon as he does so.

His sister, still sitting, looks at him in shock.

“Thorin…” she whispers, blinking.

“I have some orders to write,” he stops her before she can say anything more and glances down to her “For two weeks I have been arranging trades and agreements, I need to work on serious matters now,” he says, seriously glancing at everyone at the table.

Every single one of them stays silent, not believing what their king has just said. Thorin has never left the council room before, never said that one thing was more important than another and he never, ever walked away from his problems. Never.

But now,he is doing it, leaving two of his problems behind.

He walks to the door, not turning back, with his hands crossed behind his back.

“Thorin, we need you just for another hour, you need to listen to some of the-”

“Send everything to my room, Balin!” he orders him, glancing behind his back as soon as he reaches the threshold. “I will read it all, you know I will. The only thing I am asking you to do is to finish this madness!” he growls this time, moving his gaze directly to Gloin. “Spend as much money as you need, Gloin, take them from the treasure chamber if you need!”

And without even listening a word from anyone, he leaves the room, not wanting to turn back again, not wanting to see anyone and not wanting to listen to them speak again, not wanting to hear about the Iron Hills nor that stupid agreement ever again!

“Thorin!”

He hears Dìs’ voice and her chair scraping against the floor, but he needs to sleep, he needs to sleep, and find silence, and get his damn terrible silence back.

______________________________________________________

The flames of the fireplace in front of him dance rapidly, twisting and untwisting as his locks of hair are being untanglef with such force that Thorin has to close his eyes and hold back a few moans of pain.This is the worst torture he had ever been forced to undergo and the dwarven maid behind him is only increasing the force of her yanks. He clutches the edges of the carpet on which they are both sitting, holding back another moan when she pulls his hair back with even more vigour.

“You can stop pulling if the damn brush does not loosen the knot,” he grunts between his teeth but Ragna is not of the same opinion.

He hears her sigh and then he sees in the corner of his eye, her legs spreading and her knees coming alongside with his thighs, as she is finding a better position to kneel down behind him.

“I wouldn't have to pull if you took more care of your own hair, King Under the Mountain!” she groans, hitting him playfully with her free hand on his uncovered back.

He can't hold back a light chuckle, feeling that her grip on his hair loosens. Ragna moves the comb again from the root of his hair to the ends, but it is still getting stuck in the same place.

This time he can't hold back a louder groan as the pain becomes more intense. By Durin! “Stop being a baby, you survived a stab in your stomach and much worse, you will survive me brushing your hair!” Ragna nearly yells at him and then tries again to move the brush from top to bottom of his hair once more.

“I could always run away from my foes or fight against them, from this I cannot!” he retorts between his lips.

“Then suffer in silence and let me finish here. I swear on the seven fathers that if you don't take off that crown slowly the next time, I will…” Ragna cannot even finish the sentence before a groan of frustration escapes her lips. “Alright, alright… one, two...” she whispers and then Thorin feels the brush. It pulls at his hair, but from a different angle, forcing him to arch his neck forward to not risk falling backwards. A groan of pain escapes between his lips but eventually Ragna’s grip weakens and the brush passes smoothly to the end of his still wet locks.

“Done!” she says triumphantly, “Was it that bad?”

His neck begins to hurt and he slowly stretches it backwards, massaging the back of his neck.

“In the name of Durin..” he whispers and then shakes his head “No, no it wasn't, it wasn't bad at all,” he groans, closing his eyes.

“I told you, you just have to have patience, a thing that's not in the line of Durin’s blood, I think,” Ragna jokes, stroking his back with her fingers.

“The same patience you showed with the seamstress today as she was taking the measures for your wedding dress?” he asks her mischievously, turning his head back towards her.

Ragna stiffens, stopping sto stroke his back and suddenly falls silent with her eyes wide open from the surprise. “How do you know?”

“I have my informants, I am the king after all, I need to know anything that happens under this mountain,”

“Roac?” she asks, raising her eyebrow.

“Bigger.”

“Dìs?”

“Smaller.”

A shadow crosses her face as the truth strikes her full force. She sighs deeply, laying her chin on his shoulder.

“Kili… it was when he brought those papers to me, didn't he?” she murmurs.

Thorin pretends not to know, smiling at her with the corner of his mouth.

“I won't confirm or deny your suspicions,” he replies

Oh, he wouldn't, especially when his nephew begged him to not tell his “soon-to-be-aunt” that he was the traitor! Kili was sent only to bring her some more papers before the wedding, but he came back to the throne room with some interesting information. He spoke about a story of a future queen, who stomps her feet like a child when asked to remain still for the third hour in a row, or who whimpers when the twentieth pin pierces her skin and throws a tantrum when the measurements of the dress she had taken a few days ago no longer match the ones she had now.

Ragna puffs out her cheeks, poking his side with her index finger with an expression somewhere between fury and loveliness.

“Thank every ancestor of yours that Kili is your nephew and I like him or I would have sent him into the mines for a week!”

“I would approve if these are your intentions!” Thorin chuckles as Ragna hides her face into his back, in the hollow between his shoulder blades wrapping her arms around him.

“A long day with me in the forges as when he was a child will be enough, I thin-”

He never manages to finish the sentence because at that moment her breasts press against his back and he feels her lips kissing his naked shoulder and then his neck and then his back again, holding him closer and closer.

Thorin feels dozens of shivers running down his back and his stomach take flight in the high skies.

Confused, he grabs her hands intertwined on his belly and turns his face towards her.

“What was this for?”

“Does there have to be a reason?” she answers, looking up again at him and resting her chin again on his shoulder. “Well, there is a reason, to be honest…” she says, correcting herself fast. He narrows his eyebrows confused and before he can ask what she means, she pecks his lips and moves her mouth closer to his earlobe.

he whispers something to him, but his eyes are already closed.

All becomes dark and everything around him, inside him, disappears before he can breath again and a sea of furr presses against his back. He is laying down somewhere, and it's cold, much colder than before.

A sweet scent reaches his nostrils, so delicate, so familiar, so relaxing that his eyes struggle to open. He knows it is not an enemy and he knows it is not someone who can harm him. He wants to stay asleep, nestled between the furs he feels lying against his bare chest.

Suddenly the furs are quickly replaced by something much softer. Thorin slowly opens his eyes and feels the heart in his chest skip a beat. Lying above him, tucked under the covers of his bed in Erebor, is Ragna. The sun illuminates part of her face making her eyes glow; her lips are swollen and she smiles a smile that immediately relaxes the muscles in his arms, while those in his chest are brought to calm by her small hands, as well as her breasts,pressed to his chest.

"Goodmorning, melhekhel" she whispers softly, stroking the beard on his jaw with her fingertips.

Thorin cannot move a muscle, watching her as if she were a vision, because she has to be, it has to be. Ragna is not there and could not be there.

He is at a loss of words her small reddish lips distort into a short laugh.

"You look like you've just seen a ghost, I know I'm not beautiful in the morning, but if you keep staring at me with your eyes wide open like that, I might get offended."

"You're not real," he mutters, barely looking her straight in the eye.

Ragna bites her lip, moving her index finger from his jaw to his neck and then to his chest. "Yes I am, I am for as long as you want," she whispers, bringing her face closer to his, "Isn't that what you want, to have me for as long as you want, Thorin?"

Before he could even allow her lips to brush against his, he pulls back, grabbing her wrists that had begun to descend towards his abs....

All that had to stop, all of that had to stop.

He grips her wrists firmly and with a quick movement he reverses their positions, pinning her beneath him.

"No, you're not here, we're not here, you... you're far away from Erebor, you're just inside my head," he roars, like an order, an order that she has to answer, that his head has to answer.

"The fact that I am far from you does not mean that I am any less real than I was weeks ago. Has all that ever been real, Thorin, have I ever been real?" she asks him, smirking mischievously.

A shiver runs down his spine.

"You were real, now you are not. Get out of my head, Ragna, and get out now!"

"You said you slept better with me, what is it now? Are you going back on your words, King Under the Mountain? I'm yours, is it not what you wanted? Only yours, even if only in your dreams?" she murmurs and slowly moves her lips to kiss him but still he pulls back, clutching her wrists.

"That's not what I told you, I don't want you like this! You don't understand, you didn't understand what I told you!" he retorts, gritting his teeth as a furious anger mounts in his chest.

He didn't want her like this, he didn't want that, he just wanted her... no he didn't want her, he wanted her, but he didn't... he didn't know what he wanted.

He lowers his gaze slowly, unable to keep looking into those eyes that keep staring at him, that keep digging into his chest. Slowly, he lets go of her wrists and sits up, making the distance between them bigger. He is feeling helpless, just as he had felt when she hadn't come to him that night, when he had forced himself to pack his trunks and leave when he had to leave but didn't want to.

Ragna slowly wraps her arms around his neck, slowly sitting up on the mattress.

No it has to be a dream, but if it's a dream, can he say those words, can he even think those words? He wants her, he wants her since the first moment he has laid his eyes on her, but it is more, it is so damn much more and now still is much more. He wants her, every night, everyday, every second of his day. He wants her. And he wants her to... he wants her to want him to. That is the problem. He only wants her, all he has, everything he has gained all of a sudden feels empty and worthless and if he would just have her, it would have been enough. Not being king of the seven kingdoms isn't enough, he wants to be her king, because she makes him feel like a king without a crown again. And he wants her to feel a queen too, his queen, only his. Not queen of Erebor, his queen.

"I want you, Ragna... I choose you, Ragna," he admits, having the absolute certainty that he would never be able to say those words in reality.

She smiles at him with a corner of her mouth, slowly resting her forehead against his.

"Then hold me, please, hold me tight, don't let me go again," she pleads. "Don't let me go, please... stay with me," she whispers, still pressing her lips against the corner of his mouth, "Stay here, stay with me," she whispers, kissing his upper lip "And if you can’t, take me with you... please, please..." she pleads, now kissing his lower lip, "Keep me with you and don't let me go again, not again," she begs him again and kisses him slowly, holding her hand at the nape of his neck.

He can't respond to ner kiss, everything is so confusing, so different, so strange, he feels his chest split in two by an emotion he can't identify, but he holds her close to him, as close as he dares. He squeezes his eyes shut when her lips descend from his mouth to his jaw, and then to his neck, torturing his skin with kisses that barely touch him as now she is slowly straddling him.

"Ragna..." he grunts when her two hands descend down to his stomach and then feels one of them playing with the edge of his trousers.

He tilts his neck grabbing her buttocks and feeling the pressure of the fabric of his trousers against his skin, the familiar heat growing within him making him hard in a second.

He groans when he feels the touch of a small hand when it undoes the laces of her breeches but then a vibrant sparkle catches his gaze, making him open his eyes wide in disbelief. Between Ragna's enticing breasts, under her skin, the Arkenstone shines with its own light, casting its glow of hundreds of colours against her smooth skin.

He doesn't even wonder why the King’s Jewel is not placed above the throne but inside Ragan’s chest. His head suddenly feels heavy as Ragna's delicate hand wraps around his member.

"Don't you want it?" she whispers moaning into his ear, her sweet voice punctuating every word, every letter, entering his ears and reverberating in his head like an echo. She slowly moves her hand up and down pulling slightly her shoulders backwards, exposing the gem encased inside her body.

"Don't you want me, Thorin?" she murmurs again, biting his earlobe.

A wave of desire makes its way into his chest, a desire that is burning him alive.

She seems to notice it, because she eagerly places her lips on his again, kissing him with such intensity that he closes his eyes.

In that moment Thorin forgets everything, every pain, every affliction, every burden he has been carrying on his shoulders, every responsibility: if it is a dream, then he wants to enjoy every second of it, casting everything else away, into oblivion, even if it would mean that the whole world would burn to the ground.

Desperately he parts his lips, letting their breaths meet and melt into each other.

The kiss becomes deeper, more intense. His hands travel up her body, towards her breasts, down to her bare hips and then firmly grasping her thighs and spreading them apart.

While his grip becomes more and more firm, a soft moan escapes her mouth as her hands sink into his hair, pulling him even more towards her naked body... towards the cold stone glittering in her chest.

Soft murmurs began to rise in his head, hissing in the meanders of his mind, whispers of mad desire increasing within him with every kiss, every touch touch, every moan.

"Tell me I'm yours." Ragna murmurs against his lips. "Please..."

A growl makes its way up his chest and with a quick movement he pulls her close, pressing his now free erection against her stomach.

"You're mine, you've been mine since I saw you, you're mine and you're only mine, Ragna," he grunts, biting her lip and lifting her body slightly. "You are mine, you belong to me, not to the Iron Hills, not to any other dwarf, Ragna! You belong to me!"

And with that he slides with a single thrust inside her, making her eyes suddenly go wide and she moans into his mouth. Oh, in Durin's name, how he missed her, how he missed hearing his tiny songbird sing.

I will not part with a single coin, not one piece of it!

I will not part with her.

Thorin no longer understands anything, but he doesn’t want to, her scent and her slight tremors making him lose control. He begins to thrust into her, enjoying the feeling of Ragna’s nails scratching his shoulders, her shining eyes filled with passion, unable to focus on him, as he enjoys the feeling of having control over her. He kisses her again, violently, fisting his hand in her hair. A deep, terrible need begins to form inside him, a yearning that cannot be filled. She moans, asking for more, begging for his kisses and his caresses. The most enchanting song he has ever heard, the only song he wants to hear: her moaning for him and only him.

But the whispers in his head finally take shape.

One of them has taken it. One of them is false.

One of them will take her away from me.

He wants it. He wants her. Ragna is his. She belongs only to him.

It is the king's jewel, am I not the king?!

She is mine, am I not the king?

He runs his hands over her bare skin, savouring every single moment: from her thighs down to her hips and waist, their hips moving together in a steady rhythm, firmly, pushing deeper and deeper inside her, making her moan and scream in ecstasy as he had never heard her moan and scream before. Even breathing becomes unnecessary, and he no longer needs it, he would rather die than stop all of this.

"Th-Thorin," she whispers between the moans.

"Say it again, moan my name again, Ragna!" he orders her and lifts her up, finding that exact spot that will help him send her over the edge.

"Thorin! Thorin, please!" she moans, moving her hips with his, taking pleasure from him, as he is taking every piece of her, closer and closer to the edge.

Every single piece. Every piece she kept away from him, every piece he didn't have the chance to take before!

You cannot see what you have become.

She cannot see what she has made me become.

At the sound of these words the body pressed against his disappears, as well as that pleasant weight on his body. He suddenly opens his eyes again and looks around: he is no longer in his bed.

His hands fall on something cold. Ragna has vanished from his arms and everything around him is grey and cold. A terrible feeling rises in his chest.

“RAGNA!” he yells with all the strength he has in his body.

“RAGNA!!!” he calls her again, trying to stand up, but something keeps him kneeling on the floor. He tries to stand up again and calls her name again, but he can only hear the echo of his voice and feel an icy cold entering his bones. He cannot see anything, all becomes darker, Thorin grabs the air around him, scratches the floor and tries to stand up again. “RAGNA!” he calls her again screaming, but still no one answers. And then, like a fog that spreads, all the grey around him begins to disappear and his legs feel lighter but his chest feels heavier.

A sharp pain in his stomach makes him blink and he lets out a scream of pain that splits the air around him in two. He brings his hand to his side, but a second twinge, this time in his forehead, makes him lean forward again and in that moment he realizes where he is.

Dozens and dozens of coins, gold and jewels are surrounding him, mountains of gold stretching across the room. He is in the treasure room, and he is dressed in his ceremonial robes. The black and gold cloak covers his back, the black leather tunic covers his chest, there are many opulent rings on his fingers, he feels the crown pressing against his temples and the warmth of the black fur on his shoulders. He looks at his hands, and the pain stops, there is no blood on them… why does he expect to see blood on his hands? And then a strange feeling makes him look up and what he sees makes him forget to breathe.

He sees them. Just as he has seen him before.

He can barely believe his eyes. It is happening again. Kili's face contorted in a grimace, white as the first snow that fell on that day, five years ago. Fili's unseeing eyes staring into oblivion. His heir's lifeless hand still clutching a bloodied sword. No, it cannot be true, it didn't happen like this! Or did it? Blood, blood everywhere. Their wounds, the bloodied coins beneath him. Their chests are unmoving. The despair he feels. And the cold. Freezing cold.

Snow starts falling on the gold and then he sees himself from above, his body laying on a slab of ice. His eyes are closed, he doesn't breathe, his clothes are covered in his own blood. It didn’t happen like this! Or did it?

From behind him, hoarse roars echo through the room, something heavy brushing against the coins, a hissing sound so familiarly awful that he refuses to look behind him.

“I'd almost be tempted to let you take it, just to see how it destroys you, how it corrupts your heart,” Smaug roars in the shadows behind him, but Thorin can’t take his eyes off the faces of Fili and Kili below him.

He is not in his head, he is there in that hall, he had always been there, in that hall, in his chest, in his heart that keeps on beating and hurting and reminding him every hour how it all has been his fault, how everything before his eyes was his fault and would always be his fault.

"And drive you mad," the voice behind him hisses again.

Suddenly two arms wrap gently around him from behind, encircling his waist, and there is that familiar sweet scent in the air. He feels a pressure against his shoulder and then a pair of lips move close to his ear.

“Maralmizu,Thorin.”

"NO!" a desperate scream escapes his chest amidst the absolute silence of his bedchamber as his eyes snap open.

"No," he repeats, holding the fur close to his chest, his eyes staring at the ceiling in darkness.

"No," he whispers to himself as he feels hot tears slowly trickle down his cheeks and down his neck, soaking the sides of the pillow.

A nightmare, another nightmare.

His heart beats faster and faster in his chest as the anguish and terror grip his chest.

He pulls himself up and sits up, his nails scratching against the carpet in his study on which he had been sleeping for the last three days. The previous four days before them he couldn't even lay in his own bed without thinking of her. So he worked, he had to work, day and night, he had to be tired enough to fall asleep as soon as he closed his eyes, but it did not work, not then, not now. He can still feel Ragna's lips on his own lips, her moans, her touches, the softness of her fingers against his back, the lust that seizes him when he feels her so close to him, the same lust that had driven him mad in that treasure chamber, driven him into oblivion and back again.

His dream had now become his worst nightmare. Yet another in the long line of nightmares that have been tormenting him for years, night after night, until a small hand rested on his forehead one night and chased them away for a while. Until he returned to Erebor, and they started again, longer, stranger, and more painful than ever before.

Thorin passes a hand over his face and wipes away a layer of sweat from his forehead, which has slowly trickled down to his neck.

He looks up at the half-opened window, at the moon shining high in the sky, barely illuminating the room. It is not even dawn.

With difficulty, Thorin braces himself with his forearms on the carpet of his study, throwing the fur he slept under aside with a sharp movement. He pulls the sweat-soaked shirt off his neck, tossing it messily onto a chair near the table.

Maralmizu, Thorin.

Drink, he must drink, and he must drink now.

With his eyes misty and his head heavy, he approaches the table in his study, searching with his hands for the silver jug he had placed there, perhaps only a few minutes before. He focuses on his surroundings, and as soon as he sees a glint, he grabs the jug and the drinking horn next to it.

Maralmizu, Thorin.

He grips both objects firmly, but not too firmly, not wanting to feel the silver under his fingers bend and the horn bone creak. He pours himself some wine, a lot of wine, and as if he were a thirsty man in a burning forest. He sips the entire contents in one gulp, savouring the bitterness on his tongue and enjoying the dizziness that follows. A drop of wine falls on his beard, trickling down to the middle of his chest and he hurries to wipe it off with one hand, putting it to his lips.

He is already ready to pour the second fill when the pile of papers on his desk attracts his attention. They are all neatly placed on top of each other, yet one of them is crumpled, and more yellow than the others.

He places both the horn and the jug on the corner of the table and approaches his desk with curiosity: not that he would have fallen asleep easily anyway. He lifts the stack of papers and pulls out what seems to him to be out of place, using only his fingertips. But it is only when he holds it with both hands that he realises he is not going to sleep a wink, perhaps until the end of his days.

________________________________________________________

Yet another rumble of a thunder resounds outside the window, followed by a flash of light that already anticipates another thunder and that makes the fireplace in the study of the King Under the Mountain useless for a few moments.

With two movements of one hand he dips the quill inside the inkwell, while with the other hand he grabs the silver jug on his desk, pouring himself yet another horn of wine that will be his companion for the rest of the evening and the only companion he would have that night, just like on the night before, and the night before that.

Not a warm body against his, no, he doesn't even have the desire for that. He just desires another cup of wine that would at least allow him to manage to sleep for four hours, which with the amount of painstaking work he was still doing, would probably result in only two.

He had been working with those papers for hours, flipping through and through them, carefully reading every line and underlining them, throwing them on the floor and filling them with his writing, and giving his authorisation for the orders for a feast that, for the first time, he wishes would not come.

Nine hundred barrels of ale, six hundred casks of wine, sixty boars, forty deers, a hundred chickens and quails, fifty pigs, two tons of tubers and grain from Esgaroth...

Numbers upon numbers that keep on assaulting him and confuse his head, so much so that he drains the entire contents of his horn in a single gulp before filling it up again.

His eyes, on the other hand, struggle against a piece of parchment that sticks out visibly from the pile of messy documents to his right. For each signature he writes, for each note he writes, he is forced to pause for a few moments, lingering over that inconspicuous piece of paper, more yellow and more crumpled than others, yet he does not have the strength to pull it out to look at its entirety.

When he found it among the documents of the agreement, he was petrified as he had been a few times in his life. Those characteristic ink marks, those meticulously drawn trees, those lines, those rivers, those names of places he had seen and visited over and over again had quickly taken the form of a face, a pair of eyes looking at him as if he were the most beautiful being ever created by the Valar, of a mouth that kissed him as if she was in dire need to quench her thirst and his mouth was the fount of a clear stream, of cheeks that, though pressed against his chest, blushed with every of his caress, and of a body pressed against his so that it seemed to enjoy a warmth that could not even exist in the forges of the great Mahal.

Her body, her face, her moans, her words.

It was just an adventure, a treat to sweeten up the negotiations.

Those words resound in his head and that face disappears, leaving only the barely sketched banks of the Anduin and the borders of Mirkwood beside it, drawn on that sheet of parchment.

A blind rage soon takes hold of his body, he feels the muscles tighten under his shirt, a black fury darkening his eyes. He fiercely crumples the drawing, no longer wanting to know, no longer wanting to give heed to those memories in his head. He had thought about it all the way home and now he can do something to forget her, to throw her figure into the flames and take her out of his body, and now he has the answer and the means to do it. But as soon as he approaches the fireplace to burn that piece of parchment in the flames, he is not able to. Something blocks his hand, a sense of guilt, a melancholy that bears her name, Ragna, the only name he would ever know and remember her by. His hand withdraws on its own, forbidding him to throw the paper into the fire, and in his heart he knows he will never succeed. He finds himself unrolling it and sitting down on his armchair in front of the fire in his room, watching it in detail. He knows what she is capable of drawing, he has seen it. What he has in his hand is nothing more than a sketch that had somehow ended up among the papers she had given him that day, that last day, that last night, when he had been able to enjoy her kisses, her body, her voice, one last time.

Sighing, Thorin runs a hand over his face and reaches out for his drinking horn to take another sip of wine, drowning his memories. He returns to his work undaunted, ignoring those silly thoughts that weighed on his shoulders like lead bars, like the heaviest armour he had ever worn.

As soon as the sweetish liquid touches his lips, he grunts with pleasure, snapping his tongue noisily and his hand continues that heavy work, turning a page and continuing to write.

But the more time passes, the more the cup is filled up and the silver jug gets emptied, the more his head becomes light and the more memories resurface.

Like the one from one of those nights.

"You have beautiful handwriting and that's not a compliment I often pay," Ragna tells him with her cheek resting on his chest and her small fingers playing with his hand.

"I should be honored then," he chuckles watching her thumb study the calluses on his palm.

"You must, after all the times I've been forced to look at it, I'm very sure of my words," she stated firmly. "But..." she interrupts, raising her face to his as she propped herself up on her elbows "The greatest honour I could give you is to tell you that it is more magnificent than mine."

"And will you ever tell me that, my lady?"

She smiles at him with the side of her mouth, their noses rubbing against each other. "I may, one night… or when you return here in the Iron Hills again, your majesty, you might be granted this… prize," she murmurs, brushing her lips against his.

"You are my prize," he replies and eagerly intertwines his fingers with hers and kisses her.

At the end of one of his signatures he presses the quill so hard on the paper that it creates a clearly visible smudge, causing him to throws the quill across the room, snarling like a beast.

And at that moment, his hand moves on its own, and he carefully pulls the sheet of parchment that keeps on drawing his mind towards itself and the marks on it slowly begin to show before his eyes. The papers that were stacked on top of the drawing fall to the ground, but he doesn't care, not at this moment.

He puts it on the wooden surface of his desk, as if it were one of those documents to be signed. Only the tips of his fingers rest on the crumpled sheet, and a fear of tearing it apart with a single movement raises its ugly head inside him. With his index finger, he traces every drawn mountain, every sketched tree, every rune. His eyes follow the Gladden Fields and the river Ninglor and finally arrive at the gates of Khazad-dûm, where his journey stops at the edge of the sheet on the banks of the lake of Kheled-zâram. That place to which he wanted nothing more than to take her, to see how her face brightens up while she stands on those banks, to show her what he had seen, to show her all that the world could give her, all that... he could give her, just in exchange for… for... one more night? Only that? Just a night of her, of her body? No...

A gentle knock on his study door interrupts his train of thought and brings him back to reality. Still disconcerted, he presses two fingers to the bridge of his nose as the spinning in his head continues to increase.

What a stupid, terrible idea.

"Come in," he mutters, trying to maintain at least a measure of self-control.

He receives no reply but the dark wooden door slowly opens, gradually showing him an avalanche of black curls, and a pair of eyes as ice-coloured as the dress she wore: Dìs.

"Thorin," she greets him looking through the gap in the door with uncertainty.

"Sister," he replies, nodding, allowing her to come in.

Better that she comes into his study at that moment than anyone else in the Mountain, someone who could have interrogated him, someone like Dwalin or worse, Balin. Not that they hadn't tried to do that to him already, but he skillfully managed to ignore them by just giving them new (and plenty) orders to follow.

He couldn't talk, not to them, not to anyone.

"Are you busy, brother? If you prefer I can come over later," his sister asks him, still outside the door

"No, not at all. I was just sorting out some paperwork... nothing more," he murmurs more to himself than to her, hiding the map on his desk slightly under his forearms.

Dìs nods as she enters the room and closes the door behind her "I see, aye, it's just that these days you are very busy."

Thorin notices how the words become softer and how his sister's eyes wander quickly around his study and he notices how the wrinkle on her forehead becomes deeper all of a sudden when her eyes stop on the papers on the floor, on the quill on the carpet in the middle of the room or on the makeshift bed he had created for himself to rest on during those weeks in front of the fireplace.

His heart freezes in his veins when he notices how she begins to look at his arms, or rather at what was hidden under his crossed arms.

"The orders for Durin's Day and the Reclamation Day?" she asks him, pointing at the parchment with her finger.

Thorin nods and carefully covers the map with another set of papers he still had to read and sign.

"Hundreds of them, more than I have expected," he replies authoritatively, narrowing his eyes.

Dis remains silent again for a few moments, just nodding her head and continuing to linger towards the surface of her desk and a strange shadow appears on her face.

"I need to speak with you Thorin, officially," she states seriously, looking him straight in the face.

The grip around his stomach loosens and he nods, unable to control a sigh of relief. "Of course," he murmurs pointing to her with his hand at the chair in front of him inviting her to sit down. "What's the matter?" he asks, but Dìs doesn't approach the chair or change her facial expression.

She remains still, motionless, observing him, with a look that makes him immediately swallow the sigh of relief he has allowed himself. Her hands, covered with rings and precious stones, are crossed over her belly and she casts another glance at his arms.

"I have just returned from the Iron Hills… I had to speak with Dain about something," she informs him coldly.

The Iron Hills.

Involuntarily his palm closes in a fist and he feels the need to swallow another sip of wine. Glancing at his drinking horn, he fills it to the brim, noticing that the third jug he had prepared for himself that evening was now almost completely empty.

"I was not informed of this, I could have given you an escort or sent you there officially. The lads told me you were busy..." he scolds her, gradually starting to connect all the dots.

Fili and Kili had justified their mother's absence during the last several days, he lost count how many of them passed, with various excuses. He remembers the looks the two brothers gave each other during meals; he could now see how they had been lying to him for days.

"What brought you there?" he counters, wetting his lips with the sweet and terribly familiar nectar. "What was so important that you had to speak to our cousin in person and not via letters?"

Dìs glances at him as soon as he tilts his horn to drink and with a couple of quick strides she approaches the desk, yanking the cup he has been holding out of his hand with a tug and glaring at him.

"I had to speak to him about you, brother!" she snarls at him. "He told me about your two weeks in the Iron Hills, about the Orc attack, the trade negotiations, and about how happy you looked there, how younger you looked!" she scolds him again, slamming the horn full of wine at the other end of the table.

It doesn't take him long to understand.

Forcing himself up with his hands on the table, he gets up from the chair, making it fall to the floor behind him, and glares at her.

"There is nothing I could have not told you myself, Dìs, you could have just asked me without disturbing our cousin,” he bares his teeth, his nostrils flaring.

But Dìs does not seem to be frightened. She places her hands on her hips and raises her chin more assertively than ever.

"Then can you tell me her name?" she asks insistently, her back straightening.

Her name.

A twinge in his chest forces him to arch his back upwards. "I don't know who you are talking about," he lowers his voice.

"You know who I am talking about!" Dìs insists, pointing her finger at the wooden desk and raising her voice, "and from what I have heard every dwarf in the Iron Hills would know about who I am talking about! I'm talking about the same dwarven lady who reduced you to drinking wine from morning till night!" she spits at him.

The wine rises to Thorin's head and all his self-control crumbles under the weight of his sister's words.

He fists both of his hands but it's not enough to control himself and his words.

"Leave her out of this!" he roars back, slamming his fist on the table.

But he realises too late that he has betrayed himself with his own words, he has admitted it.

His sister's blue eyes flutter several times and her mouth opens wide in a hushed breath.

"You are protecting her..." she whispers but to his ears it sounds like a much louder scream than the one she spat out soon after. "So they are telling the truth!" she barks again at him, slamming her finger on the desk.

They are telling the truth, who are they? They don't know the truth, none of them knows a damn thing other than sounds and moans and growls.

The wine rises to his head again and that taste of raspberries and malt fills his mouth again taking possession of his thoughts and his lips... as it had always done.

"There is no one! Not anymore and there won’t ever be! That is my last word on this matter, Dís!" he thunders back at her, pointing at the door with his chin, just wanting her to leave and finally stop talking....

Exhausted, he lowers his gaze, turning it towards the glass of wine that in that moment was calling him, louder than ever. He wants to forget, he wants to sleep, and not remember the truth of the words he had just spoken, why wouldn't Dìs let him forget?!

Ragna will never be his! She has never been his and he has been reducing himself to a pile of rubble because of it! It is a feeling he knows too well, the desire, wanting something until he can't think of anything else, but it is different this time, he wants the one thing he can't have and won’t ever have.

The one thing that neither an army, nor gold, nor prayers won’t ever allow him to touch again.

Thorin closes his eyes and stretches his arm forward, and in one slow motion he budges the horn filled with wine from in front of him, removing it from his gaze.

"You left her..." Dìs whispers, making him grit his teeth.

"I did not leave her, I gave her a choice and she made her decision!" he stops looking as his fingers are still closed in a fist and in that moment his palm that clutches at nothing is covered with a hand bearing dozens of small golden rings.

"She picked her people and her life in the Iron Hills, the thing she wanted is not here," he concludes, opening his palm upwards and lhis hand is carried away like sand on the wind, just like his thoughts.

Dìs moves even closer to the desk, placing both hands on it and forcing him to look up, finding her face at a very short distance from his.

"So you left the Iron Hills, you left her there and you did not tell her about..." she spits at him. "About… about… Damn, about all this!?" she yells at him again and with a movement she spreads her arms, pointing at his desk, and then at the room they are in, clearly referring to the confusion that reigned in his rooms, but not only to it.

Thorin understands that she is referring to more than that, but he will never have the strength to say it.

"I'll call someone to clean it up later," he murmurs coldly, but his patience is beginning to wear thin.

"You'll clean it yourself! You've never left the papers on the table in such a mess before, you barely eat, and if you do, you eat in your room alone! You spend all night in the forges, forging nothing or melting down and reforging the swords you already made just to keep yourself busy the way you keep yourself busy day in and day out by loading yourself with-"

"You don't know anything, Dís!" he interrupts her abruptly, roaring "You don't know what happened so I won't let you treat me like a boy who can barely tie his boots!"

"I will treat you like a boy if you continue to act like one, whining because someone dared to tell him no!" she retorts, pointing her finger at him.

Slowly Thorin lifts his back and puffs up his chest, showing his teeth. "Watch your tongue sister! You have no idea what you are talking about!"

His sister takes a couple of strides bringing herself to the side of the desk. "Then explain it to me! Explain to me why I barely recognize you!" she yells as her voice cracks for a moment. "How someone is so important to you, so perfect for you that you keep tormenting yourself like this? Why are you so stupid that you won't even try to stand up for yourself like you have been doing your whole damn life!" she yells back at him and those words mark the end of Thorin's lies and set him free.

With a couple of strides he moves towards his sister, clenching his fists.

"Because she is not a battle, she is not a trade agreement! If she were, I would have traded half the wealth I possess now just to have her here!" he shouts at her angrily.

His heart beats in his chest at an unspeakable speed and everything in front of him turns black, but the twinge in his chest instead of stopping him, this time makes him open his mouth and pour out all the things he wanted to keep hidden from Dìs and everyone else.

His eyes sting, his throat becomes dry and his breath quickens uncontrollably. "She's an already lost case so I'm staying down. I will not get up and fight when the flames no longer burn on the battlefield! I hear her voice, I see her face when I close my eyes, Dís, and I can't stop thinking about what I could have done better and how one stupid sentence pulled me down like I was still a young prince in love and not what I am today!" he yells at her, making her eyes go wide with amazement. "How in those moments with her, I felt like a king, more like a king than I feel now, with a kingdom, and how I was more of a king then than I am now, how I..." he freezes for a moment, the shouts becoming a low growl, a whisper that only he wants to hear, but that Dís will inevitably have to hear too.

"How peaceful I felt when I was with her and how she took all the blood away from my hands and the ghosts and fire in my head that haunt me every night, she took it all away just by stroking my cheek…” he whispers, looking her sister straight in the eyes. “She managed to do it just by sleeping next to me for two weeks, just by talking to me for two weeks, just by making l-" he freezes, no that he couldn't say that, and he couldn't admit it yet.

He swallows the lump that has formed in his throat and takes a couple of steps away from Dìs who straightens her back little by little.

"Only by being by my side for two weeks.." Thorin concludes by casting a glance to his left, looking at the map and then back at the half full goblet. "And I don't want to feel that, I want to forget, those damned two weeks, those trade negotiations and her!" he admits clenching his fists again. "Is that enough of an explanation for you?!" he hisses to himself once more, giving her an icy stare, a look he hadn't been able to control. "Now go! Get out of here! Now!" he orders her, pointing at the door with his finger.

He sits back in his chair with a low growl, letting himself go, feeling drained and empty from his own thoughts and emotions.

It had been almost impossible to think and yet he had said them out loud, he had said everything out loud. Everything he felt, and felt for her, whatever it was. Sighing, he rests his elbows on the desk, resting his head in his hands, enjoying the ringing in his ears and the silence around him.

He wants to sleep.

Suddenly he hears a few little steps and Dìs' hand rests motherly on his shoulder, supporting him lightly and drawing little circles on the muscle of his arm with her thumb. Out of the corner of his eye he sees her kneel beside him and feels her breath at his elbow and before he knows it her lips and forehead are on his bejeweled arm guard.

A silence descends upon them, a silence broken only by their heavy breaths, by the pounding inside his chest that gradually grows lighter. Thorin moves an arm from under his forehead and places his hand on Dìs' ringed hand, squeezing it gratefully, as when they were children.

Naked though clothed, the only one who had ever had the chance to see him in his worst moments and who had often shared those worst moments with him.

He feels his sister's lips move into a grimace and her fingers tighten around his arm.

"When Vili died I was barely able to get up from bed, I know you remember," she starts in a calm voice. "I didn't even want to eat or even breathe sometimes, I just wanted to see him one more time and after that I ended up just focusing on Fili and Kili, for years… I lost someone I wanted to spend my whole day, my whole week, my whole year, my whole life with, and I can't even imagine how much I want his ghost to not stop me from my desires now, from what my heart needs now. I wanted him there with me and I did not even have the chance to tell him how much I needed him, how much I loved him, one last time..."

Shocked by those words, which she had never confided in him, Thorin looks up to his right noticing how Dìs looks at him with her eyes veiled in pain, with the truth and the reply on her lips distorted into a small smile. And then he recalls.

How much she loves him.

How much he loves her.

"You do, you do have the chance to tell her, Thorin," she tells him and gently pulls away a lock of hair that was caught between the obsidian decorations of his crown. "Only because you are not as young as Fili, only because you think you are too busy, only because you think you have everything and don’t deserve more, please don't close doors behind you like this," she murmurs, laying a hand on his cheek.

"She closed it, Dìs," he answers, looking back at the map in front of him "She locked it," he repeats.

"Then re-open it again, what do you have to lose?" she asks him, moving her thumb over his beard.

There it is, the question, the real question, why hadn't he done anything yet, why was he still standing there like that?

Thorin moves his middle finger over the paper, stroking the map, studying the lines that adorn it again and again in search of an answer. Then a sting in his chest kicks in as he notices a detail he'd never noticed before and it brings the world crashing down on him. Near the edge of the paper, next to the Kheled-zâram, there was a road, the road leading to the west gate and there, just there, her hand drew an ibex.

They used not to come down from the mountains, it was such a common animal there that she needed to draw it, but then their conversation in Ragna's rooms hit him hard, making his eyes wide open.

Well... perhaps. Some day.

"Her..." he finally replies all in one breath. This is what he would have lost.

"Have you not already lost her like this, brother?" * * * The Masterlist

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 ...

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[causeimcrayzeebee]

In defense(?) of Tamba Ruiko with the trajectory of chapter 5 so far and what the YouTube comments have been looking like, im seeing very mixed feelings about tamba, so lemme become a defense attorney real quick and give some of my thoughts on her!

now obviously, tamba isn’t everyone’s cup of tea so I totally understand people who just don’t like her. reminder that people do not need very deep reasons (or any at all tbh) to not like a character, people can not like a character for whatever reason n that’s valid!! id just like to give my thoughts n insight into her actions for people to consider (and ofc im not von so this is my interpretation).

yes, tamba was an asshole for exploding at hiroaki. accusing him of faking his apology, of planting the threat, and proceeding to tell him every moment of the killing game he was a shitty person? kinda insane to do, especially when hiroaki has genuinely been trying to get better. not to mention how she pointed out him passing his punishment onto others while she herself did that exact same thing.

but the thing is that episode was tamba calling out hiroaki for shit that she likely knows is a fault of her own as well. tamba and hiroaki clash because they're two sides of the same coin. they are loud, obnoxious, hypocritical people who have looked out for themselves and tried to find someone to blame. they're both flawed people. the difference right now in their stories is that hiroaki has been improving, and tamba hasn't gotten to that point.

let's also remember that hiroaki's outward development hasn't been happening for too long. of course, us as the audience who has seen his growth know he's been struggling in the kg as much as anyone else, and is really trying to be better. ojima, yanagi, and wada especially know that. but those who haven’t been close to him don’t; hasegawa doesn’t understand him as he’s seen the same ups and downs that tamba has. like trial 4, hiroaki has had some regression at some points (which does not discount his general upwards trajectory!!) but out of curiosity, i do want to know why i saw hardly as much of criticism towards hiroaki when he said shit at wada…. im super confused about that. I think it's understandable for tamba to assume what kind of person he is. she hasn't seen what he's gone through. she's upset because she seen him be a dick countless times and assumes he sent the threat because he's the only one left who has been like that towards her.

tamba isn’t as level headed like everyone else has been. she lets fear n paranoia get the best of her, and can you blame her? she is surrounded by people who are all able to solve murders and conduct plans of escape, and while she's tried her hardest to do that too, she isn't as good at it. what she is good at is not something that she can use to contribute to the group, so she feels useless. tamba has said that she doesn't even know how she's still alive and if she even deserves it. with the last trial approaching till the game is supposed to end, i think she's absolutely allowed to be that worried over the threat-- who says she won't be killed for the sake of everyone else's escape? I still have no idea who sent the threat, and I don't think it was hiroaki, but she's in no way overreacting. tamba has been paranoid, especially recently, because she, just like everyone else, doesn't want to die, and knows she'd be an easy victim. while her paranoia has pushed her to do things that would cause her to be even more of a target, it's clear she's just really stressed out about being next. that doesn’t justify trying to look for a scapegoat, but it makes sense as to why.

tamba hasn't gotten the chance to live her life to the fullest. her life has revolved around gymnastics and numbers on a scale. it didn't matter to her parents that she wanted to play soccer, cause "she didn't have the body for it". she couldn't be in theater cause it was too much of a commitment that would take away from gymnastics. she hasn't had agency over her own life, so she has been trying to start doing things on her own. she finally does something about it and rejects hayashi's help.

this doesn't discredit hiroaki's life and what he has/hasn't done, neither does it discredit any other student. it's just human nature for someone to prioritize their life over others in a life or death situation. tamba is trying to make sense of a situation that makes less and less of it.

everyone is exhausted. a month of being trapped in an underground school forced to kill strangers and watching them die one by one? that'll kill you (literally). tamba is just someone who is cracking under the pressure.

of course, if I misinterpreted or missed something, please let me know! my understanding isn't the objectively right one or anything LMAO so please lmk if I am thinking about things the wrong way. thank you for reading ^^

[formylovetodaryldixon]

"Daryl Dixon SFW alphabet."

Summary: Daryl Dixon's version of the SFW alphabet with you as a couple.

@artsynana: hii dear, i was thinking, have you ever though about writing some sfw headcanons with daryl? i would love to see something like that written by you🥰🥰

Hey love. Sorry it took me a while to do this, my brain has been out of ideas :( This isn't the best, but I hope you like it! Thanks.

A/N: I sometimes include some excerpts from my stories to give you an idea (don't hate me, I have to promote them haha)

A = Affection (How affectionate is he? How does he show affection?)

In public, Daryl is painfully uncomfortable with displays of affection considering he never knew what it’s like, so he’d just stand by your side, always close, always making sure you’re in his line of sight if he can’t get close. He just… has to know where you are (not possessively, but the idea of ​​losing you is inconceivable). Daryl is a protector, now imagine him with the person he’d want to spend his life with. Maybe cupping your cheek as a quick caress or a kiss on your forehead before either of you has to go on a search for supplements.

Privately Daryl became more accustomed to them until he needed to do it himself.

B = Best friend (What would he be like as a best friend?)

Whether you're the talkative one or the quiet one, or both, the beginning of a friendship would be confusing for Daryl. Having someone Daryl could confide in, someone he could open up to, considering that his whole life he's had to keep quiet or bottle up his own feelings, both good and bad, would be a huge step for him. But like I said, Daryl is a protector, to the point where he'd beat the shit out of anyone who dared to disrespect you (a warning first, of course. His temper is short, sorry, but he's learned to handle it), but disrespecting you in the sense that he feels you're being insulted, threatened, or way before he feels you're in danger.

C = Cuddles (Does he like to cuddle?) (The little spoon)

Glenn helps Carol as Daryl places his arms under your legs and shoulders, to lift you up so he can carry you into the bedroom, but then, a silly thought shines your mind and pushes out of your lips before you can stop it.

“Did you know Daryl likes being the little spoon?”

Daryl feels the heat rise to his cheeks as everyone stops to stare at him.

“I like it, so what?” He says embarrassed, but trying to keep a straight face so no one would laugh at him.

Daryl would come to love the idea of ​​cuddling too, because for him, feeling HIS person against him, protected even in dreams is comforting because it's the only place he can protect you 100 percent, (I mean, with those strong arms, hehe) I don't know why, but I imagine Rick or Carol because they are the only ones who can tease him like this, sensing Daryl somewhat grumpy for not being with you at night due to some runs, telling him not to even think about trying to cuddle up against them.

Also because I feel like Daryl wasn't a deep sleeper or even didn't sleep at all, maybe that's why feeling the body of the person he loves helps him fall asleep, to feel like he's not alone anymore.

D = Domestic (Does he want to settle down? Like, make him and you a real family)

Daryl would hint (shy and awkward hehe) that it would be nice to have a house of your own, maybe in Alexandria. He did live in a house, yes, but with you, it would be his first home. It would be like giving the child living in him a chance at being loved correctly, too.

E = Ending (If he has to break up with his partner)

It's so hard for someone like Daryl to trust another person, to love another person, that when he is in a relationship, it would be for a long, long time. His whole life, he lived without thinking about the future or having expectations for anything, so if Daryl dared to love you even though he thought you deserved better, or that you could be loved better, he wouldn't break up with you on purpose.

F = Fiancé (How does he feel about commitment?) (What it means to me)

“Why did you come back for the ring?”

As the men keep digging a grave for Tina and the other bodies, Daryl stops to look at Sherry, who’s looking at an empty spot beyond all that pain. She doesn’t look back at him, and just wait for an answer.

"S’ jus’ a ring for ya but it means somethin’ important to me.”

A second later, Sherry finally looks at him.

“What is that?”

Daryl knows a promise can be broken, not by him, but by that dangerous world and how a life can end in a second, so the ring is, or will be a symbol of a truth, if he gets the opportunity to give it to you.

“It means I’ll love ma wife for the rest of ma life. S’ the only promise I can make to her.”

Daryl never thought about being anyone's something, not wanting to settle down and much less commit, it would be something he dislikes (it terrifies him actually) but with you, who showed him only the good and the beautiful that life has to offer, he would unwittingly start having those thoughts about what it would be like to do all of that only with you. The idea of ​​getting a ring for you, of having something visual that makes you his (not in a possessive way) that after having nothing, having you bearing his last name would be everything.

G = Gentle (How gentle is he?)

Daryl is tough and imposing with his physique and the menacing way his gaze alone can convey, but he quickly learned to be less rude with you and the people he loves and considers family.

H = Hugs (Does he likes hugs?)

It's not that he doesn't like it, it's just that Daryl doesn't know how to be physically loving. My poor baby is awkward as hell, so maybe at first, just to annoy him and even make him uncomfortable, you'd give him hugs even for breathing because even you can tell he's never received one. But the idea of ​​you expressing your love like that is fascinating to Daryl until he understands that it's a normal part of life, and that he doesn't have to work hard to deserve one.

If you haven't seen each other in a while, Daryl would need to keep you pressed against his body for a while, so that he physically understands that you're really there, close again.

I = I love you (Like Gravity)

“God dammit, woman, if I didn't love ya so much they'd be cookin' in a stew.” He freezes for a second, listening clearly to his heartbeat as he walks away, but Daryl has to clear his throat so his voice wouldn’t break off mid–sentence. “Let's go over there and see if we can get some squirrels instead.”

The L word. Daryl knows well that you love him and that he loves you, but saying it out loud, it would be the thing that would forever define your relationship at the beginning, perhaps when he still fears that the foundations of your love aren't fully built, when he still senses that someone better will come along. But the moment Daryl understands that, despite his imperfections, you won't walk away by your own choice, he'll feel safe saying it because he knows well you'll say it back. For him, love is in the small things, but every once in a while, he says it.

J = Jealousy (How jealous can he get? (You are)  

Your skin feels cold again when Daryl's hand leaves your body, even if your skin feels boiling hot when the attention falls on you like the midday sun in that stifling season. As if someone had put their hand on your throat until it was blocked from air, your uncomfortable laughter comes out muffled, but you don’t answer before changing topics. But it's sad that after a short while, Daryl stands up to go to his own cell, his thoughts running wild with the jealousy he feels about that guy, thinking that there was someone who made you feel something when, for him, you were his first everything.

Insecure more than jealous, but jealous too (?). At the beginning of the relationship, Daryl is jealous of everyone because he’s convinced that everyone is better for you than him, that anyone could offer you more and something better, that at any moment he's going to ruin what he has with you, to the point of indirectly sabotaging the relationship without realizing it. Daryl needs time to understand that what you feel for him isn't temporary and isn't in danger of disappearing, until he no longer feels threatened by anyone.

But if you two are together and someone is trying to flirt by making you uncomfortable and even trying to cross the line of your security, it's like letting the lion out of its cage. Daryl would literally eat the poor bastard alive. (In fiction, I love those men hahaha)

K = Kisses (What are his kisses like?)

It depends, if they're those in the middle of the game, they'd be pretty deep. The idea is consuming in his mind, the idea of ​​knowing that after those comes the best *wink* Daryl loves the idea of ​​feeling his person's lips on his, because the nerves they still produce in him are exciting, how something as simple as greeting each other like that at any time of the day is simple but powerful for him. It's not something he takes for granted, especially at the moment when someone has to go to a run if you both can't go together.

L = Little ones (Babies?) (Make you happy)

“It means positive.” You answered softly, your heart beating faster.

Daryl’s mind ran as fast as possible, registering your words, processing who he was and who he will be: a future father?

“Are we…” Daryl finally said, but he had to clear his throat first. “Happy ‘bout it?”

He looked confused, not angry.

“I don’t know. Are we?”

Then, he did the last thing you thought he would do: Daryl started smiling, just a little bit.

“Yeah, I mean, I'm fuckin’ scared, but…” He paused, looking at you with a worried expression, and his voice became even lower. “But if ya don’ want to have her I would get that, ‘cause for yer face ya ain’t lookin’ so sure ‘bout it.”

Daryl was always terrified of the idea of ​​becoming his father, or even just a shadow of that man and harming a baby, which is why he never wanted children. He knew his temper was short and explosive to the point of losing control, and that was a big NO. But Daryl, without realizing it, cared for Judith since she was a baby until a thought settled in his mind: the idea that he couldn't be that bad, not when he would give his life for someone who wasn't his blood daughter. And if Daryl would do it for her, what wouldn't he do for someone who was?

Whether it was an accident or something you two were looking for, Daryl would be an amazing dad, showing his baby nothing but love and happiness.

M = Mornings (How are the mornings with him?)

Daryl sleeps more soundly since you've been with him, but he's not someone who wants to spend all day in bed every day. The day starts early for him, although the idea of ​​waking up next to someone after sleeping alone his whole life does make him want to stay there a little longer.

N = Nights (How are nights with him?) (The way to heal a heart)

From his side, Daryl sleeps with his back to you. However, lying on your left side and as you drift off into a light sleep, you feel Daryl rolling over in bed, blindly searching for the warmth of your body, pressing himself against you, because that reminded him that he is still alive.

With nightmares or insomnia after a lifetime of abuse, Daryl didn't relish the idea of ​​going to sleep, but sleeping together solved the problem. Even unconsciously at first, his body blindly sought yours when you first started sleeping together, until it became a necessity for Daryl to physically feel you, perhaps a hand on your waist or your stomach or your back, or until his body was pressed against yours.

O = Open (When would he start revealing things about himself?

Little by little, because the traumatic memories felt like reliving them once Daryl said them out loud. The idea that saying them and look weak and vulnerable was inconceivable to him, but there was something about your tone of voice, without a hint of pity for him and only understanding when he crossed his own line and told you the first story one night.

P = Patience (How easily angered he gets?) (A little hope)

But too terrified to feel too much when Daryl was used to feeling little, or nothing at all, he turned away from you for a very long time, always taking the opposite path, coming when you were leaving, never coinciding, confusing when his feelings awaken and made a mess of his life.

But being shot by Andrea was like his breaking point, leading him to isolate himself in the room until he was better, walking outside only during the nights so as not to suffocate within the four walls all day. A random night as you walk back late, you see him standing against the back wall, and fighting against the current, you try to get closer, just one more time before deciding to walk away from him forever, but Daryl was the reflection of a battered animal, always on the verge of attacking before being attacked.

And he gives you the WHOLE speech.

“…battin’ yer eyelashes at me n’ always hopin’ for the best, givin’ me hope for somethin’ I know ain’t gonna happen. M’ fuckin’ sick of seein’ ya.”

Again, a really short patience, or sometimes Daryl doesn't have any of that, but he learned to calm his temper, not to get carried away by his own frustration, and not to yell or want to escape quickly from situations that made him uncomfortable. The idea of ​​attacking so as not to be attacked again was burned into his mind, always feeling that he was not wanted anywhere, but the time and the family Daryl made taught him that he was loved and that he was an essential part of others' lives.

Q = Quizzes (How much would he remember about you?)

He remembers absolutely everything. Daryl has a practically perfect memory, recalling even things you considered unimportant. Like a good hunter, Daryl is able to notice even the smallest pieces, tiny things that go unnoticed by others, but not by him, and this ability is even more surprising because he started paying attention to you even before you were a thing: storing in his mind even those tiny behaviors of yours that no one else noticed. Now imagine when he and you became something.

R = Remember (What is his favorite moment in your relationship?)

Daryl doesn't take being with you for granted, so he believes every moment means something special.

S = Security (How protective is he?) (Karma Butterfly)

“A fuss?” Daryl grunts under his breath, those words souring his mouth. “A moron threatened ma wife and ya don’ want me to make a damn fuss?”

But as the sweet karma that is about to punch Spencer right in the face just as Daryl’s fist would do, Spencer walks down the street toward the car, smiling at Rick like the good boy he pretended to be. However, Daryl’s anger covers his eyes and paints the world red as he walks towards him just to punch Spencer before Glenn or Rick can try to stop him, hitting him so hard that Daryl makes him fall. Daryl falls on him too, with all the weight of his body, punching the thick skin of the wolf. His strong arms push away who tries to pull him back, his ears covering with the word threat, his fists turning red as blood leaves Spencer’s face.

“Daryl, stop!” Finally, Rick pulls him hardly, giving Spencer some time to breathe again. “You’re gonna kill him!”

“That’s the fuckin’ plan!” Daryl shouts back, trying to avoid Rick’s body as he looks straight at Spencer. “M’ gonna kill ya, coward! Nobody messes with ma wife!”  

Once again, Daryl is a protector, to the point of giving his life for the person he loves. Keeping you safe from any kind of threat is a duty to him. Feeling like you're in any kind of danger is devastating to him, which is why Daryl would dedicate his life to keeping yours safe, from anything living or not. Losing you is what terrifies him more than the thought of something happening to him.

T = Try (How much effort would he put into different things)

Love for Daryl is in the little things: like bringing something for you during a run, for example, a book, a cassette, something simple but a meaningful reminder that life in that new world is still life just because he has you.

U = Ugly (Some bad habits of his?)

That he's not bothered at all by the grease of his motorcycle when Daryl's fixing it or the blood on his clothes, that he doesn't notice it until you point it out. He'd respond that it's not that bad and that you're just being picky until you threatened to make him sleep in the yard if he didn't fix it.

(I'm not saying smoke because I do it too, sorry)

V = Vanity (How concerned is he with his looks?)

Not worried at all. Even though Daryl's physical appearance has attracted the attention of the local women in Alexandria, he's oblivious to his appearance, becoming even shy when you tease him about his long hair, which makes him look like a rock star, or the muscles in his arms exposed in his sleeveless shirt.

 W = Whole (How would he feel without you?)

After living alone his entire life, finding you gave Daryl the desire to never be without you again. The idea of ​​falling in love was almost like a bad joke to him, although in reality he was also terrified of loving too much and losing (among other things). But feeling loved by you made him feel complete, so yeah, he doesn't want to live without you anymore.

X = Xtra (A random thing about him?)

Maybe how quickly he becomes shy when you tease him? but he tries to hide it with a snort.

Y = Yuck (What are some things he doesn’t like about you?)

Nothing. Just your own tendency to do things alone, which sometimes got on his nerves because of his fear of you getting hurt. Daryl knows you're independent and can take care of yourself, but since life taught you that you could handle everything on your own, you sometimes forget that it's okay to have someone else help you.

Z = Zzz (What are some sleep habits of his?) (My everything)

“15 minutes to make the milk? I was starting to get worried actually." You raise an eyebrow, speaking softly. "Why did you take so long? The milk is in the kitchen, not in another country."

"Sorry, sweetheart." Daryl apologizes as he hands you the bottle, sitting on the edge of the bed to watch his daughter stop crying the moment she feels the bottle against her pretty pink lips. "I closed ma eyes and jus' fell asleep for a minute."

You frown, continuing to stroke Marley's back.

"In a chair? On the counter?"

At the sound of your voice, Daryl's head falls until he almost hits his chest with his own chin, waking up from his light sleep before looking back at you. It's still funny to you how easy it was for him to go without sleep all those years, but after a month with Marley, Daryl considered killing walkers an easier task.

"What? No. Standin’. Didn't know that was even possible."

Being a light sleeper, or not sleeping at all sometimes because of nightmares was Daryl's weakness, but sleeping with you developed a good sleep habit on him. He still wakes up early, but sleeps soundly since you two lived within the safety of Alexandria's walls, although since his daughter was born, Daryl truly understood what it was like to go without sleep.

[suguru-getos]

the fact that kaiser is so deeply traumatized that giving people the same despair he went through helps him feel… at ease makes me want to bang my head against a wall :C i can fix him <3

no but seriously, like imagine this scenario with women too? he likes how their faces contort when he breaks their heart, then the tears follow. he hates that he likes it so much. he hates that lip quiver and the slight look of hope that is in their eyes… when they hope kaiser would change his mind & not leave them.

until he sees you, and everything changes.

“i can’t do this anymore.” kaiser was having fun with you. you were genuine, you made him laugh. you didn’t just care about soccer … you wanted to know him as a person. wanted to know why he had that tattoo… wanted to know what makes him happy. what makes him loved.

“why?” you ask, staring at the depths of his soul at the fancy dinner he took you to.

“just, bored of you that’s all.” when kaiser says that, something in you flips. he waits for this— maybe your despair would make him — stop this once and for all. you’re his favorite toy right now.

“ah- okay.” you say, nonchalance and disgust plastered all over your face. he searches, desperate and yearning — where is the despair? where is the sadness of losing— someone? of losing this?

“bye.” you get up, holding your phone and place 500 dollars on the table. “my share for the dinner. consider it my treat if it’s more.” and just like that, you’re gone.

kaiser has never turned back to see anyone walk away, but he sees you. something in him sinks. what just happened? the avoidant becomes the anxious. he sees your profile the next day — only to find him blocked from everywhere.

what?

someone turned the tables for michael kaiser, and now he can’t stop thinking about how your face would have looked in despair… or if he needed to do this at all.

[bored-trans-orchidsexual]

Something I still want to know is, when/how did *Max* get possessed? Given he and his mom have the same color spectral energy, and it's likely he got possessed before the story began (likely why he was seeing shades to begin with) my thinking is that the Sphinx of Pacts (if that is his spirit, it certainly seems to be) was *her* spirit, and still needed more juice, so they jumped to Max after June died.

Which, if June has Forge as a tool and Pacts as a possession spirit, only *increases* the parallels between her and her son. Both mediums with metal bludgeoning tools, it's a cute reference and a tragic irony considering June clearly wanted no spectral nonsense for her family.

Additionally, if Forge is her tool spirit, at what point in that timeline is that memory... For her to be talking to him either he is already free, or that's *his* spirit trance plane. And if it is, further parallels, it looks so much like Scrapdragon's.

Aaahhhhh we need to know so much and I'm so glad more forge means more Johnny, I was scared years ago that more and more plot would mean less and less Johnny and his gang, I'm so glad not only have they stayed relevant, but now him and Max are going to be so integrally linked!

i was going to say "well this throws forge being june's spirit out the window" because different colors

but then i remembered .

did we ever find out who "she" was?

[dreamyrainland]

18+ MDNI

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Stars in Your Eyes and Bruises on Your Thighs

Timebomb smutfic ♡

Content warnings: penis in vagina sex, vaginal fingering, cunnilingus, rough sex, degradation, praise, slapping, spanking, light bondage, dirty talk, overstimulation, squirting, consensual non-consent, dubious consent but she (not so) secretly wants it, begging, choking, multiple orgasms, manhandling, a lil dumbification, Ekko is mean, he calls her baby a lot, a lil bit of fluffy aftercare at the end ♡

Word count: 5514 ♡

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He'd had his eye on her a long time. Jinx. She thrashed and yelled the whole time the Firelights brought her in but the second she was tied securely to some piping on the floor she quieted, realising there was no way out of this one. He had her brought straight to his living space for privacy, he rationalised it by saying that he had a long and complicated history with her and he’d have a better chance of getting through to her by himself.

Her chest heaves from the struggle, she waits impatiently to see what the hell is going on so that she can figure her way out of it. It doesn’t take long for Ekko to pull the bag from her head and crouch down level with her. She glowers at him, her eyes seeming to light up in the hazy luminance of the sunset streaking through the window. 

He ignores her sharp stare, "I just needed to see you. I needed to know for sure that you were okay," 

"So you just let your goons kidnap me? Real charming, mister. You sure do know how to romance a girl," she drawls. 

Maybe his methods of checking in on his old best friend were a little unorthodox but tying her up seemed like the only way to make sure she didn't try to explode them both. Again. 

He lets out a heavy sigh and leans into her, his face less than an inch away as he undoes the knot that holds her restraints to the pipe. She frowns, not expecting him to just...untie her— not that she was completely free yet with her hands still bound tightly behind her, but still. She stands up hesitantly, waiting. For what? She doesn't really know.

He puts his hands on either side of her head on the wall behind her, trapping her in between his arms. Everything in her screams at her to run but his body is so, so close. She feels a warmth beginning to rise in her cheeks when she catches herself staring at his full lips.

"I was just hoping that...maybe you would come around." He leans in, his eyes trained intensely on her stunned face, "I realised lately that I need you in my life, I've always needed you. It doesn't matter if we're trying to kill each other, if we're best friends again, or even if we were something…more. I don't care what you are or what you've done anymore. You don't have to change, Jinx. All I want is for you to not disappear on me,”

She considers what he says. She can't even fathom that she could be important to anyone, least of all him. So, she chooses to stay hidden behind her guise of pretending as if she just couldn't give a damn.

"You're real cute, Ekko. But you and me are in the past," She shakes her head, "When the hell will you learn to let me go?"

She should know by now that Ekko can see right through her.

"Stop it, Pow— Jinx, why can’t you just let me look out for you?"

He's so dramatic. She rolls her eyes at his words.

Why can't she hear him? He had tried talking, pleading, even physically fighting her. Nothing seemed to get through to her. Maybe it was time for a different approach. 

He grabs her shoulders and all but slams her against the wall, ripping a gasp from her.

"Ekko! What—" 

"Just shut up," He cuts her off. 

He grabs her chin suddenly and jerks it up before slamming his lips onto hers. Everything he had ever wanted to say finds her in the way that their bodies meet, in the way the heat rises between them. His kisses come so rough and wild that he knocks the wind out of her. There's no resistance from her, they both know that she needs him as much as he needs her. It's easier to admit it in the way she opens her lips against his, drinking him in like he's the only thing that can keep her alive. She loves it. She loves him. 

He smiles against her and drags his teeth against her bottom lip. The change in momentum lifts the fog in her head and she realises she had forgotten to breathe the whole time she had been lost in his mouth. She tilts her head back to draw in air, her eyes fluttering open. He immediately takes the opening and finds her neck, passionately kissing the soft, sensitive skin. 

"We shouldn't be doing this..." she gasps.

"I'm not forcing you to kiss me back," he smiles teasingly against her throat.

"And you still haven't untied me," 

Despite her displeased tone, she continues to rest against the wall, tipping back her head further to give him more space to work. He pulls her in by her ass as he continues his onslaught, sucking, nipping, breathing heavily into her, all to hear the sweet little whimpers and moans spilling from her mouth. Her skin darkens beneath his lips, bruises striking up against her pale skin.

He wants her to remember. 

He's addicted to the way her skin tastes, addicted to how easily he can mark her up, to claim her. He nips gently at the crook of her neck and licks it as if to soothe it. He glances up at her flushed face and sinks his teeth in, earning a sharp cry from her.

"Fuck," He pulls back and takes in what he's done. 

Her skin is littered in dark splotches, still shining in spit. Her lips are red and almost swollen from their shared passion. His fingers ghost over where he had bitten her in admiration. 

She looks at him with big, hungry eyes. The moment seems to slow in time as her chest rises and falls. Had he convinced her that this was right? Was this what she was hoping for all this time?

"I need you," 

"I think we both already knew that, baby," 

"Please," she breathes, "let me touch you,"

He brushes her hair out of her face and kisses along her cheek until their lips meet again. She kisses him back like she's starved— so, so desperate.

"Patience, beautiful. We're gonna do this my way, you're gonna let me take my time for once," 

He wraps his hand around her throat and she lets out a soft grunt as he pushes her to the wall. His lips come heated and hungry against her jaw and ever so slowly down her neck. His other hand moves to grope her chest, searching for the soft flesh beneath her clothes. His groan vibrates against her skin as he shoves her top up in a moment of impatience. 

Exposed to the cold of the room, her breasts welcome the feeling of his big, warm hand palming at them. He takes liberty in squeezing and massaging them, paying special attention to her nipples in his movement. He delights in her soft moans of approval and places a last kiss against her neck. 

"You're perfect," He straightens himself up, hands moving to hold her waist, "You're mine,"

She stares up at him, wondering if she heard him right. He turns her around and runs his hands down her body, landing them on her hips.

"You're mine. Say it to me. Tell me,"

"I'm—" she trails off for a second, "I'm yours. All yours, Ekko," She questions if it's fully the truth but she really hopes it is and that's enough for now.

Finally, finally, he undoes the restraints on her wrists. He rubs where the rope dug in, smiling as she melts into his touch. They savour a second of calm between them for once, if only for a moment.

She catches his hands and pulls him closer, guiding him to touch her. 

"Need you. Here. Please," She brings his hands back to her chest. She barely restrains a groan as his fingers sink back into her skin, massaging her in all the right places.

"You're so good for me, baby, letting me touch you like this," he whispers into her hair, his warm breath tickling her ear. 

He remembers his bed, only a couple metres away and, in a flurry of movement, he picks her up, sweeping her feet from under her. It's not long before she's sinking back into the mattress, blinking up at him above her. She feels so small beneath him but she can't help liking the feeling of being so helpless.

His knee finds its way in between her legs, pressing against her in a way that practically lights her on fire. The feeling causes her to whine and grind against him, trying to find purchase. He swallows her pitiful little noises, tasting her tongue against his. He purposefully leans closer, drinking her in wholly and putting more pressure on that sensitive spot that craves attention so badly.

Hands wander wildly as sparks seem to fly between them. It's all either of them have ever wanted but they still need more. She pulls away and starts desperately kissing at his neck, licking and sucking as she goes. She trails spit everywhere, her whole body craving the taste of his skin. She claws at his back, pulling his shirt up. He sits up and pulls it off, throwing it across the room and not caring where it lands. He cradles her damp face and a smile tugs at his lips as she immediately starts kissing his hand.

"I need you closer,"

"I thought you didn't want this," he says with a half mocking smile.

She hides her face in his shoulder— stifling a tiny groan— trying to appear frustrated with his teasing as if it didn't just turn her on more. 

She focuses back to the growing need between her legs, her lips still wet as they brush against his skin. She rocks her hips, rutting against him, creating a sort of dampened pleasure. She clings to the back of his neck and draws him closer, panting loudly in his ear, mouth parted slightly in her effort. She would take anything at this point, she just wants him to finally focus on the growing, painful ache she feels.

Much to her frustration, he pushes her hips back against the bed, stilling her. He adds a sharp slap to the side of her thigh.

"Uh-uh baby, not yet, you'll get off when I touch you. Got it?"

She scrunches up her nose and shakes her head as if he gave her any room for disagreement.

"I need you, Ekko, right now," She pouts.

He places a hand on the centre of her chest and pushes her all the way down into the sheets.

"You're such a fucking slut, Jinx, I can't believe you're into this,"

Her fingers dig into his scalp as he descends her body. He leaves his mark everywhere he goes, covering her breasts in hickeys and biting into her supple skin. He pushes her top up further and takes a nipple into his mouth. The noises she makes at this sudden attention is like music to his ears, barely contained gasps and breathy moans.

He laughs under his breath at how reactive she is, "You still think we shouldn't be doing this?"

She just groans in response, becoming impatient with his teasing.

He stares up at her face from her chest, "You want me to touch you, baby?" he says with his lips against her skin.

She gives a small, almost imperceptible nod as if she doesn't want him to see her answer.

"Use your words baby, tell me what you need," 

"I—" she hesitates, her cheeks beginning to redden, "I want...you to touch me,"

"Good girl," He kisses her breast gently.

Now straddling her, he reaches down and makes quick work of undoing her trousers. He barely even registers the tight fitting, low waisted black pants she's wearing before both garments are crumpled up somewhere on the floor.

He sits back off her and pushes her legs apart, reveling in the sight before him. She's laid back, a hand laid daintily above her chest, allowing him the full sight of the bruises and bite marks he left covering her neck, her shoulders, her collarbones, her tits. 

She watches for his expression without her usual confidence, feeling vulnerable under his gaze. Strangely, it feels so right. She craves his attention. She aches for him to finally touch her where she needs it most. Her whole body feels hot as she waits. She hates what he does to her. She hates how he takes his time. She hates how he makes her want to drop to her knees for him and tell him that she'll do anything, anything he asks in exchange for her release. She hates, more than anything, that she loves it. 

Finally, his eyes drop. Every nerve in his body is electrified. 

Ekko runs his hand over her thigh, taking a moment just to admire, not daring to touch her yet. He takes in the sight of the neatly trimmed— now dampened— hair framing her slightly parted folds.

"Fuck," He slides his thumb up her slit, pushing her lips apart slowly, "All this for me, baby? You're fucking dripping. Look at this mess,"

She whimpers, completely unrestrained. Her fingers pull at the sheets as she fights the urge to grind against him.

"You need this, don't you?" 

"Please, Ekko," she whispers.

He slips his thumb over her clit, watching her twitch in response. He almost feels high seeing how he can elicit such a strong reaction from such a subtle touch.

She blinks and he's suddenly laid face to face with her slick cunt. He grips her thighs and pulls her down towards him, a small reminder of how easily he could overpower and bend her to his will. He licks a small stripe up from her hole to her clit. Ekko watches as her eyes squeeze shut, her head falling back, mouth parting in silent pleasure. He flattens his tongue and works it around the small bundle of nerves, his spit mixing with the wetness continuing to leak out of her. The taste has him groaning into her, sending waves of vibrations through her body. She pants and moans, clamping her thighs around his head, bucking her hips up into him. She pulls at his hair, desperate for more. This time he has every intention of giving it to her.

He lifts his head for a second, just enough time to guide two fingers into her soaking pussy before immediately latching back onto her swollen pink clit.

"Fuck! Ekko—" she cries, "Shit—"

She can't contain the way her body responds to him, writhing and moaning out for him like a bitch in heat. She starts to feel that telltale pressure bubbling up in her lower abdomen, a tingling spreading through her as he attacks her from inside and out.

He sucks and laps at her hungrily, not giving a shit how much mess he's making. He's obsessed with the way her walls close in and around his fingers whenever he moves, whenever he presses into her in just the right way. He loves the way he can hold her teetering on the edge, full control over whether or not she would have the release she needs so badly. Ekko's free hand pushes down on her hip hard and he doubles down on his efforts, fingers pressing into her g-spot at an unrelenting pace while he makes out with her cunt. 

She's close, her body shakes while she wails and grasps at anything her hands can find, his hair, his hand, the bedsheets.

"Fuck! Ekko fu— I'm gonna come!" She slaps her hand over her mouth.

Her whole body stiffens up and she suddenly releases into his mouth, completely taking him by surprise. He likes it. He gladly laps up her cum before he starts flicking his tongue over her ever-so-sensitive clit. Her body feels like it's burning as she rides out her orgasm. He doesn't pull away from her until she's twitching and almost sobbing, pulling harshly on his hair at the overwhelming pleasure he continues to give her.

He slowly pulls his fingers out of her and runs his already soaking hand up her spread out pussy. She whimpers at the contact with the over-sensitive skin, trying to move up the bed away from him. He's back on top of her, hands pinning her wrists down either side of her head. 

"You really think we're done here, baby? And here I thought Jinx could handle more than just one little orgasm," he taunts, "I'm gonna fuck this pretty little pussy so good. You need this. You're gonna be a good girl for me and take what I give you, yeah?" 

She bites her lip, squirming under him, helplessly turned on still. Her legs are spread out, his knees between them keeping them stuck apart. The cold air washes over her still twitching cunt, eliciting a small, needy moan from her.

He yanks her arms up above her head, pinning her with just one hand. He strokes her face, ending with his thumb pressed against her bottom lip.

"Answer me, baby, I know this slutty little mouth works just fine. You're gonna be good for me, aren't you, gorgeous?" He pushes down on her lip, opening her mouth slightly. 

"Yes. I-I'll be good," she stutters out, her voice— barely above a whisper— tinged with the smallest hint of shame. Her own submissiveness surprises her, but really, she can't help it, it was him after all.

He hums in approval and kisses her forehead. He reaches down and pulls his fingers along the slick between her legs, she barely manages a gasp before he slips two wet fingers into her mouth. With each pass over her tongue, he pushes deeper, her eyes watering as he nears the back of her throat. There's nothing she can do as she splutters, trying to keep up with him. His grip on her wrists tightens as she starts to choke, spit beginning to dribble from her mouth as he forces it open. Staying still becomes increasingly harder when she finds herself struggling not to gag around his fingers. 

He finally relents, removing his fingers and releasing his iron grip holding her to the bed. Thumbs brush over the flushed skin of her cheeks lovingly as she gasps for air. 

"So good for me. You like the way you taste, baby?" 

She nods quickly, her eyes shining up at him. He runs his fingers through her messy hair and kisses down her face. He undoes his jeans and shifts them off, leaving him in just boxers. Jinx's eyes wander over his form, her eyes widen as she sees the sizeable bulge that has formed in Ekko's pants. She squeezes her legs together against his thighs in a futile attempt to hide her intensifying arousal. 

He pulls her delicate hand towards him and guides it underneath his waistband, "Feel what you've done to me, dirty girl. You need this cock, don't you?" He snickers, "Look at your pussy all spread out and wet for me, she's practically begging me to fuck her." 

"I don't...I don't know if I can take it, it's just so big," she whines.

"Oh baby, you can take it, trust me," he says, taking his boxers off as he speaks.

He shifts himself closer, his body pushing her thighs apart. He holds his cock and slaps it against her clit, making her squeak. Jinx grabs onto his arms, steadying herself as he inches forward. A low, prolonged groan escapes his lips as he sinks the tip into her heated core. 

"Mmh, Ekko, oh my god—"

He pushes all the way in, head dizzy at the feeling of her tight cunt pulling him in. She digs her nails into his skin, a choked moan coming from her at the feeling of being stretched out so much, so quickly.

"Fuck, ple— oh fuck, Ekko. Your— it's so big—" she cries.

"Shh, baby, I know. You're doing so well, pretty girl,"

He swings her legs up over his shoulders and plants his hands down either side of her waist. Her back arches at the feeling of him moving inside her even just slightly. He draws back so slowly, delighting in the way her breath hitches and her body shudders in anticipation. He watches the way her chest heaves, the way she furrows her eyebrows and bites down on her lip, just waiting for him to deliver on his promise to fuck her thoroughly. 

He plunges back in, all the way to the bottom, her walls making a squelch sound as his cock invades her drenched pussy. Jinx throws her head back and wails out, finding his hands and gripping onto him for dear life as he starts moving. He's torturously fucking slow but so, so deep.

"F-fuck— hah— oh my fucking god," she breathes, "I need— I need more!"

"You're a fucking slut, huh? Yeah, I bet this dick feels real good in your wet fucking pussy, baby," he taunts, "Beg for it like a good little slut,"

"Wh-what?" she says, eyes all round and confused. Did he seriously just tell her to beg for it?

"I wanna hear how much you need my dick, gorgeous. Tell me. Right now. Beg for it,"

She shakes her head, her cheeks heating up in embarrassment. It was bad enough that she wanted this in the first place and now he was telling her to actually beg for it?

"Hmm, that's too bad," He slows so much he almost stops, just teasing her hole with his tip.

"No, no, wait, don't stop," she whines, clumsily reaching out to grab his hips, trying to pull him back in as if she could actually move his muscular body.

"You know what to do," He smirks.

"Please!" she spits out and turns her head away in resentment, pretending as if his teasing didn’t actually make her want it more.

"Please, what? What do you want, Princess?"

"Ugh, I— I fucking hate you!" She bucks her hips up into him, rage and want bubbling to the surface. 

He grabs her thighs underneath her knees and pushes them up against her chest, stilling her. He can manipulate her body so easily. The way he's got her folded in half under him with his weight pressing down on her, his cock grinding against her clit, is driving her insane.

He kisses her neck, his hot breath fanning over her skin, "C'mon, baby, you can do it, it's so easy,"

"Please— please fuck me, Ekko!" she chokes out.

"Hmm? What was that, baby? I didn't quite catch that," He nips at her skin and grinds down onto her, feeling how absolutely soaked she is.

"Fu— fuck! Please, I— I need it! Please fuck my— my pussy! Please, please, please—" 

"That’s it, baby," He buries himself all the way back in. 

He sets a fast and rough pace, loving the way her tits bounce up and down, the way she mewls and arches her back and her fingers frantically grip the sheets. She's coming completely undone beneath him, mouth hanging open, unable to stop the all lewd noises escaping as he drills into her relentlessly. She swears his fingers are going to leave bruises from how hard he's gripping her. Her nails rake up and down his arms as he leans over her, his loose locs spilling over her face whilst he fucks her. He’s so deep he’s almost touching her cervix. She's still so fucking tight, her cunt gripping his shaft as he thrusts into her harder and harder. He breathes out, rough and uneven as he pounds her pussy over and over and over. 

He grabs her hand and pulls it down onto her lower abdomen and presses his own hand down on top of it, "You feel that? My fucking dick inside you? You're so tiny you can see it, baby,"

"Fu-u-uck..." she groans, each thrust shaking her voice. He's hitting her g-spot each time, the added pressure really accentuating the blinding pleasure. 

Her second orgasm hits her like a train. She clenches around him, shaking violently as she squirts out onto him, painting his stomach in ejaculate.

"Fuck, that's a good girl. That's my good fucking girl," he growls, "Fuck, baby, you're squeezing me so tight—"

She clings to the headboard as he fucks her through her orgasm. Her eyes are shut tight, her body still stiff as the pleasure courses through her. 

"Ekko— Ekko! Fu— it's too muc— nnghh—"

Slap!  

Her head clears for a split second, feeling a sting spread through her cheek—

"Don't wanna hear any of that, baby. You’re not fucking done,"

His palm is pressed against her lips, forcing her to be quiet before she can argue back. He squeezes her cheeks in his grip, getting closer and closer to his own high as she squirms and struggles under him from the overstimulation. 

Muffled cries come from the blue-haired girl as she paws and scratches at his hand, feeling almost as though he's splitting her open on his cock. With his spare hand, he reaches down and rubs the rough skin of his thumb over her exposed clit. Tears spill from her eyes and her body almost stops working as he forces another intense orgasm out of her. The way her cunt clamps down around him is too fucking much. A thick, drawn-out moan leaves him as he releases into her, his cum overflowing and leaking out around him.

Jinx breathes sharp, ragged breaths when he takes his hand away from her lips. He lets her legs fall off his shoulders and brushes her hair out of eyes. Her makeup is fucked up, streaks of mascara staining her cheeks, lipstick smudges coming away from her mouth. 

"Look at you..." he smiles, "You're such a mess, baby." 

"Y-your fault..." she murmurs, dazed, "You're f-fucking mean,"

He smacks her pussy and her whole body jolts as she jerks her legs shut and mumbles something incoherently. He runs his fingers over her stinging clit soothingly while kissing down her cheek. He tastes her salty tears, sounding a triumphant, satisfied hum. She thinks he's done— he’s had his fun, he won— they both came too, surely he's done. She makes a small sniffling noise, starting to come back down to earth—

"You think that was mean, gorgeous? Just wait,"

"Wha— wait— what?"

He effortlessly flips her small body over and lays on top of her, his mouth to her ear.

"You can handle a little more. I've spent a long time waiting for this, I think I'm going to make the most of it,"

"Mmnh, please— I can't— I can't take any more,"

"It's not a matter of can or can't, you're going to. You’re mine. You’re mine. I own you. Thought you said you were gonna be good and take whatever I give you? You don't want me to have to hurt you, do you? Pathetic little whore like you would probably like that though,"

He pulls her hips up abruptly, her body easily folding to his whim. Her face is buried in his pillow, hands curled up next to her, weak from how roughly he's treated her already.

"Please..." she mumbles.

"Please what baby? You want me to fuck you, huh? Can't get enough of this cock?"

"Mmmnnh..."

He smoothes his hand down her back, enjoying how much control he has over her. He grabs her ass harshly and slaps it, once, twice, three times, he starts to lose count. He leaves bright pink handprints on her fair skin and his hand stings from the impact. She cries out each time, her body jolting forward, fingers grasping at the sheets underneath her.

Ekko smiles and spreads her ass apart, taking a good look at her puffy, stretched out cunt. Her hole is ruined, leaking cum everywhere, clenching and fluttering around nothing.

"Such a fucking whore, you like it when I really fucking degrade you and hurt you, don't you? Your pussy is dripping everywhere, baby. I'm gonna fucking break you,"

She cries out a strangled moan as he shoves his cock into her, his fingers digging into the fat of her hips, pulling her onto him mercilessly. He hammers into her hard and fast, giving her no time to breathe, his brutal pace only allowing her choked out wails and sobs.

His cock pummels her g-spot, pushing bursts of liquid from her with each thrust. The pleasure is painful, taking over Jinx's whole body as Ekko uses her like a toy. He tangles his fingers in the base of her braids and yanks her head back, bringing her body parallel to his. He gropes over her tits and kisses her neck roughly as she reaches up to stroke his face behind her. He uses the hand previously tangled in her hair to squeeze her neck. Despite how hard he's doing her, he's careful not to press too deep, just enough to give her that blood-rushing-to-your-head feeling that has her dizzy with bliss. He parts her folds with two fingers and rubs her puffy, swollen clit furiously. She lets out a ragged scream, releasing all over his hand and onto the bed, her face bright red and her eyes rolled into the back of her head. 

"That good, huh? Tell me about it baby," He yanks her head back by her braids, making her face him. She barely registers what he says, just bites her lip and moans at full volume.

"Don't have any words, princess? Look at you. Cock's got you all stupid. Dumb slut. You fucking love this shit, don't you?"

She shakes her head, "Too much— too mu-uch. Please, plea— hah— please—"

"Aw, too much? Poor baby, you just keep coming though, huh?" he teases.

He shoves her head down into the pillows and pulls her hands behind her back, pinning them in place.

"You're gonna shut up and take this cock ‘til I say you're done. You're gonna be a good, dumb fucking whore for me,"

"Mmmnhn..."

She's so fucked out, all dazed and hazy, her body limp and so fucking sensitive. He loves the way she cries about how it's too much while her pussy squeezes around his dick. It hurts so much but it feels so, so good, the way he rams into her hot, wet cunt, abusing that sweet spot inside her each time.

"Fuck. Fuck, baby. Take it. Take it," he grunts out.

She sobs desperately into the pillow as he pushes down on her, arching her back even more, her ass straight up in the air while he fucks into her. He lets go of her wrists and yanks her hips into him over and over, her skin slapping against his forcefully. 

"One more, baby, just one more. You can do it, angel," he says, snaking his hand under her stomach and finding her throbbing heat. He uses one hand to hold her head down in the pillow, giving him more leverage to pound into her.

"Ekkommfh—"

Her vision goes black and she sees stars as he tips her over the edge yet again. She squirts out everywhere, her juices seeping into the mattress below. Her screams are muffled in the sheets and her knees give out as she convulses under him. 

He lurches forward with her, still inside, "That's it, good girl. Let it out, make a mess all over me. Good fucking girl— fuck—" 

She twists and trembles under him as he works her through it. He can't stop himself from spilling his release into her at the sight, rope after rope of cum pouring into her spent hole as he shudders out a slow, satisfied groan. 

“Fuck…”

She whimpers softly as he pulls out, her face still buried in the plush pillows. Ekko rubs his hand over her back, tracing her spine, admiring her perfect body. He turns her over and peppers her face with gentle kisses, chuckling as she smiles weakly.

"Let me clean you up, baby," 

He draws up a hot bath for her and spends time rubbing her shoulders and diligently checking her body to make sure she doesn't have any lingering pain after their intense session. 

When they're both dry and back in bed, Jinx lets Ekko brush her hair and re-plait it carefully.

"Was that too rough?" he asks, worry plastering his face as he finishes up her braid.

She turns to face him and rests her palm against his cheek, a teasing smile pulling at her lips, "I think you've gone soft, little man,"

He lies back and opens his arms, wrapping them around her when she lays on top of his chest. He pulls a plush duvet over them and strokes her head.

"I'm not gonna leave, Ekko,"

"Yeah?"

"I just...I just really love you..."

"I love you too, Jinx,”

[ri-writes-if]

How would the ros in the relationship stage react if someone made the mc cry?

Vez focuses on your state first and comforts you. They ask you what happened, why did someone upset you, how can they stop that from happening again, and how do you want them to approach this situation to help you. There are many demons who can and will hurt your feelings, and Vez thinks it's better to find a way to help you build your confidence or thicker skin than to scold every demon who approaches you with ill intentions (because there will be many of those, and you should expect that, considering you're involved with the Sovereign). If this is a very rare instance and/or the offender greatly overstepped the boundaries of what could be considered acceptable in an argument, Vez has a private chat with them, where they make it clear that the demon must choose their words more carefully if they don't want to end up at the bottom of the high society / banished from the court / embarrassed in their clan / whatever else is relevant and important to them. And Vez says all of this with a benign smile, like they're doing the demon a favor.

Os: *boss music starts playing* A bad idea, really. Probably the worst anyone could come up with in their life. Maybe a bit better than with Laz's, but by a tiny amount. Both of them don't mind going to war for you, so whoever upset you better buckle up. Os will come to them for a chat, and they won't hide that they're displeased. They make sure the demon understands that they made a grave mistake and they shouldn't repeat it—unless they want to face consequences. Os keeps the conversation mostly cordial, though their seething tone makes it obvious they're angry. Not angry in a "do something impulsive" way, which can make others judge them as wrong. Angry in a "make something bad happen to you" way, and no one will even know Os was behind it.

Laz: Prepare to die. Laz is another one who pays a visit to your offender, but they're much more spontaneous about it, likely in a way that will startle the culprit. They smile and begin a conversation from afar, as if they don't have a particular reason to be there or to speak with this demon, but their tone quickly turns cold and biting. Laz threatens the demon regardless of their reaction, even if they're apologetic and promise to never do it again. Honestly, depending on what the demon said or did, Laz could beat them up. Badly or not—also depends on what exactly happened. But they're not against violence if it will drive the point home. After all, they won't even mind killing someone for you, so what is a small brawl to them? Just another Monday.

Ash can be confrontational when they need to be, but they'll take the offender's status into account before doing anything, as going against some demons might only make more trouble for you. If they can leverage their position and connections against the demon, they'll do so in a conversation with them where they'll kindly ask them to approach you with a proper attitude, or to not approach you at all. After that, or right away if they can't warn the demon, they focus on you and how to help you to deal with this and the future similar occurrences, as Ash is sure something like this will happen again, considering your identity (and status in some cases). If possible, they help you to figure out how to avoid this demon and their circles altogether. If not, they might take Vez's approach—helping you to build your confidence, etc. If the demon said something very rash that shouldn't be said to anyone under any circumstances, something that might make others worry about the offender's ill intentions toward you, Ash might approach the other characters to ask for help in warning this demon or banning them from accessing the palace (if you're still residing here) for your safety.

Az waits for them on ceiling of their house in pure darkness and scares their soul out of them. I'm joking, but maybe not. Az is likely to ambush the offender, perhaps even with their friends, for a nice, warm chat, where they'll ask the demon about their words to you and the reasons behind it. Do they have ill intentions toward you? No? That's too bad. Az already has been planning on sending them off to the border, but it seems they have to keep it as a backup plan in case the demon does something stupid again. Well, why did they say that to you then? Basically, Az will torture the demon with questions in a curious, amused tone, while a group of intimidating demons will stand around them, glaring at them, lol. You can imagine how that will go depending on the offender's character. Either way, Az will threaten them, and they won't mind even drawing some blood. That won't be enough, and crude rumors about this demon will spread around everywhere, in the high society and in that demon's inner circles. Some of them might be lies, some of them might be true, and some of them might become true with a little help from Az :) Az has friends everywhere, and they'll use it extensively to punish anyone who dares to upset you.

[cripplecharacters]

I am writing a fanfic about a character known as pure vanilla cookie from a cookie run game who is implied to be visually impaired/blind. And may I ask if it is okay if I write her flower wand as a cane. While the character is still visually impaired, but using the staff as a sort of cane and removing the whole 'fixing disability trope' and i've been wondering if it okay to use the flower staff as cane?

Hello, thank you for your ask!

Note: I myself am not blind but I did talk with another mod about the ask. If any of our blind/visually impaired followers want to chime in feel free! Also I don't know a lot about Cookie Run lore, so sorry if i get something wrong because I'm going off of images of the character.

I think it's great to change a canonically disabled character so they experience their disability rather than getting magically cured, however looking at photos of the staff there are some things about it that would need to change, and some things you should consider.

I think the main issue with using their wand as a cane would be the flower on top. Real world canes are held at chest level for long canes and waist level for shorter guide canes, and I'd imagine having a large, bulky flower on top would make it harder to handle. If the flower were to be able to move out of the way or shrink it might be easier to use.

The staff is also much taller than a white cane. Long canes are typically a bit taller than shoulder level, while Pure Vanilla Cookie's staff seems to reach well over their head. This would make it difficult to use unless it can shrink.

The bottom of the cane looks curved, similar to a bundu basher tip (although actual bundu bashers have angles instead of being completely rounded), which are ment for traveling in unpaved, natural areas. This type of tip would make sense for a character that's in nature a lot, but not for a character that lives in a well paved city. I'd recommend looking up cane tips and what they're used for depending on where Pure Vanilla Cookie lives. Cane tips also get worn after a lot of use, so unless the staff can regrow its tip it's going to need to be able to be taken off and be changed.

Another thing to consider is the cane's color. Most white canes are white with a red bottom (some countries have standardized other colors such as a green bottom or a complete white cane for different levels of blindness), this helps signal to other people that the person is blind. Signaling blindness can be useful in situations such as a driver knowing a blind person is at the crosswalk and they might start walking before the light changes, it lets other people know to be more careful. This is also why identification canes (or id canes) exist, they're canes that don't help with navigation but instead let other people know that while they do have remaining vision they're still blind.

If you wanted to make the staff a cane you'd have to change a lot about it, or give Pure Vanilla Cookie both the staff as well as a white cane (or a guide dog/animal [if they don't have dogs in CR] or a guide).

I'd also recommend looking through our #white canes and #blindness tags, as well as blogs focused on blind characters such as blindbeta! Feel free to ask again if you have any more specific questions about portraying a blind person or tropes.

Have a lovely day!

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